Killing Gifts

by Deborah Woodworth

  Gennie linked her arm through Grady’s and flashed him a smile. “Do we have time to look around, even a little?”

  Grady grinned and squeezed her arm. “I thought you might want to, so I brought us here half an hour ahead of schedule.”

  “You two explore to your heart’s content,” Rose said. “I’m going to splash some water on my face. I’ll meet you at the ticket booth.”

  Gennie suspected Rose was giving them time to say good-bye and perhaps to settle their tiff before separating for who knew how long. She smiled her thanks to Rose, who picked up her small satchel and disappeared into the crowd. Gennie felt a brief pang of loneliness, then shrugged it off. She released Grady’s arm and twirled slowly to take in the huge terminal. Tilting her head upward, she gazed at the high domed ceiling. The loneliness hit again as her own movements reminded her of the Shaker dancing worship, in slow motion.

  This will never do, Gennie told herself sternly. With the Shakers, she had always felt loved, but an outsider all the same. She swept off her hat and shook out her curls, bringing herself back to the world, where she belonged. She turned to Grady, who watched her with warmth in his deep brown eyes. A lock of his hair, straight and brown and difficult, had fallen across his forehead, as it always did. Gennie reached up and smoothed it back in place. As soon as she removed her hand, it fell forward again, and they both laughed.

  In an instant, Grady grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her toward him. He kissed her on the tip of her nose, triggering another giggle, which he silenced with a kiss full on her mouth, right there in the Cincinnati Union Terminal, while scads of people brushed past them in all directions. Finally he loosened his embrace and held her at arm’s length, smiling into her eyes. She had never felt so happy, not even with Rose and Agatha and all the other sisters.

  Gennie gazed back at him, wishing to extend the moment, but something distracted her—something behind Grady but still within her field of vision. Movement swirled around them, travelers with places to go and little time to get there. Besides herself and Grady, only one other figure stood still. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a double-breasted navy-blue suit lounged against a post, smoking a cigarette. His blue hat was tilted so that the black ribbon band appeared where his left eye would have been. The right eye, however, looked directly at her.

  She shivered and rubbed her upper arms. The man must have realized she’d caught him staring, and he shifted his gaze to the surrounding crowd. He dropped his half-smoked cigarette on the floor, stubbed it out with his heel, and strolled away.

  “Anything wrong, Gen? Are you cold?” Grady slipped out of his wool overcoat and put it over her shoulders. She didn’t protest. It was easier to acquiesce to a sudden chill than to admit that a rude stranger had spooked her for a moment. If Grady knew, he’d try again to keep her from leaving with Rose, and that was the last thing Gennie wanted to risk. She just hadn’t traveled much, that was all. She’d gone from the gentle Shaker life to Languor, which might be the county seat, but was little more than a small town. She worked in a florist’s shop with Grady’s sister, lived in a boardinghouse for young women, and spent her off hours with Grady and his people. Gennie straightened her shoulders and lifted her small chin. She needed this trip, and nothing would stop her from taking it.

  “I’m fine now,” she said, handing Grady his overcoat. “Come on, let’s look around. Isn’t this the most beautiful place?”

  “It’s almost time to meet Rose,” Grady said, without enthusiasm. “Let me just pick up a Cincinnati Enquirer, since we’re here.” They’d paused near a kiosk that sold newspapers, magazines, cigars, and cigarettes. “Pick a couple of magazines, Gen. It’s a long train ride.”

  Though she thought she’d be perfectly happy watching the countryside breeze by, Gennie picked up the latest editions of the Ladies Home Journal and The American Home. Might as well find out what she could look forward to as a married woman. Since the age of ten until just over a year ago, she had been living in a community where men and women slept, ate, and worked separately, joining one another only for worship—and for Union Meetings, where they could chat while sitting several feet across from each other. She’d missed the training most girls got growing up in a worldly home. Sometimes, when she was talking with her new girlfriends, she felt about twelve years old. Other times she felt much older than she was.

