To Rose’s surprise, Esther flushed. Could it be that the woman had a lover? Or perhaps she still had contact with her husband? Then Rose remembered Gennie’s quick report about discovering Esther in the abandoned Meetinghouse, playing with her six children. Quite likely, she’d been with them again. Since she wasn’t assigned to the kitchen, it would have been a perfect time to sneak off, with no one the wiser. The children lived in the Brick Dwelling House, along with everyone else, and would probably have been put to bed right after the meal. She could have gone to their rooms to spend bedtime with them. But if Rose mentioned her suspicions, she’d be giving away her connection with Gennie.
“It will help me to prove your innocence if you tell me where you were. If you decide to do so, or if there is anything else you wish me to know, you may call upon me anytime.”
Esther nodded and headed back to the sewing room, not bothering to wait for a formal dismissal.
“Ma’am? Sister Rose?”
Rose was reaching for her still damp cloak and formulating questions in her mind for her coming interview with Johnny Jenkins. She recognized Dulcie’s voice.
“I was just working in the kitchen, and Sister Elizabeth said you were up here, and I asked her if I could have a word with you.”
Dulcie looked just as pale as she had before her visit to the doctor, but there was a brightness in her eyes that Rose hadn’t seen before.
“Of course, Dulcie. Let’s go to my retiring room, shall we? We can be private there.” Rose’s cloak could do with more time to dry out, and to be honest, she was glad to delay yet another foray into the snow.
“What’s on your mind,” she asked, as she offered Dulcie her rocking chair and settled on top of her bed.
“Well, you said I could talk to you anytime . . .”
Rose nodded encouragement.
“It’s about my baby.” Dulcie laid her palm on the small mound forming under her waist. “I want my baby to be okay. I want it to have a good life, better than Julia and me had. We didn’t really have a father, not to speak of, anyway. Even before we lost everything because of the crash, he wasn’t around much. He’d just show up now and again to get money. Mother took in laundry and mending, and we made do, even with Father showing up like he did. But then we lost our little house, and we all had to live in this one room in a boardinghouse, and it was so cold, and Mother could only do mending, because there was no way to take in laundry anymore.” Dulcie rocked gently, as if comforting her child while reliving her own deprivation.
“You had a terribly hard life,” Rose said, inviting her to continue.
“Yes, it was very, very hard. Then it got even worse. Father would come and take the little bit of money we had, so sometimes we couldn’t eat if we wanted to pay our rent. Julia got really wild, which hurt our mother so much she cried every day, sometimes right over her mending. All that sadness, I know it’s what killed her.” Dulcie lifted her small chin. “I stayed in school. It made Mother happier, and I wanted a better life.” She stopped rocking and leaned toward Rose. “That’s what I want so much—a better life. I don’t want my baby to know what it feels like to be poor and cold and hungry.”
“How can I help?”
Dulcie sat back and rocked again. “Theodore is a good man,” she said. “He doesn’t drink. He works hard. Sometimes he’s a little hard on people, but it’s only because he expects everyone to do their best. I know he wants to protect me.”
“You are thinking of telling him about the baby?”
“Yes. But I’m scared.”
“Your fear is understandable,” Rose said, “but I am so glad you are gathering your courage to take this step. I agree completely—your baby deserves the best life you can give it. If Theodore will accept responsibility and be a father, your baby would have a good start in life.” She slid off her bed, pulled a chair close to Dulcie, and took her hand. “Remember, too, that if Theodore is unwilling, the Shakers will help you. Your baby can have a safe life, either way.”
But Dulcie did not seem to hear her. She rocked gently, caressing her abdomen. “Theodore will take good care of me and the baby. He will, I know he will,” she said. “I’m going to tell him as soon as possible. Maybe we can be married right away, so the baby won’t ever have to feel fatherless. Nobody will ever know, except you. You promised you wouldn’t tell,” she reminded Rose.
“Yea, I promised.”
