Killing Gifts Page 7

  “How did Dulcie get along with her sister?”

  “Oh, fine, probably. I don’t really know. But I’m sure Dulcie had nothing to do with her sister’s death.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I just can’t believe that Dulcie . . . I mean, she’s such a hard worker.”

  Rose realized she would get little useful information about possible suspects from Fannie, who saw mostly the good in people. She sipped her tea and allowed herself to pause as the minty liquid warmed her throat. “Tell me about the others,” she said.

  “Dulcie is engaged to be married to Theodore Geist, our hired farm manager. He would not perhaps be my first choice for Dulcie, but worldly love often leads one astray, I find.”

  “What do you dislike about him?”

  “Well, not dislike precisely, it’s just that he can be somewhat overbearing. Mind you, he’s a fine farm manager. He watches over the other hired farm workers and keeps the shirkers in line, but I’ve heard from some of the novitiates that he challenges their authority. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll take good care of Dulcie.”

  “You are very fond of Dulcie, aren’t you?”

  A kitchen sister arrived to clear their table, and Fannie did not answer.

  “I’ve told everyone why you are here,” Fannie said, when the sister had left. “I’ve asked them all to cooperate with you. The novitiates, in particular, are frightened that the police won’t treat them fairly, so I hope they will see you as a friend.”

  “Unless one of them is the killer.”

  “I refuse to think such a terrible thought,” Fannie said. “I’m sure you will find that the killer is an outsider, perhaps a vagrant or someone from Pittsfield with whom Julia kept company.”

  “You don’t suspect any of the hired workers, either?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Will the hired workers talk to me?” Rose asked.

  “I’ve told them to be totally honest with you. They may hesitate at first, but I’m sure you’ll win them over.” Fannie filled their cups with the remains of the spearmint tea. The set of her chin made it clear she could not suspect anyone known to her of such a heinous act as murder.

  “Now,” Fannie said, “let’s discuss something cheerier. We are having such a special celebration for Mother Ann’s Birthday on the first of March.”

  “Special? In what way?” For Rose, Mother Ann’s Birthday was special enough, just as it was usually celebrated. What could be better?

  “Another of my foolish brainstorms, I’m afraid,” Fannie said, pushing back her chair. “Such hard times all around—I thought that this year we’d have a big celebration and include our neighbors. We’ve been working for weeks, cooking candies and sewing special Shaker dolls to sell and to give to some of the poorer children, making sweetbreads and cakes, and so forth. We plan to make Mother Ann’s Birthday Cake twenty times over, even if it means going without butter for months. That’s why, you see, we’ve hired several extra people, including Carlotta, in the kitchen. She’s a friend of Dulcie’s.”

  Rose’s head was beginning to swim with potential suspects, and they hadn’t even discussed the individual novitiates.

  “I suppose she knew Julia, as well?”

  “Of course. I believe the three girls grew up together. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about Carlotta, though. I hired her on Dulcie’s recommendation.”

  “Are Dulcie and Carlotta in the kitchen now, do you think? Perhaps we could just drop in, so I could get to know them at once.” Rose swung her ladder-back chair upside down onto a couple of wall pegs and headed for the door back into the main dining room. There was no point in talking further about the hired help; she’d learn more by observing them herself. Besides, she was tired of idle sitting.

  “Better yet,” Rose said, as they headed toward the stairs, down to the basement kitchen. “Why don’t you tell them I’d like to help out for a while, and I’ll take it from there. Then you can get back to your duties, which must be nagging at you.”

  “Have I mentioned,” Fannie asked, “how glad I am that you are here?”

  SEVEN

  GENNIE WAS UP EARLY, NEARLY AS EARLY AS WHEN SHE’D lived with the Shakers, but her motive for doing so was less than noble. She hoped to avoid Helen Butterfield’s too-curious interest in her comings and goings. Mrs. Alexander was still sleeping off her countless glasses of sherry, so Gennie was able to tiptoe into the kitchen, break off hunks of bread and cheese for herself, and be out the door before hearing a sound from any of the other rooms in the boardinghouse.

