“How could he pressure you?”
“You’d have to know my parents. I came from . . . Well, my parents were dead-set against me marrying Johnny, but I was eighteen and headstrong, and Johnny was so different from the silly boys I’d grown up with. Or so I thought. Anyway, I ran off with him. I wanted children so much. As you can see, we had quite a few.” Esther laughed, and her eyes brightened.
“And money became a problem?” Gennie guessed. “The Depression must have been very hard on such a large family.”
“I loved being a mother. But Johnny, he got more and more irritated with how much time and money children take. He was lucky enough to have a job, but he didn’t earn much. He wanted more, much more. Children got in the way, and after a while, a wife got in the way, too.” Esther stared at the floor. “Johnny said the only way he’d contribute any more to raising the children is if I’d join the Shakers, and if I refused, he’d tell my parents I’d left him. They’d come and get me, and they’d take my children away from me. I know them. They’d hire nannies and tutors, and pretty soon, I wouldn’t be their mother anymore.”
“Your parents are well-to-do?”
“Oh yea. Father never believed in banks or the stock market, so he came through the crash without a scratch. Father would say it’s because most people are gullible and stupid. You can be sure he thinks the same of me for marrying Johnny, and he would never let me forget it.”
A squeal arose from the corner of the room, as Sarah’s story apparently reached an exciting moment. Esther watched the group with tender wistfulness. “I don’t want Father and Mother raising my children,” she said. “I don’t want them to learn the ways of the rich, and I don’t want them to learn to value money above all else.”
“Then I should think the Shakers would be a good choice to raise them.”
“I want to raise my children.” Fury contorted Esther’s delicate features. “Can’t you understand that? They are my children.”
“Yes, of course I understand,” Gennie said quickly. “I’m sure no one, not even the Shakers, could do a better job. Anyway, Hancock seems not to have enough spare hands to raise and educate many children.”
“No, they don’t, but they still don’t want me spending time with my own children. They hired a tutor from Pittsfield to teach them in a room in the Brick Dwelling House. The only reason they are with me now is because the teacher and I arranged it. She could get fired if the Shakers find out.”
Esther nodded to a dark corner of the Meetinghouse. Gennie made out a figure curled up on the floor, covered with a coat. “She is their tutor,” Esther said. “I knew her back in Pittsfield. She’s a seamstress at night and teaches during the day, just to make ends meet. She pretends to take the children on an outing, but she really brings them to me, and she naps while I watch them. They are the only children here right now, so no one has reason to suspect. You’re sure you won’t tell?”
“I promise,” Gennie glanced at her watch, a gift from Grady. She had two minutes to get back to the store. For the first day, she supposed she could claim to have gotten lost, but it wasn’t the best approach to asking for room and board. “I completely understand your need to be with your children,” she said. “In fact, I feel we have a lot in common, and maybe we could be friends.”
Esther didn’t look appalled by the idea, so Gennie forged ahead. “Maybe we could talk again? I feel rather lonely out here, so far from my home.”
“I know what you mean,” Esther said. “Of course, we can talk again. I try to see the children every day about this time, though not always in the same place. Just check the abandoned buildings, you’re likely to run into us.”
“I’ll do that,” Gennie promised. “Until then . . .”
Gennie entered the store at the stroke of one o’clock, only slightly out of breath. She smiled at Abigail, who glanced up briefly from her knitting.
“You haven’t missed a thing, my dear,” Abigail said. “Not a single customer. We have so many lovely items for Mother Ann’s Birthday, and the world doesn’t seem to care in the least.”
No sooner had she spoken than a man entered the shop. From Gennie’s point of view, he was a bit old, maybe late thirties or so, but he was undeniably handsome. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his curly blond hair held only a hint of gray. He wore simple work clothes that could be Shaker or could be of the world, but they fit him well. His wool overcoat clearly came from the world; it nipped in at the waist and was far too fancy for a Shaker coat.
Unfortunately he seemed aware of his appeal. He struck a pose as he entered the door, gazing around with a critical eye as if he owned the store. His gaze paused only briefly when he saw Gennie. She had grown used to attention from men, so she wondered if pretty young girls were of little interest to him. He seemed more concerned with the contents of the room.