“I’d better get back to the kitchen,” Dulcie said, sounding lighthearted for the first time since Rose had met her. She turned at the retiring room door and looked back at Rose. “I’ll let you know when the wedding is,” she said. “We’ll want to keep it quiet, but I’d like you to be there.”
“I would be honored.”
Rose frowned at the door for several minutes after Dulcie had closed it behind her. She felt ill at ease, but she couldn’t say why. Surely it was best for everyone if Dulcie would confront Theodore with their dilemma. He seemed an upright man, one who would accept responsibility for his mistakes. He was perhaps a bit strict, but wasn’t that far better than drunken and shiftless? He would provide a safe haven for Dulcie and their child. If any man could find a way to care for a family during these dreadful times, it was Theodore. So why this niggling, nameless fear?
The bell rang for the evening meal, and Rose took it as a reminder that she didn’t have time to sit in her retiring room, fussing about everyone else’s life. She had work to do, and the days were passing too quickly. Best to let Dulcie and Theodore sort out their own lives, with no more help from her than prayer could provide.
FIFTEEN
GENNIE YAWNED BEHIND HER HAND. THIS WAS HER THIRD morning in the Hancock Fancy Goods Store, and each minute seemed longer than the last. The day before, she’d eagerly settled into a retiring room in the Brick Dwelling House, having arrived in the wee hours, just before the snow, with Helen Butterfield. Helen had wangled a room in the village as well, but at least it wasn’t right next to Gennie’s.
Then the excitement about the poisoned buckets started, and there was Gennie, trapped in the store, nibbling candied sweetflag for breakfast. For most of the day, the snow had kept them indoors and the customers away. Gennie tried to walk outdoors during her hour off, but everyone else stayed inside. She couldn’t find a soul to talk to or spy on or anything. For hours and hours, it was just her and Abigail and Helen. At least Helen went across the hall to the parlor for half an hour or so. To look over the furniture, she’d said, though Gennie had heard her voice once or twice, as if she might be using the telephone.
Today was busier, now that the roads were passable and the sun was slicing through the clouds in pale slivers. Several folks had come to buy eggs and inquire about the upcoming celebration. Mainly, they seemed interested in the free foods, which no one begrudged them. Abigail had brought several cakes to the store, and she handed out samples to each customer, often slipping the children an extra bite.
Gennie was tired and, to be honest, thoroughly thwarted. None of her scheming had worked so far. Rose had filled her in on everything she’d found out, which only served to demonstrate how boring and useless Gennie’s life was in contrast. She’d barely slept all night, waiting for something to happen, but of course nothing did, except that Helen had knocked on her retiring room door and stayed chatting for nearly an hour. Gennie had been raised to be polite to her elders, but Helen Butterfield would be a test to anyone’s good breeding. Gennie had pleaded exhaustion to get rid of her.
Gennie’s hour out of the store was still far off. She couldn’t help wishing that Honora Stearn would make another visit, or that one of the other suspects would arrive and do something, well—suspicious. When she heard the front door of the Trustees’ House open and shut, she hoped that perhaps God had taken pity on her frustration.
Dulcie Masters stood shivering in the doorway. She took a tentative step into the room, while her gaze took in the glorious colors and textures. Gennie wondered if she’d been in the store since he
r sister had worked there.
Seeing Gennie behind the glass counter, Dulcie gave her a tremulous smile. As she handed a basket to Gennie, she leaned over the counter and whispered, “Could I speak with you for a minute? Right away?”
Gennie glanced at Abigail, who, as always, sat across the room, rocking and knitting. “I suppose, but—”
“Please.”
Gennie had to admit her curiosity was intense. “Go across the hall to the parlor,” she whispered. “I’ll meet you there in a few moments.”
“These are all the dolls we were able to make yesterday,” Dulcie said, in a normal tone. “What with the excitement, and all.” Without a word to Abigail, she left the store. There was no sound of the front door opening; Gennie hoped Abigail hadn’t noticed.
Gennie grabbed a rag and dusted the counter, rubbing hard at a palm print left by a child reaching for some candy. She stood back as if to examine her handiwork, then folded the rag and stowed it in a basket on the floor behind the counter.