  She eased the heavy front door shut behind her and stood on the large, covered porch, nibbling her bread and cheese and wondering what on earth to do next. She had to get to Hancock Village, which she knew to be just a few miles down the road from Pittsfield. How to get there was the question.

  The boardinghouse was located on a wide street lined with large Victorian houses—palaces, they seemed to Gennie—which showed no signs of life. The predawn light gave a grayish cast to the snow that covered everything in sight. Her breath froze into puffs of white smoke, and her stylish but thin wool coat, plenty warm enough for a Kentucky winter, felt no thicker than cotton flannel. She longed for a nice, heavy Shaker Dorothy cloak with a deep hood.

  I’m not doing any good just standing here, Gennie lectured herself. Hanging on to the railing, she navigated the icy steps and skidded toward the sidewalk. Her smooth-soled boots had been made for Kentucky, too. With a guilty lilt of pleasure, she decided that a shopping trip was called for. Grady had made sure she had plenty of money, so the only problem would be finding the time. Perhaps she could buy what she needed from the Shakers. The Fancy Goods Store must have cloaks, at least.

  Heartened by these thoughts, Gennie pulled her coat tighter around her small body and headed in the direction of the railway station. When she and Rose had arrived the day before, Rose had somehow arranged for transportation to take Gennie to the boardinghouse, so the station must be where taxis and so forth gathered. It had seemed like a short trip. Surely she could get there by foot. It did occur to her to wonder how safe she was, walking all alone before dawn on strange city streets. Was Massachusetts as safe and friendly as Languor, Kentucky?

  After six blocks, Gennie decided that either she’d gone off in the wrong direction, or she’d miscalculated the distance to the railway station. Her boots were soaked through, her hands and cheeks felt raw, and she thought she’d never be warm again. However, the sun had appeared on the horizon, and the snow had begun to sparkle. She’d reached a street with small shops, in which lights were flicking on. Her spirits lifted. Surely she’d soon be able to ask directions. Maybe she wouldn’t even have to go as far as the station; maybe someone kind would offer her a ride.

  As if in answer to her unspoken prayer, she heard the honk of a car horn, and a dirt-streaked, gray-and-black Model A coupe sloshed to a halt beside her. Behind the wheel sat Helen Butterfield. She wore a jaunty, brown-lacquered straw hat, which contrasted sharply with her thick fur coat. She waved and leaned over to open the passenger door. Unable to think of a reason not to, Gennie slid in beside her.

  “Well, here you are, my dear. I knocked on your door this morning, thinking we might breakfast together, but when there was no answer, well, I must admit I got worried and peeked inside. Yes, I know, it was rude of me to do so, but I couldn’t bear to think of you ill and unable to answer, so I went ahead and did the rude thing.” Helen glanced sideways at her. “What on earth can you be doing out so early?”

  I could ask you the same thing, Gennie thought, but was too polite to say. “Just exploring,” she said. “I’m an early riser.”

  “I’ll say,” Helen said. “You must have been out walking before dawn.”

  Gennie said nothing.

  “As I mentioned last evening, I’m heading on out to Hancock,” Helen said. “Why not come along?”

  God had a funny way of answering one’s prayers, Gennie thought. All in all, she’d hav
e preferred a taxi. She’d have to be more specific next time.

  “That would be wonderful,” Gennie said. “You said you collected Shaker things, didn’t you? Isn’t it a bit early to go rummaging through Hancock’s extra furniture?”

  “Oh, just thought I’d get an early start, you know. Yes, collecting, that’s what I do; it’s my passion. Who knows, somebody else might be looking for the same items I am, so the faster I get there, the more likely I’ll be the one to get just what I want.”

  “What do you want?” Gennie was torn; she appreciated the ride and the warmth, but Helen Butterfield annoyed her.

  “Oh, you know, some of those wonderful ladder-back chairs, for instance.”

  “Didn’t the Shakers make lots of ladder-back chairs? Can they really be so rare?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Helen said. “Do you think you’ll try for a job in the Fancy Goods Store?”

  “Probably.” Gennie turned her head away from Helen and stared out the window at the frozen countryside as they sped along far too fast on the snowy road.

