Killing Gifts

by Deborah Woodworth

  “Sounds like fun,” Gennie said. “Just please, please don’t ask me to work in the kitchen. You know how I hate that.”

  “No more than necessary, I promise. They have two girls already, and the kitchen is one place the sisters still work regularly. I think the Fancy Goods Store might be the best place for you.”

  Both women paused at the thought of Gennie stepping in for the dead girl.

  “Did you ever meet her, Rose? Julia, I mean.”

  “I did, just briefly, when I visited Hancock last autumn. I was in the store one afternoon, speaking with Sister Abigail about how well some of the goods were selling—I’ve always wanted us to open a Fancy Goods Store in North Homage, you know—when this lively girl with blond curls came bursting in and began to chatter away. She must have talked for twenty minutes straight about her men friends and the dances they were taking her to. I remember she complained quite a lot about how few party dresses she had. She didn’t seem to care that her audience was two Shaker sisters, who had no use for party dresses.”

  “Sounds boring,” Gennie said. “I hope I don’t start doing that.”

  Rose laughed. “I will be sure to tell you if you head in that direction. But, nay, she wasn’t really boring, just . . .” Rose’s pale forehead furrowed as she cast her mind back to that day. “In a way, she was charming. She wanted pleasure, excitement, the admiration of men.”

  “Was she one of those spoiled rich girls? I’ve seen a few of them since Grady and I got engaged. Just because their people didn’t lose everything in ’29, they think they’re better than everyone else.”

  Gennie’s anger was apparent in her voice, and Rose understood. Gennie’s family had not been so lucky. Rose chewed a bite of her roast beef—really, it was nearly as tender as a Shaker recipe—to give Gennie a chance to calm down.

  “Though I do not know for certain,” Rose said, “I suspect Julia was just the opposite—a very poor girl, who’d had little gaiety in her life up to that time. She seemed starved, in a way, and starvation can sometimes lead one to grab more than one’s share. I felt sorry for her.” Rose took a sip of water. “I could see, though, that she would have been immensely appealing to men, especially men of a certain type.”

  Gennie’s fork clattered on her plate, and Rose smiled. “Remember, Gennie,” she said, “I am not such an innocent as all that. I have seen a great deal beyond my own village—sometimes more than I wanted to. The world can be very cruel to its children.” Rose scooped up the last bite of mashed potato and forced herself to eat it. The waiter was instantly at her elbow to remove the empty plate. As he did so, his eyes met hers for a fraction of a second. She smiled at him, but he had already gone.

  “So do you suspect that one of these ‘men of a certain type’ killed Julia?” Gennie asked. “A lovers’ quarrel maybe?”

  “It’s possible,” Rose said. “I’ll know more when I’ve spent some time at Hancock. But it’s an idea you might pursue more easily than I. Sister Fannie told me that most of the hired hands grew up in Pittsfield and have known each other for years. Try to get them talking about each other and about Julia.”

  “Yes, what a good idea!” Gennie almost bounced in her seat with excitement. “All I need is one good gossip to start with, and I’ll be able to name all of Julia’s gentlemen friends in no time.”

  Again the waiter appeared, as if he had dropped from the ceiling. He held two cups of steaming liquid. He placed one cup near Gennie’s right hand and moved the milk and sugar next to it.

  “But I didn’t order anything,” Rose said, as he placed the other cup before her.

  “It’s a sweet, warm lemonade, Sister. It’ll help ward off the chill.” He bowed slightly and returned to his impassive stance in front of their table.

  Rose could now see that her beverage was pale in color. She raised it to her lips and breathed in the citrus fragrance. It triggered a stab of homesickness for her village, where some of her most peaceful hours had been spent sipping rose hip and lemon balm tea as she noted the day’s activities in her journal. She prayed silently and fervently that the terrible event in Hancock would prove to be the tragic result of a lovers’ quarrel and nothing to do with the Shakers, so she could return home in short order, maybe even by Mother Ann’s Birthday—and with an easy mind.

