A Simple Shaker Murder Read online

  SILENT WITNESS

  The child glanced at Rose’s hand but made no move to climb down. She shifted her head slightly so that she looked into the distance. Rose followed her gaze and realized the girl could see the plum tree from which Hugh Griffiths had been hanging.

  She might easily have witnessed what happened . . .

  “Deborah Woodworth’s suspenseful exploration of the Shaker way of life—and death—will fascinate mystery readers. Sister Rose Callahan is a marvelous heroine with wisdom and charm to spare.”

  Carolyn Hart

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  An Excerpt from Estate of Mind

  An Excerpt from Creeps Suzette

  An Excerpt from Death on the River Walk

  An Excerpt from liberty Falling

  An Excerpt from A Simple Shaker Murder

  An Excerpt from In the Still of the Night

  An Excerpt from Murder Shoots the Bull

  About the Author

  Also by Deborah Woodworth

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  DEDICATION

  In memory of Dan Cooperman, mentor and friend, and for Suzanne and Jen, with deep affection

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The original Owenites, a short-lived utopian community led by Robert Owen, lived in New Harmony, Indiana, in the early nineteenth century and had a lasting impact on American education. In 1825, at the Pleasant Hill Shaker village, a group of young Believers, influenced by the ideas of Robert Owen, agitated for reform. The result was a crisis in leadership and the apostasy of many Shakers.

  However, the New-Owenites—along with the North Homage Shaker village, the town and the county of Languor, Kentucky, and all their inhabitants—are figments of the author’s imagination. The characters live only in this book and represent no one, living or dead. By the 1930s, the period in which this story is told, no Shaker villages remained in Kentucky or anywhere else outside the northeastern United States. Today one small Shaker community survives: Sabbathday Lake, near Poland Springs, Maine. The Pleasant Hill Shaker community (near Harrodsburg, Kentucky) and the Hancock Shaker Village in Massachusetts have both been restored and are open to visitors who wish to see how Believers lived during the nineteenth century.

  Deborah Woodworth

  May 14, 1999

  ONE

  A SHADOW LEAPT UP THE BARN WALL, FOLLOWED BY A SQUEAK of animal terror from a corner. The dirt floor softened the sounds of scuffling. A man swore, loudly at first, whispering by the end of the oath. He paused and straightened, resting a moment on the heavy crate he’d been dragging from a corner of the barn. He had no idea what might be in the crate—he had never been near a farm before, let alone a barn—but the thing was large and heavy and nailed shut. He’d need something tall and stable, just in case all this didn’t work out and he had to take drastic steps.

  The thought of what he might have to do sent a shiver through him and brought back the damp chill of the November morning. He shivered again. He was a slight man, unused to discomfort or physical labor. Fear drove him on. He leaned against the crate and pushed again. It scraped across the floor, leaving a trail of gouges in the dirt.

  He positioned the crate under a low rafter, crawled on top, and reached upward. Should be just about right. He jumped to the floor and stood silent for a moment, conscious of the soft thump his shoes had made. He sucked in his breath and released it as a field mouse squeezed from under a hay bale and skittered away from the human presence.

  After a brief search, the man located a neatly wound coil of heavy rope, worn but not too frayed. He unwound the rope along the floor, nodded when he’d estimated its length, then carried it over to the crate. He glanced up at the beam, and for a split second his eyelids fluttered, the only outward sign of the terror that flashed through his body.

  He had done all he could. If the meeting went as he hoped, he’d have no need of these preparations. There would just be time to move everything back in place, and the Shaker brethren would notice nothing amiss when they arrived to feed the animals. If the meeting didn’t go well, the brethren would be in for a shock. But he couldn’t concern himself with that. This is the way it’s got to be, he thought; it’s the only way. They couldn’t go on like this.

  The creak of the barn door told him the time had come. He brushed the dust off his coat and forced his lips into the curve of a smile. It wouldn’t do to look desperate or frightened. Although he was both.

  TWO

  THE NORTHERN KENTUCKY SUN ROSE SLOWLY, ALMOST RELUCTANTLY, as if it would just as soon sleep till spring. Not that autumn, or even winter, was brutal in this part of the country; though damp, the temperature was rarely cold for more than a short spell.

  Sister Rose Callahan pulled her long wool cloak tight around her thin body and sprinted the distance to the Center Family Dwelling House. After the sultry summer, it was a relief to be able to move quickly again. As eldress of the North Homage Shaker village, Rose had decided to flout tradition and take most of her meals away from the Ministry House, where she lived. She told herself her decision kept her more involved with the sisters, her spiritual charges. Still in her late thirties, she was eager to grow as a leader and to help her declining community endure a Depression that seemed endless. But she had tired of meal after meal in the Ministry dining room, sitting across the table from Elder Wilhelm Lundel, who planned unceasingly how to return North Homage to its days of greatest strength in the 1830s, a century earlier. Let him plot alone.