“Johnny, how nice of you to stop by,” Abigail said. There was a distinct chill in her voice, and she returned immediately to her knitting.
Johnny. Gennie’s ears perked up. Perhaps this was Johnny Jenkins, Esther’s erstwhile husband and father of her six blond children.
“Abigail,” he said, acknowledging her with a curt nod. “You must be the new girl.” He glanced again at Gennie, then seemed to find a display of oval boxes more enthralling. Gennie didn’t bother to answer.
“I’ll need an inventory as soon as possible,” he said to Abigail, who peered up at him over the top of her spectacles.
“Whatever for?”
“Well, naturally so we’ll know how to direct our efforts in the next few days. Mother Ann’s Birthday is nearly upon us, you know.”
A pink spot appeared on each of Abigail’s cheeks, but she held her tongue. Gennie was both amused and appalled. A novitiate daring to lecture a sister about Mother Ann’s Birthday—he was lucky Abigail was such a gentle soul. Rose would have set him straight.
“Aldon is hopeless with wood,” he said, with a sneer, “so I doubt there will be more boxes. I suppose the pulpit is the only place for him. And Sewell has his head in the clouds, as usual, planning how to restore all those old buildings.”
“Which is precisely what we asked him to do,” Abigail said.
“I know,” Johnny said. “It’s too bad no one has put more thought into what we could do with them once they are restored.”
Abigail’s knitting needles flew, and Gennie busied herself with straightening the items on the counter.
“I’ll need that inventory by tomorrow at the latest, and I also want a list of the prices you are charging. I suspect they are low.” Gennie realized he was talking to her. She looked over at Abigail, who seemed to have vanished behind the red scarf emerging from her needles. Gennie gave Johnny a faint, noncommittal smile and began to dust the counter.
“I’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning,” Johnny said, as if everyone had jumped at his command. With a last proprietary look around, he was gone.
“That man needs a lesson or three in humility,” Abigail muttered to her knitting.
“Must we put together an inventory of the entire store by tomorrow morning?” Gennie asked, with a hint of panic.
“Of course not. Such nonsense. Our journal is completely up-to-date; I record every item that comes in and everything we sell. If Johnny Jenkins wants an inventory, he can just copy it from the journal. Fannie assigned Johnny to work under Sewell, and it’s more than likely Sewell had nothing to do with this visit. Johnny likes to think he’s in charge. He stops by at least once a week with one of these ‘orders,’ and I give them exactly the time they are worth.”
“Will he come by tomorrow, as he said he would?”
“Possibly, if he doesn’t get distracted by some other scheme. I’ll take care of it, don’t you worry. If I’m not here, just hand him the journal and tell him to start copying. An inventory. Of all the silly wastes of time . . .”
Relieved, Gennie finished her dusting and began rearranging the boxes on an oval candle stand. When
she felt she’d given Abigail enough time to recover her good temper, she broached the subject of boarding in the Brick Dwelling House.
“It would be so convenient for everyone,” she said, “not just me. I mean, if you needed anything carried over after the store closes, or if you wanted to keep the store open a little longer before Mother Ann’s Birthday, I’d be right here. You could just call me, and I’d come in a flash. Wouldn’t that be helpful?” Gennie hoped her enthusiasm wasn’t too overdone. In fact, the last thing she wanted was to spend all her time in the Fancy Goods Store.
“I think that’s a lovely idea, my dear,” Abigail said. “Perhaps you could help out elsewhere sometimes, too. The day before the celebration, they will surely need help in the kitchen.”
Oops. The kitchen was definitely not where Gennie wanted to be. But it was too late now, so she put on her happiest, most grateful smile.
“I’ll speak to Fannie directly after the evening meal,” Abigail promised. “Do stay and eat with us, and we’ll make the final arrangements before you go back to town. Sewell can drive you; he’s quite good at negotiating our slippery roads. I’ll send him to pick you up in the morning, as well, so he can carry your luggage to and from the car.”