  Rose emerged from her reverie to find Gennie, her curly head at a speculative tilt, watching the waiter, who seemed not to notice. It was then that Rose realized—not only had he called her “Sister,” but he knew that Shakers were not supposed to drink stimulants.

  “Gennie, I wish you’d give up the idea that I’m a sheltered fuddy-duddy, rapidly approaching old age. I work from before sunup to well after sundown; I can easily climb a short ladder to the upper berth. Besides, this is your first rail journey—you should have the window.” Rose was in the lead as she and Gennie made their way back to their Pullman car, which was being transformed into a sleeping car. They had walked the length of the train, up to the baggage car, to tire themselves out and work off the heavy dinner. They were more than ready for bed. When the Society paid her travel expenses, Rose always sat up in a coach car, so even a windowless upper berth was a luxury that embarrassed her.

  “Well, all right,” Gennie said. “I’ll admit, I want to see what the world looks like, speeding by at night. I’m so excited, I’ll never be able to sleep.”

  Conversation stopped as they pushed open the heavy door leading to the linkage connecting with the next car. The world whizzed past them as they crossed the unsteady metal flooring that covered the couplings between the coaches. The train noise seemed deafening to Rose, who was more used to the gentler sounds of hungry livestock and dancing feet on a smooth pine floor.

  She pulled open the tight-fitting door to their Pullman sleeping car and held it for Gennie. The sudden quiet, as the door slammed shut, was a relief. They turned sideways to pass other passengers returning from the washrooms. Rose felt uncomfortable, being forced to walk so close to several men, but she was grateful that she could spend the night in a bed, instead of sleeping in a seat and awakening stiff and achy.

  Gennie headed for the women’s washroom, as Rose surveyed their accommodations. Their berths were located about halfway through the coach. Curtains hung across both upper and lower berths, and a short ladder lay ready for Rose to clamber up into her bed. As she hooked her foot on the first rung, Rose glanced toward the end of the car and noticed a porter still hanging curtains at the last set of seats. She recognized the impassive face and broad shoulders. It was their waiter. Times were tough for railroads, too. They cut their crews wherever possible, and whoever was lucky enough to remain would do the work of two.

  The porter looked across at her and gave her a slight nod. He finished hanging the curtain and walked toward her. Curious, she waited. With a quick glance up and down the car, he stopped before her, clearly trying to keep some distance between them.

  “Could I talk to you for a minute?” he asked.

  “Of course. May I know your name?” she asked.

  He seemed surprised by her question. “My name is Hezekiah, Sister.”

  “And mine is Rose, Hezekiah.” She was relieved that he did not extend his hand. The handshake was so accepted in the world, and so awkward for her. “You called me ‘Sister,’ ” she said. “Do you know about us?”

  “I know that you are a Shaker by your dress,” Hezekiah said. “I know you are good people. I wondered if you and the young miss might be traveling to Hancock?”

  “Indeed, we are. Do you come from Pittsfield?”

  For the first time, Hezekiah smiled, a gentle smile that revealed a row of strong, yellow teeth. “I was born in Mississippi and raised in Pittsfield, Sister. My folks wanted to get as far north as possible.”

  “I’m afraid I’m from North Homage village, in Kentucky.”

  “I meant no offense.” Hezekiah glanced toward the end of the car as if afraid someone would overhear his faux pas and chastise him.

/>   “And I take no offense, I assure you.”

  He lowered his eyes, perhaps sensing he was overstepping his bounds. “Begging your pardon, Sister, but I know the folks at Hancock, used to do farm work for them before I got this job with the Pullman Company. My folks used to talk about the Shakers, how they was so kind and generous. That’s why I wanted to work for them. They treated me fine. It was Sister Fannie gave me the letter that got me this job, just a couple months ago.” His spine straightened when he mentioned his job, and Rose understood his pride.

  A portly man returning from the washroom pushed past them with a critical glance at Hezekiah. Rose knew they didn’t have much time. She was immensely curious about why Hezekiah would risk losing his position to speak to her.