  Gennie stowed her purchases in her satchel as Grady paid the wizened old man sitting on a stool inside the kiosk. While she waited, she opened another magazine at random to an ad showing a woman in a figure-hugging dress with slightly puffed sleeves. The model lounged in a chair, smoking a Camel. A few pages later, several brides in close-fitting satin wedding gowns admired an ornate set of sterling silver dinnerware. This was too much for Gennie. The Shakers had taught her the value of simplicity, and the picture seemed cruel in times like these, when so many had so little. She flipped the magazine shut. As she returned it to its display shelf, a man hurried up to the kiosk and bumped Grady’s shoulder in his haste. Grady dropped his change, and both men bent down to retrieve it. Their backs were to Gennie.

  The man leaned toward Grady and mumbled something that must have been an apology, because Grady smiled, and said, “No harm down. Don’t give it a thought.” Gennie felt a rush of warmth. Grady was such a gentleman, so polite, even to clumsy strangers. The man nodded once and turned to go on his way. Gennie’s chest tightened as she saw his face. He was the same man who’d had a leisurely smoke and watched Grady and her embrace.

  Now was the time to tell Grady her fears, but still she resisted. All sorts of people lived in the world, and some of them were men with less than honorable intentions. This man might be one such. Perhaps he had listened to their conversation and knew that Grady would not accompany her on her journey. He might not know about Rose’s existence. What if he had selected Gennie for some evil purpose of his own? Would she be worldly enough to handle him? Well, I’ll just have to be, that’s all. I’m going on this trip, and that’s that! She decided not to mention the incidents to Rose, either. No point in causing her worry.

  When they reached the ticket booth, they found Rose waiting on a wooden bench, one arm draped over the satchel next to her. She looked like a visitor from the previous century. Her long, loose dress and hooded cloak might have gone unnoticed, but the palm sugar-scoop bonnet over her thin, white indoor cap gave her away. The clothing of passersby ranged from smart to worn, but they all stared. Rose seemed oblivious. Gennie was willing to bet that the book on her lap was a copy of the Testimonies of Mother Ann Lee, the Shaker foundress. Rose hadn’t been an eldress for very long—not much longer than Gennie had been out in the world. They both still had much to learn.

  Grady collected their tickets and handed them over with clear reluctance. “I’ve gotten you berths together for overnight, so you won’t have to sit up in coach.”

  “Grady, you didn’t have to pay for my ticket,” Rose said. “The Society can reimburse—”

  “Nonsense. I can afford it, and I want the two of you to be as comfortable as possible. It’s too bad you couldn’t have delayed your trip until summer; I could have gotten you a roomette on one of those fancy new Pullmans.”

  “Yea, it was rude of the killer not to wait,” Rose said quietly.

  Gennie grinned and noticed that Grady, ever polite, pretended not to hear. He accompanied them to the tracks and hailed a redcap to stow Gennie’s extra luggage in the baggage car.

  “Remember, call me every other night, Gen,” he said, and gave her a farewell kiss. “You will at least try to stay out of trouble, won’t you?”

  Gennie merely laughed and gave his hand a quick squeeze. She couldn’t blame him for being worried; she supposed she would be, too, if he were going off to investigate a murder hundreds of miles away. It was good for him to find out what it felt like.

  “She’ll be fine, Grady,” Rose said. “We are not going off into uncharted territory. Hancock is as quiet and gentle a village
as North Homage.” At Grady’s raised eyebrows, she added, “Well, perhaps more quiet and gentle, in some ways—at least, under ordinary circumstances. With God’s grace and Mother Ann’s assistance, circumstances will be ordinary again in no time.”

  “Now tell me everything,” Gennie said. “What’s the plan? What part shall I play? Will you call me your assistant, or should I just wander in and ask to be a novitiate? What do you think? Oh, I have an idea—didn’t you tell me the dead girl worked in the Fancy Goods Store? What if I ask for a job there? Then I could room in Hancock, couldn’t I? That might be easier, because I could chat with all the other hired help, and I wouldn’t have to pretend to be a Believer, although I could, of course, and that might be—”

  “Gennie, slow down! We have lots of time before we reach Pittsfield,” Rose said. They’d barely settled into a coach car, stowed their small satchels on the floor near their feet, and pulled away from the station. Not five minutes earlier, Gennie’s face had been streaked with tears as she’d waved good-bye to Grady.

