Dancing Dead Read online

  A large man with an unhealthy pallor entered the dining room from the kitchen. He stared at Rose a moment longer than was polite, then dragged a ladder-back chair from the side of the table over to the end opposite Rose, so that he faced her. The action felt like a challenge, perhaps to her authority, yet his perpetual smile seemed friendly enough. Andrew had briefly described the guests to her, and she was certain this man must be Horace von Oswald. Horace had been vague about his profession, but he had paid for his room two weeks in advance, so he clearly had funds.

  “So,” said the man, “you must be Sister Rose. You are eldress, are you not?”

  “Yea, I am.”

  “How long?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “How long have you been eldress?”

  The bluntness of his question startled her, and she hesitated. Never before had a stranger from the world expressed any curiosity about her tenure as eldress. Horace’s black eyes never left her face. She was saved from answering when a middle-aged woman dressed in black entered from the hallway.

  “Well, aren’t we honored. The eldress has come to have supper with us.” The words might be construed as welcoming; the tone could not. Rose felt her stomach clench.

  Horace’s attention diverted to the woman. “Mina, you’re here,” was all he said. So this was Mina Dunmore, Rose thought. A widow living on a small inheritance, Andrew had told her. Not the cheeriest of women, but she was, after all, a widow.

  “Can’t think where else I’d be,” Mina said. She took a seat to Rose’s left and as far from Horace as she could get.

  “I haven’t seen you all day,” Horace said. “What have you been doing?”

  “Don’t see it’s any of your business,” Mina said. She spread her white linen napkin on her lap and smoothed out wrinkles that weren’t there. “I went shopping in Languor,” she said finally. North Homage used a roomy 1936 Plymouth for its own needs, but they still owned its predecessor, an old black Buick. Brother Linus had gotten it cleaned up and running smoothly, so the hostel residents could borrow it for trips into Languor. “It’s certainly a poor excuse for a town,” Mina said, “but I did find a place to have my hair done.” She patted her crimped curls. “Not that there’s any reason to dress up around here. There’s no place to go. When my husband was alive, we were always off somewhere—dinner parties, dances, the theater.”

  “Ah,” said Horace. He turned again to Rose with the smile she felt sure she would come to dread.

  A boisterous male voice, coming from the hallway, provided a welcome distraction. A man and woman walked together through the wide doorway into the dining room. Since Beatrice must be in the kitchen, Rose assumed these two were Saul Halvardson and Daisy Prescott. Saul wore a dark blue, double-breasted jacket and matching pants with a crisp, straight crease down the front of each leg—the latest of worldly styles, as far as Rose could remember. Andrew had said he was a traveling salesman who sold ladies’ lingerie. If it had been Wilhelm telling her, rather than Andrew, Rose never would have known about the ladies’ lingerie. Andrew and Wilhelm had both lived to adulthood in the world, but Wilhelm was repulsed by it. Andrew, though he preferred life as a Shaker, accepted the world as it was, sometimes with pity.

  With a flourish, Saul pulled out Daisy’s chair for her and eased it forward as she sat down. Daisy settled at the table without acknowledging Saul’s gesture. She spread her napkin on her lap, then entwined her fingers in a prayerful position on the edge of the table. She fixed her gaze on the dried flowers in front of her, and her eyes did not waver when Saul appropriated the seat next to her, placing him at Rose’s right. Rose was fairly certain Daisy was not actually praying; her silence had a calculated air to it. Rose was intrigued. Daisy was slender and fine-boned, a bit taller than average. Her dress was a dowdy brown, with a waist down around her narrow hips. Rose was woefully behind on women’s fashions, but the style seemed out-of-date; she’d never seen Gennie wear anything like it.

  As if on cue, Gennie entered the dining room. Saul leaped up and helped her with her chair. She rewarded him with a wan smile. Rose noticed that Gennie, despite her withdrawn mood, had taken the time to dress for dinner. Grady’s family had been training her, and she had become very much a woman of the world. Still, Rose told herself, miracles do occur. Maybe Gennie would come back someday, and if she did, she would bring so much to the Society.