Gennie thanked her profusely and kept her immediate thought to herself—that, as Sewell was suspected of murder, he might not be the best choice for chauffeur.
ELEVEN
A WORRIED FANNIE HAD BEGGED ROSE TO STAY WITH Sewell when the police arrived around 2 P.M. to question him further about Julia’s death. Dulcie’s doctor’s appointment wasn’t until late afternoon, so Rose agreed. She intended to listen only. Despite Fannie’s hopes, Rose saw it as her duty to seek the truth, not to protect Sewell because he was a Shaker novitiate.
To her surprise, the two young officers, who introduced themselves as Billy and Stan, did not object to her presence. In fact, they seemed almost apologetic to be there, as if they, too, had trouble believing that a Shaker—even a novitiate—could possibly be involved in such a heinous crime. In North Homage, at least in the past, the Sheriff’s Office would have been more than ready to accuse any number of Believers of such violence, but Rose was learning that Hancock and Pittsfield enjoyed a friendlier relationship.
They met in the parlor of the Trustees’ Office, just across from the Fancy Goods Store. Rose barely recognized the parlor as a Shaker room. Thick curtains covered the windows, blocking out most of the sunlight. Heavy Victorian furniture contributed to the gloom. It hadn’t surprised Rose to learn that funerals were often held in the room.
The officers waved Sewell and Rose to two delicately carved chairs with needlepoint seats, placed side by side. Rose pulled hers farther away from Sewell’s and sat down. The officers leaned against a nearby wall, their arms crossed. Rose began to suspect they were not as sympathetic as she’d first thought.
“Look here, Sewell,” said Stan, the taller and more commanding of the two officers, “you and me, we go way back. Like I told Chief O’Malley, it’s tough to believe you’d do something like this without a lot of provocation. And Julia, well, we both know how provoking that girl could be. She always was a tease. That can make a fella real mad. Why don’t you just tell us what happened, and I’m sure we can explain it to the chief, so he’ll go easy on you.”
“Stan, I promise you on a stack of Bibles, there’s nothing to tell. I’d tell you, if there was.” Sewell looked even thinner than he had the day before, when Rose had first seen him. Layers of bluish circles under his eyes made them seem huge in his narrow face.
“As I remember,” Officer Billy said, “you and Julia were a hot item at one time. What happened? She throw you over?”
“We just lost interest in each other. It happens. We were young. But I’ve left all that behind. I’m a Believer now.”
A spot of blood had appeared on Sewell’s lip, where he’d been gnawing at it. Something was making this man very nervous.
“Sure, we understand, Sewell,” Stan said. “But how much can a man really change? You used to be hell on wheels, and a lot of fun. Are you telling me you just walked away from all that? You never drink or smoke anymore? You never think about girls or sneak in a little sweet talk now and again? After all, aren’t Shakers like Catholics—a little confession and you get rid of all those sins?”
“I never took up again with Julia, I swear it,” Sewell said. He turned haunted eyes to Rose. She would have loved to give those young men a piece of her mind, but she kept silent. She’d learn more by listening.
“Suppose we told you someone saw you and Julia together just before she was murdered?”
“They’d be lying.” Something in Sewell’s voice sounded tentative.
Stan dragged a ladder-back across the rug and sat backward on the delicate seat so that he watched Sewell over the top slat. Rose had never seen a Shaker chair used in quite that way. The effect was both intimidating and humorous. A shorter man would have been peering through the slats.
“Everybody in town knows you, Sewell. Do you think you can have a public fight with a young lady—and you a Shaker—without somebody noticing?” Stan asked.
Sewell slumped in his chair. “It was that nosy Mrs. Alexander, wasn’t it?”
Stan and Billy said nothing.
“Never mind, I know it was her. She came out of the greengrocer’s when we were talking—not arguing, just talking—and she stared at us like we were breaking the law.”
“You were breaking your own law, weren’t you? You aren’t supposed to talk to a woman alone, are you?” Billy asked. He had the softer voice of the two officers, which Rose suspected was intentional.
“It wasn’t like that,” Sewell said. “It was . . . just two old friends passing the time of day.”