  “Let me gather my thoughts for a bit, and then we’ll talk.” Rose patted Gennie’s arm, then leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

  Gennie couldn’t help a small sigh. Rose seemed so calm about everything. She wasn’t interested in watching the scenery or exploring the train or even planning their investigation. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to explore by herself, would it? She stood and brushed the creases out of her new wool suit. Rose opened her eyes.

  “I’m just going to look around the train,” Gennie said, “so you can have some quiet.”

  Rose’s eyes were closed again before Gennie had left her window view and edged into the corridor. Gennie didn’t yet have her train legs, and she stumbled as the car rounded a curve. She reached the door and hesitated. Though she’d taken several short train rides since entering the world, she’d never walked from car to car by herself. Grady had always been there to hold her elbow as they negotiated the unsteady passage.

  She squared her small shoulders, pulled open the door, and stepped outside. She expected the roar of the wind past the speeding train, but it seemed louder than she’d remembered, now she was on her own. The shifting floor over the coupling just about sent her scurrying back inside the car behind her. Instead, she scolded herself. After all, she was the one who didn’t want to be treated like a helpless baby. She hurried to the next car and congratulated herself on her bravery.

  The thrill was beginning to fade after Gennie had traversed three more cars full of sleepy, bored passengers. She decided to try just one more. As soon as she entered the next car, she had that delicious naughty feeling she got each time she tried on a stylish gown, especially when the bodice was cut a shade low for Shaker comfort. She had found the club car. She stepped inside, wrinkling her nose at the acrid mixture of cigar and cigarette smoke. The few women in the car sat close to the door, reading or chatting. Despite the early hour, several men relaxed in stuffed easy chairs around small tables, sipping what looked to her now practiced eye to be whiskey.

  Gennie was not the least bit shocked, and she was pleased with herself for this evidence of worldly sophistication. Fascinated by the scene before her, she took in every detail, from the worn but plush easy chairs to the waiter dressed in a crisp white jacket. Only slowly did she realize that every eye in the car had turned toward her. Some of the male gazes gleamed with appreciation. The women looked her up and down with grudging admiration for the new rust wool suit that hugged her slight frame and the small swirl of a hat perched amid her curls. Gennie knew these were well-off women; they envied her appearance, not her relative wealth. In fact, without Grady’s help, she’d more likely be traveling in a boxcar. Gennie drew herself up with pride, as much as she could manage with a mere five feet of height.

  She took a step into the club car, trying to look as if she belonged in such a place. A young man sitting near the middle of the car eyed her over his whiskey glass. He put down his drink, stood, and started toward her. Gennie’s heart climbed up her throat. With a quick, nervous smile, she spun around and made for the exit. With more speed than grace, Gennie traversed the coupling and opened the door to the passenger car she’d recently left. She found herself inches from the sinister man she’d seen in the terminal. His eyes widened as if he recognized her and didn’t expect to see her there. She noticed his eyes were bloodshot; perhaps the club car was his natural habitat. With a murmured “excuse me,” she slid past him and hurried back toward the safety of Rose.

  FOUR

  DULCIE MASTERS LEANED HER FACE TOWARD THE SPICY warmth of the baked bean soup bubbling in the Hancock Shakers’ biggest stovetop cauldron. Today she wasn’t feeling so ill, but she always seemed to be cold. And hungry. Maybe the Ritz wasn’t serving up baked bean soup to the rich, but the lumpy red-brown stuff looked mighty tasty to Dulcie—better by far than her suppers before she’d come to work for the Shakers, when she was lucky to have a potato. She’d gone without for so long that her wispy brown hair had started to fall out, but now it was growing back nice and fluffy again. She reached up and smoothed her hand over her head.

  “Need me to chop any more onion for that soup?” Carlotta DiAngelo’s hand hovered over a large, yellow onion. “Dulcie, you here today?”

  “What?” Dulcie started and spun around.