  A clattering from the kitchen attracted everyone’s attention. The door swung open, and the fragrance of dill and onion wafted into the room, along with the solid figure of Beatrice Berg. She thumped a tureen on the table and gave Horace a hard stare. He had taken the cook’s place at the end of the table, nearest the kitchen. He appeared not to notice her irritation.

  “Eat it while it’s hot,” Beatrice said, and she disappeared back into the kitchen. Horace began serving himself at once, without offering to serve the women first. He filled his bowl to the top and picked up his soupspoon, as Beatrice reentered with two plates of bread. She took one look at Horace and carried the bread down to Rose.

  “Somethin’ wrong with your eyes?” she asked Horace. He stared at her, his spoon hovering just beyond his lips. “There’s other folks at this table. Maybe they want to eat, too.” She reached over for Daisy’s soup bowl, which she filled with soup and returned. “See?” she said, again to Horace. “Don’t take no strength at all.”

  Gennie was struggling mightily to suppress a giggle. It emerged as a little chirp.

  “Why don’t we pass our plates down?” Rose suggested. “We can eat when we’ve all been served.” She felt a bit like a sister in charge of the Children’s Dwelling House, teaching manners to orphans who’d had no chance to learn them before. Horace didn’t change expression, but his eyes seemed to grow smaller and darker.

  Beatrice returned bearing plates of butter. Saul half rose from his chair, but Beatrice didn’t wait for him. She scraped her chair away from the table, plunked down, and scooted it close again. Though she was seated just in front of the soup tureen, she held her bowl out to Horace. He hesitated a moment, then deposited one ladleful in her bowl. Beatrice didn’t move. With clear reluctance, Horace added another ladleful.

  The diners ate their soup and bread in silence. Beatrice cleared away the empty bowls and brought in a baked ham and tender buttered asparagus. Rose’s jittery stomach began to relax. The Believers in the Center Family dining room would be eating plainer food, but these were people of the world, and Andrew knew they expected more. She felt only the slightest guilt since, after all, Andrew had engineered her attendance here. She was working.

  Horace finished his portion well before the others and made the mistake of reaching across Beatrice’s plate for the platter of ham. Beatrice whacked him with the flat of her fork.

  “We ain’t eatin’ slop in a pigsty,” she said. “Did your mama teach you to reach like that? I swear, you do this every meal. Next meal comes around, and danged if you don’t do the same thing all over again.”

  Horace lowered his head, but Rose was certain she saw him smiling. Daisy and Mina continued their meals, looking straight ahead as if nothing had happened. Gennie poked at her food.

  Before the drama could reach its next scene, Rose turned to Mina and asked, “Are you enjoying your stay here? Is your room comfortable?”

  Mina hesitated as if she had to translate the questions into another language, or perhaps she was looking for some hidden meaning behind the words. “It’s okay, I guess,” she said finally. “Room’s a little barren, not quite what I’m used to, but it’ll do for now.”

  “What are you used to, Mina?” Horace asked her.

  Mina slowly sliced her ham into square bites and didn’t so much as glance at Horace. Rose was beginning to understand the discomfort Andrew had struggled to describe. It seemed that both Mina and Horace were suffering from simmering resentment, and Beatrice was none too cheery, either. Rose turned her attention to Saul Halvardson, seated on her right. He chewed with appare
nt pleasure as his quick eyes settled on one person, then another. He seemed unaware of the tension at the table—or else intrigued by it.

  “Tell me, Mr. Halvardson,” Rose said, “how did you hear about our new hostel?”

  Saul turned to her with a surprised expression. “Saul,” he said. “Please call me Saul, Sister.”

  “And do call me Rose.”

  “With pleasure.” He inclined his head in a slight nod, as if bowing. He took a bite of ham and gazed across the table at Mina. Rose realized he had not answered her question, and she felt certain his omission had been intentional. If he hoped to hide from Rose, however, he had taken the wrong course. His behavior piqued her interest. She sat still and watched him expectantly, waiting for his answer. He gave in and turned back to her. As if no time had elapsed since her question, Saul said, “I saw an advertisement for it. I’m sorry, I don’t remember where. I travel so much.”