“Mrs. Alexander is sure you two were arguing, at least at the end,” Billy said, softer still. “You’ve got to see it from our point of view. You were observed in what looked like an argument with a girl who was murdered just two days later. We got no other suspects. So why don’t you just tell us what happened?”
In the silence that followed, Rose heard the tick-tick-tick of an ornate grandfather’s clock in the parlor corner. Muffled voices floated from the store across the hallway. The sound of sniffling next to her told her that Sewell was fighting back tears.
“Tell us,” Billy said. “We’ll try to make it go easy on you.”
Sewell pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and blew his nose noisily. “It wasn’t what you think,” he said. “Julia was my friend. She was angry, but not at me. We were all finished years ago. Matter of fact, we were never really all that . . . Anyway, it was her current beau who was making her angry. She wouldn’t tell me his name, so I figured he must be married.”
“Or a Shaker, perhaps,” Stan said.
“I suppose so.” Sewell gave his nose another blow and wadded up his handkerchief in his pocket. “Anyway, she was sure he was cheating on her, and she was furious.”
“Why’d she tell you?” Stan asked.
“She trusted me, and she needed to talk to somebody.”
“Right across from the greengrocer’s? Pretty public, wouldn’t you say?” Stan’s tone implied he wasn’t buying Sewell’s story.
“Was it because she was more afraid of being overheard in Hancock Village?” Billy asked. “Maybe because her lover was a Shaker?”
Sewell shrugged. “I told you, she wouldn’t say who he was, just that he was cheating on her.” His face looked gray in the dim light. “It’s no use pushing me anymore. That’s all I can tell you. If you’re going to arrest me, you might as well get it over with.”
The officers looked at each other. “I guess we won’t just yet,” Billy said. “We’ll check out your story first. You aren’t planning to go on any of those sales trips, are you?”
Sewell shook his head. “I’ll stay put,” he said. “I was never any good at riding the rails, anyway,” he said, with a halfhearted attempt at levity. “I’d probably break all my b
ones.”
“We’ll be back,” said Stan.
After the officers had left, Rose sat quietly with Sewell for several minutes. Finally, Sewell stood and moved his chair over to a desk, avoiding Rose’s eyes.
“Guess I’d better get back to work,” he said to the rug, an Oriental pattern with dark reds and blues.
“Sewell,” Rose said, as gently as she could, “I heard you insist that Julia did not tell you the name of her beau.”
“That’s right.”
“But you guessed who it was, didn’t you?”
Sewell did not move, nor did he raise his eyes. The rug seemed to fascinate him. “I’ve been away from my work far too long,” he said. Without a glance at her or a further good-bye, he was out the door.
Brother Ricardo turned over Hancock’s roomy, well-maintained Cadillac to Rose, giving it a fond pat on the left headlight. Ricardo insisted on the very best for the sisters. Rose promised to take good care of the car. She wrapped Dulcie in a travel rug and drove toward Pittsfield. She was grateful that Dulcie had consented to see the doctor in Pittsfield, since it meant she didn’t have to find her way over ice-rutted roads to a farther-flung city. Both women were silent as the countryside rolled past them. Rose concentrated on driving, and Dulcie seemed to be drifting in her own world. The way back would surely be easier, and Rose promised herself she would then have a talk with Dulcie.
Dr. Kendell was elderly, kindly, and a little forgetful, which was just as well. He kept calling Dulcie “Lucy,” which seemed to reassure her that her secret was safe. He expressed delight at her impending motherhood. It never occurred to him to ask if she was married.
“Everything looks normal,” said Dr. Kendell, “though you’re a bit on the thin side. I like to see my expectant mothers gain some weight—it’s best for the baby and safer for the mother. Have you stopped feeling sick in the mornings?”
“Mostly, but sometimes I feel sick all of a sudden during the day,” Dulcie said.
“Nervousness, that’s all. First mothers are always nervous, afraid something will go wrong. You’re at least a couple months along, so the morning sickness should disappear soon. Just relax and look forward to your baby. It’ll be here before you know it.”
Killing Gifts Page 11