  “Onions?” Carlotta’s thin, sharp-featured face tightened in irritation, like an impatient fox waiting for something interesting to chase.

  Dulcie shook her head. “No, save it. Winter’s got some time to go yet.” It wouldn’t do to run short of food; then the sisters might decide it was too risky to share their meals with the hired help. They might even let her go, her and Carlotta, and maybe even her fiancé, Theodore, and then there’d be nothing. Dulcie turned back to the soup to hide her pale, expressive face, in case it showed any evidence of her fears. Carlotta had known her since childhood, and she’d tease. It was her way.

  “Well, then, what are we supposed to do next?” Carlotta had a nasal voice, which often grew into a whine, especially when she got bored. “You’d think they could’ve left us at least one sister in here. Why do we have to do everything ourselves?”

  Dulcie gave the soup a good stir and took a deep, delicious breath, so she wouldn’t get irritable, too. “I told you,” she said, without turning around, “they’re all fixing things up for Mother Ann’s Birthday and for that eldress who’s coming to visit.”

  “Just what we need—company. I suppose we’ll have to wait on her, too.”

  Dulcie heard the clatter of crockery and guessed Carlotta was gathering soup bowls for the imminent arrival of the Believers, several novitiates, and the hired help for their noontime meal. The clattering stopped. Dulcie guessed Carlotta was about to speak—probably another complaint or maybe a bit of gossip.

  “Why don’t you get those bowls set up in the dining room?” Dulcie asked quickly. “They’ll all be along soon, and it’d be good if we could show the sisters we can work in the kitchen without them.”

  “In a minute,” Carlotta said. Several moments of silence followed, which Dulcie filled with vigorous stirring.

  “Listen, Dulcie,” Carlotta said. “Something’s wrong, I can tell. I can always tell. It’s Julia, ain’t it? You can’t let that bother you. I mean, it’s not like you two was all that close, you know, despite you and her being sisters. She was wild. She got what she asked for.”

  “You don’t know anything about anything!” Dulcie’s normally gentle voice seemed to crash around the room and bounce off the copper-bottomed pots. Carlotta jerked as if it had shoved her backward.

  “Look, I’m just trying to help. If you want to feel sorry for her, that’s your business, but Julia never deserved nothing but what she got. You gotta get on with things and look on the bright side—she’s not around to embarrass you anymore. Seems to me Theodore will be grateful not to have her for a sister-in-law.”

  To her chagrin, Dulcie was shaking, but not entirely fr
om anger. She stumbled to the worktable and leaned over it, steadying herself with her hands flat on its nicked surface.

  “Hey, you okay?” Carlotta asked, scraping a chair over to Dulcie. “Here, sit. Did you eat breakfast? I wondered about that. You disappeared right after we served, and you didn’t come back to eat. What’re you up to, anyway? Where do you sneak off to all the time?”

  From the floor above them came the faint sound of feet scuffing across a wood floor, signaling the arrival of the Believers and their guests. Carlotta clicked her tongue and said, “I suppose those bowls of soup had better get served, or we’ll hear about it. You’re sure in no condition to do the carrying; you’d fall right over and take supper with you. I guess that leaves me.” With a sigh of martyrdom, she clattered some bowls on a tray. “Dulcie, my girl, you stay right here, and I expect to hear all about what’s wrong, soon as I finish,” Carlotta said, as she piled some items in the dumbwaiter and headed upstairs to serve.

  As soon as Carlotta’s back had disappeared, Dulcie hurried up the stairs to the ground floor and left by a back entrance, forgetting to grab her frayed jacket from a wall peg.

  Dulcie rounded the corner of the Brick Dwelling House and the wind sliced through her. She shivered and clasped her arms tightly around her upper arms. She wished she’d paused long enough to grab that old jacket of hers. Not that it would have helped much; the cloth had worn thin, and the patches at the elbow were working loose. Sister Abigail had given her the old wool Shaker dress she was wearing, and now she wished she’d gone ahead and used the white kerchief that the sisters used to crisscross over their bodices in the old days. At least it would have provided one more layer.