Killing Gifts

by Deborah Woodworth

“It’s perfect. Wait till you hear. Abigail said I could bring my things back here tomorrow and room right in this building, with the other hired women. Isn’t that wonderful? We can talk anytime we want to. No one will wonder why I’m up here, if I live in the building.”

  “Gennie, you know I’m not comfortable having you in the thick of things.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of that,” Gennie said, with dignity. “However, I’ll say the same thing to you that I said to Grady before we left—I expect you to treat me like an adult. I’m moving here tomorrow, and that’s that.”

  Rose’s heart was caught somewhere between the sadness of letting Gennie grow up and pride in the young woman she had become. “All right,” she said, “let it be as you wish. Now, go ahead and tell me what you’ve learned so far.”

  When they had shared their information, it was time to leave for the worship service. “After your description, I would like a look at Aldon’s wife, Honora,” Rose said, as she stuffed some errant curls back under her cap. “She certainly sounds angry enough to do violence.”

  “If she returns to the village, I’ll try to get a message to you,” Gennie promised.

  By the time they arrived downstairs, at the large meeting room Fannie had designated for the service, everyone else had gathered. Gennie and Rose separated before entering and sat at opposite ends of a semicircle of women, facing a much smaller cluster of men. Rose was surprised and pleased to see both Dulcie and Theodore attending the service, each sitting, as was proper, with the appropriate gender.

  In the absence of someone like Elder Wilhelm to lead, the worship seemed tame and gentle. Fannie led them in prayer and several songs, but no one stood for dancing worship. Rose missed the movement, but she was not unappreciative of the quiet. For once, she could send her prayers to Holy Mother Wisdom without half of her mind worrying about what surprises Wilhelm might have in store. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to worship.

  The door hinges in Hancock all seemed to need the attention of an oil can. In the second before the worshipers began another song, the squeak of the door from the hallway broke Rose’s concentration. She opened her eyes. A tall, middle-aged woman in worldly clothes stood just inside the large double doors, looking around as if seeking a place to sit. Rose supposed she must be a friend of Fannie’s; the Hancock sisters had many dealings with the women from Pittsfield, so it wouldn’t be surprising if some were invited to share worship with the Believers.

  The woman moved forward, her eyes fixed on the men’s side of the room. An inkling of doubt entered Rose’s mind. Something wasn’t right. Gennie glanced up as the woman passed her chair. Gennie’s expression changed from polite and somewhat sleepy to excited. Her wide eyes sought out Rose, and her hands twitched as if she wanted desperately to convey a message without standing up and shouting. Rose knew instantly what the message was—this was Honora Stearn, come to claim her husband back from the Shakers. She sent a slight nod of understanding to Gennie, who relaxed.

  Honora walked to the center of the room and stood with her back to the women, facing the men. All attempts to carry on the song had faltered, and the worshipers watched as Honora turned to her husband, Aldon. She raised her arm and pointed a long, bony finger at him. The spectacle mesmerized everyone, including Fannie, and no one protested. Even Aldon stared in openmouthed silence.

  “You,” Honora said. “You have offended God. You have broken His commandments, and His fury is unleashed.” Her voice was deep and powerful, as if she had studied preaching by listening to her husband’s performances in the pulpit. “His wrath will smite you down where you sit.” She spun around until she faced the women. Her face was contorted with rage. “You are jezebels, every one of you. You have conspired to put asunder a man and his wife, who were joined by God, and you will be punished.” She poked her finger toward them as she spit out the curse.

  The Hancock sisters were used to quiet dealings with the world, and this exhibition was beyond their comprehension. Clearly, no one knew what to do. Their shock had rendered them helpless. Rose, for better or for worse, had more experience with such behavior. Also, she would be gone soon; it would be easier for her to handle the situation. Any resentments would attach to her, not to the Hancock sisters.

  As she stood, however, Honora spun again toward the men and pointed at her husband. “There is only one way you can save your wretched soul,” she said to Aldon. Her voice was growing hoarse, and her hand had begun to shake. “You must come with me right now. Return to your marriage bed tonight.”