  “Of course,” Rose said. “Tell me, what is your sales territory?” She wasn’t ready to let him off the hook. Anyway, she’d grown impatient with the secretive undercurrents at the table.

  “Are you interested in sales?” Saul asked.

  “Yea, of course,” Rose said. “I used to be North Homage’s trustee, before I became eldress. As trustee, I oversaw the community’s businesses and had the pleasure of working with businessmen from the world. I used to send our own brothers on sales trips, so naturally I’m curious about your route.”

  Saul nodded and smiled, but his eyes flitted around the room. Again he delayed answering, busying himself with passing platters in case someone wanted seconds. Rose studied his profile. She was not so unworldly that she didn’t notice his striking looks. His wavy dark hair was streaked with silver, and his face, though thin, had a bit of softness that made him seem ingenuous at first glance. He offered the platter of ham to Daisy, who thanked him with a shy glance up through her lashes. Out of the corner of her eye, Rose saw Mina’s body tense as she watched the interchange.

  With a suddenness that startled Rose, Saul turned back to her and said, “My sales route is usually north of here. Up as far as Cleveland, that area. I suspect your salesmen normally go south—southern Kentucky, Tennessee, and so forth?”

  Rose nodded. “So you must have seen our advertisement in the Cleveland paper?”

  “Of course, now I remember,” Saul said, smiling brightly and revealing well-tended teeth. “That was where I saw it.”

  Rose chewed on a bite of bread, allowing Saul to return his attention to the worldly women, who clearly interested him. She intended to keep an eye on Saul Halvardson. Thinking it was too far north, Andrew had not placed an advertisement in any Cleveland paper. He had focused his attention on southern Ohio and farther south, since their inhabitants might be more accepting of the summer heat in Kentucky.

  Rose turned to Daisy Prescott. “Tell me, Miss Prescott, what brings you to our hostel?”

  Daisy placed her utensils neatly across the upper edge of her plate and looked directly at Rose. Behind her spectacles, her eyes were a luminous blue-green. “I was in need of a vacation,” she said. She spoke barely above a whisper, giving the impression of terrible shyness.

  “From what?” Horace asked.

  “Oh.” Daisy’s hands fluttered, landing on her knife and fork. “Well, work has been quite demanding lately, and I’m so tired.” She took a bite of ham and chewed slowly.

  The other guests had lost interest in Daisy, except for Mina Dunmore, who studied the younger woman’s face as if critiquing her makeup. “Nothing like a quiet vacation,” Mina said. “That’s what Mr. Dunmore used to say.”

  Daisy did not look up from her plate.

  The platters emptied rapidly, and Beatrice cleared them off, along with the soiled dinner plates. She returned from the kitchen carrying a pie with a golden crust and sugary bubbles sneaking out the edges. Pecan pie. Gertrude’s recipe used orange rind to cut the sweetness, and Rose’s mouth watered in anticipation. Even Gennie perked up. Beatrice nestled the pie plate beside the basket of herb flowers, close to Rose and as far as possible from Horace.

  “Mrs. Berg, this looks absolutely delicious,” Rose said, as she accepted the pie cutter. She divided the pie into eight slices, intending to save one for Andrew and Gertrude to taste. The mood in the room had mellowed considerably. Rose handed the warm pie plate to Saul, who served Daisy and Beatrice, then himself. He handed the plate toward Horace. Quick as a garter snake, Beatrice snatched the pie plate, scooped out one slice for herself, plopped another onto Horace’s plate, and handed the pan across the table to Gennie. Horace’s obsidian eyes locked on the pie. Clearly he coveted that extra slice. Rose would not have been surprised if he’d grabbed the plate away from Gennie, but he applied himself to his own portion. Beatrice had outsmarted him, and her smirk said she knew it.

  The telephone in the hallway rang, and Beatrice jumped up to answer it. As Rose watched, Horace’s eyes fixed on Beatrice’s untouched portion of pie. His hand twitched. With disconcerting suddenness, he shifted his gaze and caught Rose watching him.

  Beatrice reappeared and gestured to Rose, who reluctantly put down her fork. It crossed her mind to be glad that Horace wasn’t sitting next to her, ready to seize her unprotected plate.