  The evening before, Rose had returned from a month away visiting the Hancock Shaker village in Massachusetts, very near the Lead Society of Mount Lebanon, in New York. Communication between the eastern and western Shakers had often been poor, and the Lead Ministry worried that North Homage had drifted astray recently, so Rose had been called to give a full report of doings in her village. The visit had been tense and exhilarating, and the train ride back exhausting. Rose wanted nothing more than to be home with her own Shaker family, enjoying the familiar routine of hard work and worship.

  She was late, so she took a few running steps, already planning her morning tasks. Eight men and women from the world, members of a utopian society calling themselves New-Owenites, would be at breakfast—or at least, some of them would. According to Sister Josie Trent—the Society’s Infirmary Nurse, who’d dropped by Rose’s retiring room early, to catch her up on the village news—the visitors kept their own unpredictable schedules. Josie had said they’d been in North Homage for twelve days to “study” the Shakers, whatever that meant. Rose intended to find out. It was just like Wilhelm to take advantage of her absence to accept a group of strangers for an extended stay. Undoubtedly he had his own reasons for doing so.

  The sisters would be inside, waiting for her in silent prayer. They would expect Rose, as eldress, to lead them single-fil
e into the dining room for their silent meal. Since Wilhelm rarely dined with the community, their trustee, Brother Andrew Clark, would lead the brethren and the New-Owenite men to their table at the opposite end of the room.

  Now just a few steps from the sisters’ entrance to the dwelling house, Rose reached up to untie her heavy palm bonnet. The door flew open and several flustered women burst through. One of them knocked Rose’s elbow, and her bonnet fell back on her shoulders, pulling her thin white indoor cap with it. Without thinking, Rose adjusted the cap to cover her unruly red curls. The sisters hadn’t bothered to grab their cloaks. As the cool air hit them, they crossed their arms tightly against their bodies to pull their white kerchiefs closer.

  Without turning her head, Rose knew the brethren’s door had also opened, and several men were running across the grass toward the southeast end of the village. She nearly toppled over as a large, soft body careened into her.

  “Rose, dear, so sorry. Must run.” Sister Josie patted the air near Rose’s shoulder and bounced past.

  “Wait, Josie; what is happening?”

  Josie twirled a half circle and kept moving, a remarkable feat for a plump eighty-year-old. “There’s been an accident. I’m needed,” she called, as she completed her turn and picked up speed.

  “Where?”

  “In the orchard,” Sister Teresa said as she, too, rushed past. Rose picked up her long skirts and joined the race across the unpaved path through the village center, between the Meetinghouse and the Ministry House, and into the orchard.

  At first, Rose saw nothing alarming, only rows of strictly pruned apple trees, now barren of fruit and most of their leaves. The group ran through the apple trees and into the more neglected east side of the orchard, where the remains of touchier fruit trees lived out their years with little human attention. The pounding feet ahead of her stopped, and panting bodies piled behind one another, still trying to keep some semblance of separation between the brethren and the sisters.

  The now-silent onlookers stared at an aged plum tree. From a sturdy branch hung the limp figure of a man, his feet dangling above the ground. His eyes were closed and his head slumped forward, almost hiding the rope that gouged into his neck. The man wore loose clothes that were neither Shaker nor of the world, and Rose sensed he was gone even before Josie reached for his wrist and shook her head.

  Two brethren moved forward to cut the man down.

  “Nay, don’t, not yet,” Rose said, hurrying forward.

  Josie’s eyebrows shot up. “Surely you don’t think this is anything but the tragedy of a man choosing to end his own life?” She nodded past the man’s torso to a delicate chair lying on its side in the grass. It was a Shaker design, not meant for such rough treatment. Dirt scuffed the woven red-and-white tape of the seat. Scratches marred the smooth slats that formed its ladder back.

  “What’s going on here? Has Mother Ann appeared and declared today a holiday from labor?” The powerful voice snapped startled heads backwards, to where Elder Wilhelm emerged from the trees, stern jaw set for disapproval.

  No one answered. Everyone watched Wilhelm’s ruddy face blanch as he came in view of the dead man.

  “Dear God,” he whispered. “Is he . . . ?”

  “Yea,” said Josie.

  “Then cut him down instantly,” Wilhelm said. His voice had regained its authority, but he ran a shaking hand through his thick white hair.

  Eyes turned to Rose. “I believe we should leave him for now, Wilhelm,” she said. A flush spread across Wilhelm’s cheeks, and Rose knew she was in for a public tongue lashing, so she explained quickly. “Though all the signs point to suicide, still it is a sudden and brutal death, and I believe we should alert the sheriff. He’ll want things left just as we found them.”

  “Sheriff Brock . . .” Wilhelm said with a snort of derision. “He will relish the opportunity to find us culpable.”

  “Please, for the sake of pity, cut him down.” A man stepped forward, hat in hand in the presence of death. His thinning blond hair lifted in the wind. His peculiar loose work clothes seemed too generous for his slight body. “I’m Gilbert Owen Griffiths,” he said, nodding to Rose. “And this is my compatriot, Earl Weston,” he added, indicating a broad-shouldered dark-haired young man. “I am privileged to be guiding a little group of folks who are hoping to rekindle the flame of the great social reformer Robert Owen. That poor unfortunate man,” he said, with a glance at the dead man, “was Hugh—Hugh Griffiths—and he was one of us. We don’t mind having the Sheriff come take a look, but we are all like a family, and it is far too painful for us to leave poor Hugh hanging.”