  She walked toward Aldon as if to grab him and force him to come with her. This proved too much for Aldon. He leaped from his chair and lifted it up in front of him. Rose had to stifle a chuckle at this picture—the lion tamer fending off a wild animal gone berserk. The men around Aldon jumped up, as well. The novitiates backed away from her to avoid touching a woman, but Theodore pushed through them toward Honora. Afraid he might handle the distraught woman too forcefully, Rose hurried across the room to stand just behind her.

  “Mrs. Stearn, I am Theodore Geist. Do you remember me from church?” Theodore’s voice and demeanor were firm. Rose stayed where she was.

  “Theodore?” Honora lowered her arm.

  “Remember you taught me in Sunday school?”

  “Of course I remember you—you were such a good student, always knew your Bible verses perfectly. You aren’t—you haven’t become one of them, have you?” Her voice had dipped again into outrage.

  “No, of course not. I just work for them. You know how hard it is to find a job these days.”

  Honora nodded sadly.

  “I’m getting married soon, you know,” he said. “So I can understand how angry you are. If anyone put me asunder from my wife, I’d . . . well, there’s no telling what I’d do. I’d try to leave it up to God, but maybe I wouldn’t be strong enough. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” Honora said. “Yes, indeed. Sometimes you have to remind God. He has so much to watch.”

  “Exactly.” Theodore glanced at Rose as if he wanted to tell her something. “But let’s just leave it to God this time,” he said to Honora. “I’m sure you got His attention.” He took her firmly by the crook of the elbow and guided her toward the door before she could protest. Within seconds, he had led her into the hallway and closed the door behind them.

  After a moment of awkward silence, a sister began a song quickly, and the others joined in, as if the incident hadn’t occurred. Much as she wanted to do so, Rose couldn’t stay to finish the worship service. She followed Theodore and Honora. By the time she’d shut the door on the singing worshipers, the hallway was empty. Rose threw her cloak around her shoulders and hurried through the women’s door to the dwelling house. A brisk snow had been falling for some time, coating the village with thick, wet globs, and making it difficult to see beyond a few dozen yards. Rose swiped at the snow as if to push it aside. The nearby churn of a motor reached her. It seemed to be coming from the small garage just across the path from the Brick Dwelling House. Ignoring the snow that caked her shoes, she ran toward the sound. As she came in view of the entrance, an ancient Model T emerged and skidded toward the main road. Rose recognized the car Brother Ricardo kept for the use of the hired hands. Theodore was behind the wheel, and Honora sat beside him.

  Rose watched as the car reached the main road and headed toward Pittsfield. It occurred to Rose to wonder, as the car bounced over ruts in the icy road, how Honora had made the trip to Hancock Village in the first place. According to Gennie, Honora had been mired in poverty since Aldon left, and her clothing showed it, so it was unlikely that she had a car. If she had walked, wouldn’t she have been soaked to the bone? Her clothes had been dry, and her cheeks only pale pink, as if she had ridden in a cold car. Had Theodore driven her to Hancock, knowing what was likely to happen? What reason would he—or anyone—have to encourage such a scene? For that matter, how did she get to the Fancy Goods Store on such a regular schedule, as Abigail
had told Gennie she did?

  Rose stripped off her wet clothing and hung it from hangers on pegs to dry overnight. She knew her shoes would still be damp in the morning unless she helped them along, so she had found some rags in the kitchen and now stuffed them into the toes to absorb moisture. She slipped into her warm, blessedly dry winter nightgown and knelt for prayer.

  Still shivering, she snuggled under her wool coverlet, closed her eyes, and waited for sleep. And waited. By the time the evening worship service had replayed itself three times in her mind, she accepted defeat. Sleep would elude her until she had organized her thoughts on paper. Giving in to frustration, she yanked the coverlet from her bed, wrapped it around her shoulders, and settled at the small desk in her room. She’d had the forethought to request paper and a pen for her retiring room, so she didn’t have to go roaming through the huge, cold dwelling house searching for writing materials.