  Hezekiah took one step toward her and lowered his voice. “Maybe it’s not my place to say this, Sister, but I wanted to warn you. They just had a murder at Hancock, a pretty young lady, and I noticed the young miss with you, and, well, I guess I just thought you oughta know what you’re getting into. The Hancock Shakers are good people, but there’s a killer in their village. I wouldn’t go near the place, if I was you.”

  “Hezekiah, I appreciate your concern, but I know about the murder,” she said, “because Sister Fannie sent for me to help find out what happened. If you left recently, then perhaps you knew the other hired workers and the novitiates?”

  “Yes. I knew ’em all.”

  “Then perhaps you might be willing to help me. I don’t know those people. Could you tell me anything about them, anything you heard or noticed that might help me get to the bottom of this tragedy? It would be a great help to Sister Fannie and the others.”

  Hezekiah’s dark, broad face pinched in concern and concentration, and his deep brown eyes studied the flowered carpeting. “Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but seeing as how it’s for Sister Fannie . . . Those novitiates, they just arrived in the last few months I was there. I know the Shakers need more folk to join them, but I didn’t trust these new ones, not a one of them.”

  “Of all the novitiates, is there anyone you think could be capable of such a horrible crime?”

  “Several of ’em, I’d say.”

  An older porter, a small light-skinned man with curly white hair, entered the coach and raised bushy white eyebrows at Hezekiah.

  “I’m sorry, Sister, but I’d best get busy. I can’t lose this job.” He began to straighten the curtain over the upper berth, and Rose could see that his large hands were shaking.

  “I understand, Hezekiah. If you think of anything, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”

  “Yes, Sister.” Hezekiah turned to leave, then paused and turned back to Rose. “There’s three I’d watch, if I was you—Sewell, Aldon, and Johnny. They all work together. To my mind, they don’t act much like Shakers. Especially Sewell—his manner’s a bit too free with the ladies, to my way of thinking. It’s more than that, though. Ever since those folks arrived, that whole village changed. It’s like they brought along the devil. Seemed like everybody turned mean. Some of them was going out and about at night. I’d see ’em from my window or hear them over my room, making noises like . . .”

  “Like what, Hezekiah? You can say anything to me.”

  “Well, Eldress Fannie used to say they wanted to live like the angels in a Heaven on earth, but by the time I left, it was like Hell sent up a pack of demons instead.” He spun around and was gone.

  Gennie snuggled into her berth and turned toward the windows. The converted seats didn’t create a bed as soft as hers back in her boardinghouse room in Languor, but the enclosed area was warm and cozy. The rhythmic clickety-clack of the train wheels soothed her jumpy nerves. Sleep didn’t come quickly, as it usually did for her.

  She watched the hills and villages glide by in the moonlight, gradually becoming more snow-splotched. She thought through the day. So far, the journey had lived up to her excited imaginings, but it seemed that every time she relaxed and enjoyed herself, that odd man would show up. It had happened again in the diner. She and Rose had finished their fresh fruit dessert and their planning, and they’d stood up to leave. Since they’d sat facing the direction the train was going, it was the first time Gennie had looked in back of her. There he was. He sat at a small table at the end of the car, sipping coffee and looking straight at her. He’d averted his eyes immediately and pretended to stare out the window. Gennie was only slightly encouraged—at least he’d seemed to understand that he’d been too forward. But she still felt a chill go down her spine.

  Gennie wasn’t about to confide her fears to anyone, including Rose. After all, she told herself, Rose might think she’d become far too prideful about her appearance. Since leaving the Shakers, Gennie had enjoyed many a worldly man’s appreciation for her small, slender figure and her mass of auburn curls. Perhaps that was why she hesitated to marry Grady as quickly as he wished—she’d begun to see she had choices. At this moment, though, she missed Grady with a ferocity that shook her, even as she relished the adventure before her.