  “Whoops!” Helen said cheerfully as they skidded over a clump of ice. She straightened the car with the ease of an expert and picked up speed again.

  “We’ll be there before you know it,” Helen said. “I’ll introduce you to Sister Abigail in the Fancy Goods Shop. I’ve been there before, so I know my way around. In fact, I’d be glad to give you a tour.”

  “I couldn’t trouble you,” Gennie said quickly. “I’m sure I’ll find my way around in no time. I’m more interested in securing a job just now.”

  “Of course,” Helen said. To Gennie’s relief, she lapsed into silence until they reached the entrance to Hancock Village.

  “Well, here we are,” Helen said, as she pulled up beside an ornate, Victorian building.

  “Are you sure?” Gennie asked.

  “I know why you’re startled,” Helen said. “It doesn’t look much like a Shaker building, does it? Late last century, the Hancock Shakers thought they’d renovate their Trustees’ Office, which is what this building used to be.”

  Gennie gazed in surprise at the porch, the bay windows, and the narrow tower that reached above the roof. “Why would they do such a thing?” she asked.

  “No idea. Maybe they wanted to blend in better—you know, so folks would be more comfortable and maybe want to become Shakers. Anyway, wait until you see the Fancy Goods Store. It’s a collector’s delight. Come along, they’ll be open by now. They’re up and about early.” For a plump woman, Helen bounced out of the coupe with ease, then slammed the door. Gennie followed more slowly. She was still in shock. The buildings back in North Homage always kept their clean and simple lines, even when they were renovated.

  Gennie followed Helen across the porch and through the front door. To her right, she caught a brief glimpse of a parlor that could have been in any house of the world. Helen entered a doorway to the left. Gennie found herself in an enchanting room crammed with Shaker memorabilia. The pegs encircling the room were all put to use holding everything from flat brooms to lovely Dorothy cloaks fashioned from bright red broadcloth and lined with silk. Colorful weavings hung over the ladder-back chairs, and baskets and curved wood boxes covered several round tables. A long countertop divided the room and also served to display candies and other small items, such as linen kerchiefs, fans, and bottles of rosewater.

  Gennie was drawn toward the glass case on top of the counter. It looked as if it had been transported from a bakery, complete with frothy confections. She’d never seen such a display of small boxes of all shapes, lined with blue and red and violet satin. Scattered among the boxes she saw calico or satin-covered pincushions, some with shiny maple stands that could clamp to the side of a table. In the corners sat some Shaker dolls with funny, wrinkled heads. Gennie examined them more closely and realized the heads were made of dried apples. She couldn’t remember the North Homage sisters ever making such dolls.

  As if guarding the goodies beneath them, several Shaker dolls with porcelain heads—the kind Gennie remembered—were propped up on top of the glass case. The women clustered on the left, and the men on the right. All were dressed as if they had just returned from Sabbathday dancing worship, the sisters in loose butternut wool dresses and dark blue cloaks, the brethren in blue trousers and surcoats. Their painted china faces smiled complacently, as though worship had left them content.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Helen gave Gennie a little push into the room and guided her toward the counter, where an elderly sister sat in a rocking chair, barely visible behind a large jar of candied sweetflag root. “Let me introduce you to Sister Abigail.”

  “However did you make all these lovely things?” Gennie asked. “I thought there were so few . . . I mean . . .”

  Sister Abigail grinned, creating rippling wrinkles around the corners of her mouth. “I know what you mean, child, and you are right. We are few now, but we wanted to make this a very special birthday for Mother Ann, so we’ve worked hard. And to be honest, we asked our brothers and sisters at Sabbathday Lake for help, and they sent us boxes of beautiful items from their own supply.” Abigail wore a modified version of the old-fashioned Shaker dress that Gennie was used to; it was more fitted to the sister’s spare frame, with a small shawl that buttoned over her bodice.

  “So you know something about us Shakers?” Abigail asked.

  “Yes, a bit.” Gennie launched into her story—which she’d perfected since the night before—that she’d wanted to go out into the world and fend for herself, and she wanted to see what it was like to live in a totally different part of the country. The story sounded weak as she recited it, but Abigail seemed to sympathize.