  First, she wrote a list of the folks she or Gennie had met during their first day in Hancock. All of them had known Julia, so she first noted the ones who had an obvious motive. Honora Stearn led the list. Rose suspected that Theodore had been trying to convey that message to her while he was calming Honora. Honora wanted Aldon back, and she thought Julia had tempted him to stray. Had Julia purposely sought the job in the Fancy Goods Shop simply to be near Aldon?

  What about Aldon himself? He was a minister of God, but that did not protect him from temptation—or excuse him, if he caved in to it. Had he fallen into the flesh with Julia, either before his conversion to the Shaker faith, or both before and after? His devotion to the Shaker faith seemed genuine, if somewhat harsh, and he might easily become an elder, once he’d signed the Covenant. Would he kill to protect his future in the Society? It seemed farfetched, but not impossible.

  Rose had grown fond of Dulcie, and hopeful for her future. Yet, according to Carlotta and to Dulcie herself, she and Julia were not on the best of terms. Otis and Carlotta both suspected Theodore had been too attentive to Julia. Suppose Julia, with her competitive carnal instincts, had set out to seduce her sister’s fiancé, just for the sport of it? Would Dulcie have been angry enough to kill her sister—especially to protect her own unborn child? Why had Dulcie rushed to see her sister’s body? Did she remove the calico rag because it somehow incriminated her or someone she loved?

  Dulcie loved Theodore Geist—or at least she needed him desperately. Theodore clearly considered himself to be upright, a man of high moral character. If he had allowed himself to yield to Julia’s charms, might he have killed her in a fit of rage, misdirected at her, rather than at himself? Theodore also needed and valued his job as manager of Hancock’s farmhands. If Julia had threatened to reveal his sinfulness, perhaps even threatened blackmail, might he have killed her to keep her silent?

  Then there was Carlotta, the source of so much gossipy information about others. She was unwilling to admit to her past troubles with the law, which, according to Dulcie, Julia had led her into. Carlotta was a bitter young woman. How far might her resentment drive her? A woman could certainly have strangled Julia from behind with the fabric of her own dress. But could a woman, especially Carlotta, have persuaded Julia to meet at night in the Summerhouse in a flimsy summer dancing dress?

  Sewell Yates. Rose stared at the name. This was the man the police suspected of Julia’s murder, and Rose had yet to uncover any evidence to clear him. Of all the men she had met so far, he was most likely, she believed, to have had a carnal relationship with Julia. Something haunted the man, that much was clear. By all accounts, he flirted with the women, seemingly driven to charm even the older sisters. His protestations of chastity were intense, yet somehow unconvincing. Rose felt certain that Sewell had a secret, perhaps of profound depth, which she must discover before she could eliminate him as a suspect—or confirm his guilt.

  Finally, Rose listed Johnny and Esther Jenkins. Esther did not really want to be a Shaker sister. She wanted to raise her own children. She might be hoping Johnny would eventually return to her. Julia had set her cap for Johnny, and what Julia wanted, it seemed, Julia got. Suppose Esther considered another woman more of a threat, in the long run, than the Society? From Esther’s point of view, six children and her own survival were at stake. Would she have killed Julia, rather than take the chance of losing her ambitious husband to another woman?

  As for Johnny, Gennie had described him with cold clarity. Johnny seemed uninterested in women, even disdainful of them, but Rose knew better than to believe she knew his heart. He could be playing a part, or he might be trying to keep his distance from the temptation of women. Others had agreed that Johnny wanted to be important. This horrible Depression severely limited the opportunities available to men who wanted power and wealth. The Shakers might seem like the answer to a prayer for a man like Johnny—so few men to fill leadership positions, and still comparatively large land holdings. If he had fallen into the flesh, particularly if he had done so after becoming a novitiate, he might want to eliminate the evidence.

  Rose rubbed her tired eyes. Morning would come all too soon. It would still be dark and cold when the wake-up bell rang, and she would have had far too little sleep. She thought longingly of North Homage, and of dear Sisters Josie and Agatha. Josie always seemed to appear with a revivifying tea when Rose had spent half the night puzzling out a problem. Agatha, Rose’s dear friend and mentor, would listen with wisdom until the problem seemed to solve itself. She wanted to go home. She shoved the paper and pen back in the desk drawer and slid into her bed. This time she fell into instant and dreamless sleep, her mind blissfully emptied of all the information that had kept her awake.