  She curled up in a ball and pulled her covers tightly over her shoulders. Warmth relaxed her limbs, bringing her closer to sleep. Her eyelids wanted to droop, but she opened them as she felt the train slow to a stop. Out her window she saw a dimly lit platform and a dirty, snow-crusted sign announcing a town she’d never heard of. A small stone station, badly in need of a cleaning, was nearly dark inside. Under a meager shelter stood a large man, hunched in a thick overcoat, waiting for the coach doors to open.

  Gennie watched sleepily, glad she was warm and snug in bed. A burst of wind swirled the snow under the wood benches lined up against the station wall. A figure exited the train and walked toward her. He stopped to chat briefly with the large man. They parted, and the large man stepped up onto the train. The exiting passenger walked past Gennie’s window, almost close enough for her to reach out and touch. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, and he kept his hands deep in the pockets of his overcoat. His dark hat was tilted over his forehead to stop the wind. Gennie didn’t have to see his face to know it was the strange man who had set her nerves on edge since Cincinnati. He hurried through the station house door and slammed it behind him. Gennie held her breath. The train shivered, then started forward, but the man did not reappear. Gennie released her breath in a deep sigh. He would not be disturbing her again. She was asleep before the caboose had cleared the station.

  SIX

  “COME ON IN AND JOIN US, GENNIE. WE’RE JUST HAVING A glass of sherry together by the fire.” Mrs. Alexander, proprietor of Mrs. Alexander’s Boardinghouse for Young Women, where Rose had insisted that Gennie stay, gestured her into her parlor to join the other boarders. “I have some nice tea ready, if you’d rather not imbibe, though I must admit I never saw the harm in a tiny glass of sherry, and I’m so glad that silly law is gone, so I can have a little sip in the evening again.” Mrs. Alexander looked as if she might often indulge in more than the occasional tiny glass, and as if this wasn’t her first sip of the evening.

  After the long train journey to Pittsfield, Massachusetts, Gennie was more than ready for something stronger than tea. She glanced at the small circle around the fireplace and noted that she was the only young woman in the Boardinghouse for Young Women. She wasn’t surprised. Times were hard, and any paying boarder must be a godsend. Besides herself, there were only two. An elderly man appeared to be snoozing in an overstuffed chair, one hand holding his sherry glass balanced on his thin thigh. He opened a sleepy eye when Mrs. Alexander introduced him as Mr. Bing, a long-term resident, then he resumed his nap. The other boarder—a plump, bright-eyed, middle-aged woman—scooted to one side of a worn velvet loveseat to make room for Gennie. The woman smiled warmly, and Gennie found herself settling on the frayed, lumpy cushion and accepting a glass of sherry, neglecting to mention her age. It suited her purposes to be thought of as older. She introduced herself, thankful that she could use her real name; a false name would be sure to confuse her at some point.


  “I’m Mrs. Butterfield,” the woman next to her said, “but do call me Helen. Everyone does. Have a sip of your sherry, it’ll warm your bones.”

  Gennie did as she was told. The sweet liquid burned her throat all the way down, but she suppressed a cough and pretended sherry was an everyday indulgence for her.

  “Now, tell me all about yourself,” Helen Butterfield said. “You have a sweet accent, rather Southern, I’d say. Where did you come from, and what is such a lovely young girl doing here all alone?”

  Gennie put her glass on the table in front of her. She’d spent hours concocting her story, and it wouldn’t do to let her mind get muddled. She reminded herself to keep it brief. It was more important to get information than to give it.

  “Times are so hard back where I come from,” she said. “I just thought I’d come East to see if I could find a job.” She gave Helen her most ingenuous smile, then relaxed against the back of the loveseat and gazed around the room. She felt as if she’d been thrust decades back in time, the room was so littered with Victorian knickknacks. Next to her, a brocade-covered lampshade with a long fringe gave a rosy glow to her sherry glass. It brought back vague memories of her long-dead mother, who had loved pretty things. The light touch of a hand on her forearm brought her back to the present.

  “You must be exhausted, poor dear,” Helen said.

  “She just came in today, you know,” said Mrs. Alexander. “Probably had to sit up all night on the train, with heaven knows what sort of person snoring next to her.”