“Abigail,” she said, as she walked toward the door, “I’ll only be a minute. I’m just going to . . .” She pointed vaguely in the direction of the washroom down the hall.
“Of course, dear,” Abigail said, peering over her spectacles. “Take your time. We seem to be in a lull.”
Gennie crossed the hallway and eased the parlor door shut behind her. Dulcie was pacing in circles on the rug.
“Thank you so much, Gennie. I was worried you wouldn’t take me seriously.”
“I knew you were serious, but, frankly, I can’t imagine why you’d want to talk to me,” Gennie said. She gestured to a settee, but Dulcie kept pacing. Gennie figured the conversation might take a while, and she might as well be comfortable, so she claimed the settee for herself.
“I can’t find Rose anywhere,” Dulcie said.
“Yes?”
“You’ve got to help me find her. I must talk to her right away.”
“I would help you if I could,” Gennie said, trying for just the right touch of innocent confusion, “but I can’t imagine what you think I can do.”
Dulcie turned on her with impatience. “I know you two are friends. I need to find her. My . . . Everything has gone wrong. She’s the only one who can help me. Can’t you tell me where she might be?”
It took several moments for Gennie to recover from her surprise. Dulcie resumed her pacing.
“How did you know?” Gennie asked.
“That you two are friends? It wasn’t that hard, really. I saw her go into your room yesterday after supper. She didn’t come out for a long time.”
“Weren’t you supposed to be working in the kitchen?” Gennie’s question came out more accusatory than she’d meant, but she and Rose had been so sure it was a safe time to meet in the hired women’s wing of the dwelling house.
“I had something important to do,” Dulcie said. “I asked the kitchen sisters to let me go for the evening. I sat in the hallway for a while, thinking. I was in the shadow, I guess. Anyway, Rose didn’t see me.”
“Couldn’t you just tell me what you need to see Rose about? Maybe I could help you.”
“No! I mean, it’s just between Rose and me.”
Gennie felt a twinge of jealousy. Rose had confided nothing about Dulcie that might lead to such agitation—except, of course, that Julia had been Dulcie’s sister. But her anguish was immediate; perhaps it had nothing to do with her sister’s murder. Unless Dulcie had a suspicion about who killed Julia. But why would Rose keep such information secret from Gennie? Was she still being the protective mother hen, afraid her little chick would rush out into danger?
Gennie’s irritation dissolved when she noticed that Dulcie had slumped into a chair and begun to cry. Her tears were silent, the tears of despair. Gennie knelt at her side. “Dulcie, I know something is terribly wrong, and Rose has been helping you, but I promise she would urge you to let me help, too. Whatever it is, I won’t tell anyone else. You’ve got to trust someone right now. Rose is so busy tracking down this . . . the person who hurt your sister. She could be anywhere, even off in Pittsfield talking to the police or something. Why not just confide in me, and we’ll work out a solution together?”
Dulcie’s tears stopped. She turned dull eyes toward Gennie. “There’s no solution,” she said. “You can’t help me. Rose can’t either, but I always feel better when I talk to her. But this—she probably can’t help with this.” Dulcie stood—with some difficulty, Gennie noticed.
“You’d best get back to work. Abigail will be wondering. I’m sorry I bothered you. Please don’t worry about me. There’s nothing you can do.”
With her frustration near the bursting point, Gennie was relieved when her hour off arrived. Dulcie would be in the kitchen, helping to wash up after the noon meal, so there was no point in making another attempt to pry her secret out of her. Maybe later.
Rose’s description of her interview with Esther Jenkins had intrigued and puzzled Gennie, since Esther had seemed friendly when they’d met two days earlier. Maybe, Gennie thought, not without some worldly pride, I’ll be able to get more information from Esther than Rose can. She decided to visit the deserted Meetinghouse again, in hopes of finding Esther with her children.