  “It’s an outrage, leaving him there like that,” Earl said. “What if Celia should come along?”

  “Celia is poor Hugh’s wife,” Gilbert explained. “I’ll have to break the news to her soon. I beg of you, cut him down and cover him before she shows up.”

  Wilhelm assented with a curt nod. “I will inform the sheriff,” he said, as several brethren cut the man down and lay him on the ground. The morbid fascination had worn off, and most of the crowd was backing away.

  There was nothing to do but wait. Rose gathered up the sisters and New-Owenite women who had not already made their escape. Leaving Andrew to watch over the ghastly scene until the sheriff arrived, she sent the women on ahead to breakfast, for which she herself had no appetite. The men followed behind.

  On impulse Rose glanced back to see Andrew’s tall figure hunched against a tree near the body. He watched the crowd’s departure with a forlorn expression. As she raised her arm to send him an encouraging wave, a move distracted her. She squinted through the tangle of unpruned branches behind Andrew to locate the source. Probably just a squirrel, she thought, but her eyes kept searching nonetheless. There it was again—a flash of brown almost indistinguishable from tree bark. Several rows of trees back from where Andrew stood, something was moving among the branches of an old pear tree—something much bigger than a squirrel.

  THREE

  ROSE WALKED AT A CASUAL PACE BACK TOWARD ANDREW, PRETENDING nothing was amiss. She kept her head straight but watched the pear tree through her lashes. The movement stopped, then started again, slow and smooth. As she approached, Andrew straightened. His smile of pleasure turned to puzzlement as she passed him by, telling him with a slight hand gesture to stay where he was.

  The movement stopped as Rose picked up her skirts and ran toward it. She was glad to be wearing her tough winter shoes. Her thin-soled summer shoes would never have protected her feet from the dead branches and sticks lying in wait under a camouflage of fallen leaves.

  By the time she was a few yards from the pear tree, she knew what she was seeing. She just couldn’t believe it. It was a person, a very small person, perhaps a child. Not a Shaker child; the clothes weren’t right. A child of the world?

  Rose stopped at the tree’s trunk and stared up through the branches at the figure. Masses of pale brown hair fluffed around an impassive face, much as Rose’s curly red hair would if she freed it from her white cap and cut it short. The girl’s body appeared tiny, about the size of a six-year-old, but her face looked older. Her skin was a warm honey brown, a few shades lighter than her loose brown pantaloons. She looked as if she’d stepped in from another era or another land. Rose peered into eyes of a rich green flecked with copper. Those eyes held no fear, but depths of vigilance. The girl neither moved nor cried out. She simply watched.

  Rose slowly lifted her arm and extended her hand, palm up. “It is time for breakfast,” she said, keeping her voice gentle and warm. “Come on down, and we’ll get you something to eat”

  The child glanced at Rose’s hand but made no move to climb down. She shifted her head slightly so that she looked into the distance, toward Andrew. Rose followed her gaze, and her arm dropped as she realized the girl could see the plum tree from which Hugh Griffiths had been hanging. She might easily have witnessed what happened. Even if she did not see the act, she might be in shock aft
er seeing its consequences.

  Rose turned back to find the child watching her again. Still she exhibited no fear. Her eyes had dulled, as if the spirit behind them had fled. It occurred to Rose that the girl might not be quite right. She certainly appeared older than her size; perhaps her mind was stunted, as well.

  “My name is Rose. What’s yours?”

  Rose held up her hand once more, but the girl only blinked at the invitation. Climbing the tree after her was out of the question, and sending Andrew up might have the girl scurrying in terror onto weaker branches.

  “I know you’re frightened,” Rose continued softly, “but I promise I want to help you. Do you have family nearby? If you’ll tell me where they are, I’ll get them for you.”

  The girl’s gaze shifted toward the Shaker village, and her small body seemed to shrink against the tree limb. Still she said nothing.

  Perhaps she can’t even speak, Rose thought. Well, she couldn’t just leave the girl to fend for herself.

  “All right, then, little one. You can stay right there, if you wish.” Rose filled her voice with all the soothing cheerfulness she could muster, and hoped she did not sound like a bad actress. “I’m going to be gone for just a minute, and then I’ll come back to chat with you.”

  She edged away as fast as possible without alarming the girl. Andrew watched her approach with undisguised curiosity.

  “Could you see who I was talking to?” Rose asked, as she came into earshot.

  “Nay, but I’ll admit I indulged the fantasy that an angel had come down to tell you what happened here.” Andrew avoided looking at the dead man on the ground.

  “That would make it so much easier,” Rose said. “But I’m afraid it is a terrified child, who may have witnessed the incident but won’t tell me so much as her first name. I need Charlotte’s help with this. Would you run and get her from breakfast? I’ll watch everything until you return.” Rose described the child, then walked back toward her as Andrew took long, loping steps in the direction of the Center Family Dwelling House.