  THIRTEEN

  WHEN THE MORNING WAKE-UP BELL RANG, ROSE LAY FOR several minutes in groggy confusion. She had slept as if drugged by a pot of valerian tea. In the early morning darkness, her room looked familiar, yet wrong somehow. Slowly, she dredged up the memory of her train ride, her arrival in Hancock Village, and, finally, Honora Stearn’s startling disruption of the previous evening’s worship service.

  She switched on her bedside lamp, tossed off her covers, and swung her legs over the side of her bed. As soon as her bare feet touched the cold floor, she whimpered and yanked them back up and under her nightdress. Kentucky could be damp and cold in the wintertime, but Massachusetts was unlike anything she had experienced—or ever wanted to again.

  Time was passing. Holding her breath, Rose slid her feet to the floor and ran across the room to where her clothes hung from wall pegs. Her dress and shoes from the previous evening were still damp. Though normally she would wear her work clothes until they were ready to be sent to the laundry, she couldn’t bear the thought of clammy fabric touching her skin. Ignoring her guilt, she selected her second work dress, a dark blue wool, of the same loose design as the other. She pulled it over her shivering body, then quickly swung a large white kerchief across her back and shoulders, like a shawl, and crossed it over her chest. She tied an apron loosely around her waist and tucked the ends of the kerchief inside the apron’s waistband. With each additional layer, her shivering eased. She pictured the dead girl, Julia Masters, wearing a sleeveless summer gown on a freezing evening. How could the girl have stood it? Were Easterners made of sterner stuff, or was the girl driven by something powerful enough to make the cold endurable?

  Rose rushed through the rest of her morning preparations, purposely slowing down when it came to her prayers. With no chores to perform, she arrived outside the dining room well before the rest of the village. She sat in a rocking chair and pulled from her apron pocket the sheet of notes she had written the night before, intending to use her free minutes to formulate a plan for her day.

  Someone shouted in the distance. The sound was unexpected at such an early hour—or at any hour in a quiet Shaker village. Rose stuffed her notes back into her apron pocket and ventured into the hallway to investigate. No one was about.

  A second shout sounded as if it had come from outside. Rose opened the women’s front
door. A blast of wind and snow hit her in the face and dampened the wood floor. It was snowing thickly, and Rose could see only partway down the path. A man appeared through the white curtain, running toward the Brick Dwelling House. He slipped on the snow and fell on one knee. Without any sign of pain, he struggled back up and continued toward the building. As he drew closer, Rose recognized Theodore Geist, Dulcie’s fiancé. He was carrying a bucket, which he held out in front of him as if it contained something important.

  “Where’s the eldress?” he panted, as he reached the door. “Gotta talk to her right away.”

  “I’m the only one who has arrived for breakfast so far,” Rose said, “but I’ll find her. What’s wrong?”

  “No time. Get Fannie.”

  “You can afford a few seconds to tell me what’s wrong,” Rose said.

  Theodore scowled, but she stood her ground. “Look at this bucket,” he said, finally. “Look at it.” He held it close to her face. A few inches of liquid splashed around as the bucket swung under her nose. She saw nothing alarming.

  “What am I supposed to see?” she asked.

  “Well, look at it. Look at the inside and around the rim. Can’t you see?”

  Rose peered inside the bucket. In a wavy line, which followed the edge of the sloshing water, was a coating of some powdery substance. It also covered the rim of the bucket, though the falling snow had washed it off in spots. She leaned closer to sniff the powder, but Theodore yanked the bucket away from her.

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “It’s poison.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s all over the water buckets in the barn, the feed buckets, too. I didn’t notice it at first, so I used one of them to get some feed for the cows. I fed the first one, and she sniffed it and backed away. Cows are smarter than humans sometimes. She knew.”

  “What is it?”

  Theodore shrugged. “Rat poison would be my guess. We’ve had problems in the barn, and the cats weren’t doing the job, so we got something from town to take care of it.”