  “One of the sisters,” Beatrice said. “I think she called herself Charlotte or something.” She made haste back to her chair, probably sensing the danger to her portion of pecan pie.

  “Rose, I’m so sorry to pull you away from your meal. I hoped I could sort this out on my own, but . . .”

  “Charlotte? Are the children all right?” Rose spoke softly to avoid being overheard in the dining room.

  “Yea, except . . . well, it’s Mairin again. She was with us in the Children’s Dwelling House, but somehow she slipped away while we were walking to the dining room for the evening meal. Nora is beside herself.”

  “Have you questioned the other children?”

  “Yea, all of them. No one saw her leave, including Nora, who always watches her so carefully.”

  Rose heard a child’s sob in the background, and Charlotte turned away from the receiver. Rose pulled over a small wooden chair and sat, anxious for Charlotte to return. Rose felt a deep fondness for the small eleven-year-old girl known only as Mairin. Mairin was a mixed-race child who had suffered terrible neglect before the Shakers had taken her in. She had attached herself to Rose and to Rose’s own friend and spiritual guide, the former eldress Agatha Vandenberg. Mairin had seemed to be progressing so well, emerging from the cloak of aloofness in which she’d wrapped herself, safe and tight. Then Rose had rushed off to Massachusetts to help the Hancock Shakers solve a murder within their quiet village. It had never occurred to Rose that she should take Mairin aside and explain why she must leave—and that she would certainly come back.

  “Rose? Are you still there?” Charlotte sounded both frightened and irritated. Rose gave thanks, not for the first time, that she herself did not bear daily responsibility for the children being raised by the North Homage Shakers.

  “Yea, Charlotte, I am here, and I’ll begin the search at once. You stay with the other children. Keep a careful eye on Nora. You know how she is—she’s likely to set out on her own to find Mairin, and then we’ll have two lost girls. I’ll go now and ask the brothers to begin searching the grounds, and the sisters can look for her indoors.”

  “Shall I search the Children’s Dwelling House again?” Charlotte asked.

  “Nay, I’ll send Gertrude over to do that. You just keep Nora under your eye.”

  “All right, I’ll be sure to—”

  “Charlotte? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Rose . . .” Charlotte was clearly in panic. “It’s Nora, she’s gone. I only turned away for a moment.”

  “Run and find her. Now!”

  Rose didn’t bother to explain her departure, she just hurried toward the front entrance. As she passed the dining room door, she glanced in to see Gennie staring out at her. Rose ma
de a split-second decision. Gennie knew Mairin, and they got along well. She also knew Nora—and how to handle her. It would take Gennie’s mind off her own problems to be of help with the children. With a quick wiggle of her index finger, she gestured for Gennie to follow her, then she moved past the doorway. Within seconds, Gennie appeared in the hallway.

  “Come,” Rose said. “I need your help. I’ll explain along the way.”

  “Rose, dear, do come in and tell me what all the commotion is about.” Sister Agatha Vandenberg’s small, frail body looked doll-like, tucked into her rocking chair with a fluffy powder-blue blanket woven for her by a friend from the world. Her thin white hair was pulled back from her face and covered by a light indoor cap. Her eyes, cloudy with growing blindness, nevertheless saw more than many whose eyesight was clear. Right now they saw through Rose’s deliberate calm to the distress she truly felt.

  “Sit down,” Agatha said, in her gentle yet commanding way.

  “I wish I could,” Rose said. “Mairin has run away, and Nora has gone off to find her. I’m afraid Mairin will leave the village and Nora will follow her.”

  “Nora is a good friend.”

  “Yea, but a foolish one. She is only nine years old, but she has always been quite sure she is an adult. She doesn’t know how dangerous the world can be. And Mairin is only eleven.”

  “I believe Mairin knows better than anyone the cruelty of the world,” Agatha said quietly.

  “Of course you are right,” Rose said. She wasn’t thinking clearly, and it was no use trying to hide her muddled state from Agatha. “Perhaps I will sit, just for a moment.” She pulled a ladder-back chair over from the desk and placed it near Agatha. “I was hoping Mairin would come to you. She has such a special connection with you.”