A sharp wind sliced through her wool coat as she crossed the slushy road to reach the north end of the village, which was now mostly abandoned buildings. The one drawback of pleading poverty so she could live in the Brick Dwelling House was that she couldn’t just whip out twenty-six dollars to buy a Shaker cloak. Maybe Abigail would let her use one if she offered a small down payment and another reduction in her dwindling pay. It was worth a try. She could already feel the sniffles coming on, and she wouldn’t be much of a sleuth if she ended up sick in bed.
Gennie turned back and gazed over the whole village, or as much as she could see. No one seemed to be wandering about. Good. She didn’t want to be seen making a habit of entering unused buildings. On the other hand, it probably wouldn’t be long before the whole village knew of her connection with Rose. Dulcie had certainly tumbled to it easily, and she might mention it to someone else. All the more reason to work fast.
As Gennie trudged toward the Meetinghouse, she came upon footprints in the snow. They looked fresh. She tried matching her steps to them. They were much larger than her small feet, and her legs couldn’t span the spaces between the footsteps. Her suspicions were confirmed when she traced the imprints to the men’s entrance. The feet had not belonged to Esther and her children. Two men had recently visited the Meetinghouse. She examined the snow nearby and saw no evidence of footsteps leading back toward the road. The men might still be inside.
Gennie’s heart picked up speed in a most pleasant way. Probably the visit was innocent, but Gennie was desperate for excitement, and this was the closest she’d gotten to anything out of the ordinary. She decided not to announce her presence just yet, in case she might hear or see something helpful to the investigation.
The large windows to either side of the men’s entrance were boarded up, so Gennie rounded the corner of the building and headed for the back, where no one could see her from the village. She was aware she was creating a new path in the snow, but she tried to walk on her tiptoes, to make it look more like animal tracks. Thank goodness Abigail had insisted on lending her some galoshes.
Two windows along the north end of the Meetinghouse still contained glass. She hugged the wall and edged close to the first window until she could see inside. The building looked dark and empty. The old glass was thick, so she couldn’t hear even a mumble of voices. She leaned back against the wall and thought a moment. Her hands lay flat against the wood, and through one glove she could feel a rough edge that came off as she nervously picked at it. In her hand was a good-sized sliver of white paint. The back of her coat must be covered with bits of peeling paint. She’d have to remember to clean it off before going back to work.
This was getting her nowhere except frozen. On impulse, Gennie crouched below
the bottom of the window and scooted underneath, gasping as the snow scraped her thighs. Once past, she stood again and edged toward the next window. This time, luck was with her. A corner of the glass had cracked and worked loose from the window frame, and no one had yet thought to cover the hole with a board—or perhaps no one had even noticed it.
Gennie peeked through the glass and still saw nothing. She pushed her ear as close as possible to the open corner of the window and listened. Now she heard voices—men’s voices. No wonder she hadn’t heard them before; they sounded calm and easy, like two friends discussing crops. There was nothing the least bit mysterious about them. She was disappointed. However, she wasn’t about to give up so easily on her first chance at excitement.
She wanted to see who the men were, but it meant looking straight into the window and taking the risk of being seen. She thought a minute. Okay, if they did look over and see her face, she would wave eagerly and go right inside, as if she were just out on a jaunt, exploring the village, and was delighted to find someone to talk to.
Her courage bolstered, she peered directly into the building and looked around. There they were, in the southeast corner, standing close together with their heads bent over a large piece of paper that looked like it might be a map. She recognized them at once—Aldon Stearn and Sewell Yates. Her excitement dimmed as she remembered that Sewell was an architect assigned to see about renovating some of Hancock’s deteriorating buildings. Aldon, as she recalled, worked with him. So all she’d discovered was two brothers doing their work.
Disappointed, she pulled away from the window and leaned back against the peeling wall. She hadn’t used much of her hour yet, she thought. She still had time to search some of the other abandoned buildings for Esther and her brood. Still, she was here. She might as well watch for a spell, see if they got into a discussion of Julia’s murder or something. Her feet weren’t frozen to numbness yet; when they were, she decided, she’d give up and leave.
Killing Gifts Page 15