  “As it happens,” she said, “we are in need of some help just now.” She said nothing about Julia’s death. “Can you count out change?”

  “Of course. I finished school, and I’ve worked in a flower shop, so I even have some sales experience.”

  “Then welcome. Have you someplace to be now, or would you like to begin?”

  “I’d like to begin.”

  Helen Butterfield had kept silent through the entire negotiation, and Gennie had almost forgotten her presence. Now Helen heaved herself out of a rocking chair in the corner. “What great luck,” she said. “I’ll be in and out every day to look at furniture and such, so I’ll drive you to and from. This will be such fun!”

  “Fun” wasn’t the word that came to Gennie’s mind. She’d have to be clever to do her sleuthing with Helen hanging over her shoulder. Though it was selfish and Rose would disapprove, Gennie said a silent prayer for the widow Mrs. Butterfield to become totally engrossed in her hunt for collectibles and to forget Gennie’s existence. Helen, apparently unaffected by Gennie’s prayer, sank back into the rocker with a sigh of contentment.

  Gennie hid her aggravation with a bright smile as a tall, middle-aged woman entered the store. The woman’s expression hardened as she stared at Gennie, who felt like slinking behind the counter.

  “Honora, how nice of you to drop in,” Sister Abigail said, with a friendliness that sounded forced. To Gennie’s relief, Honora’s harsh gaze shifted away from her, and she was able to study the woman without embarrassment. She recognized the name. From what she’d gathered during Mrs. Alexander’s sherry-induced mumblings, the novitiate named Aldon had abandoned both his wife and his job as a minister to become a Believer. Honora was his wife’s name, and this Honora certainly looked bitter enough to be an abandoned wife.

  “We’ve finished more cloaks,” Abigail said. “I know you were interested at one time. Shall I show you? We can always hem one to fit you.”

  “No, thank you.” Honora’s voice was deep and clipped, as if she resented the suggestion. She picked up a basket, frowned as if disappointed in its quality, and dropped it back on the table. Gennie was intrigued. Honora must once have been a lovely young woman. She had high cheekbones and full lips, and her thick brown hair, lightly streaked with gray, was pulled into a b
un that rested on her neck. Her clothes were at least ten years old, Gennie guessed. Her dress had the shapeless look of a 1920s style, and Gennie could see the line in the fabric where the hem had been lowered. Matted fur trimmed the neck and wrists of her wool coat, and one elbow was close to needing a patch. Gennie doubted Honora could afford the twenty-six dollars for a Shaker cloak.

  “I wish to speak to the eldress,” Honora said. “Please call her here.”

  Abigail paused a few moments before responding. “I’m sure Fannie would be delighted to speak with you later in the day,” she said. “Right now, I’m afraid she is busy with preparations for the celebration. You are planning to attend, aren’t you? We’d love to have you.”

  “If the eldress refuses to speak with me, I will go directly to my husband.”

  Abigail stiffened. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. As you know, the brethren must keep apart.”

  “He isn’t one of your so-called brethren, he is my husband, and I have a right to speak with him. What kind of people are you, anyway? You are keeping a wife from her husband. I should send the police out here. This can’t be legal.”

  “I’m deeply sorry,” Abigail said softly, “that Aldon’s decision to become a Believer has caused you pain, Honora, but it is his decision to make, and I can’t help but believe he was guided here. I pray that you will soften your heart toward him.”

  “Look at it this way,” said Helen, from her rocking chair, “he hasn’t left you for another woman. It took God to replace you.” Helen beamed, as if she had offered the ultimate comfort. Gennie held her breath and watched, from her safe space behind the counter.

  Her dark eyes crackling like fireworks, Honora turned on Helen. “Who are you, and what gives you the right to speak to me like that?” She looked Helen up and down. “You’re obviously not one of them, you’re too fat and lazy, so I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself.” She turned toward the door, then suddenly swiveled around. Gennie couldn’t help shrinking back as Honora marched to the counter, grabbed a handful of candied sweetflag, glared defiantly around the room, and left.