She heard a faint scratching sound in the wall behind her. Mice. As she steeled herself not to cry out if something furry brushed against her ankles, the back of a head appeared through the railing in front of her. Then shoulders and a large body followed. The intruder seemed shapeless, as if wearing a loose-fitting overcoat. He—or she—seemed to be laboring after climbing all those stairs. Gennie felt a prick of doubt. What Shaker would be winded by climbing a few flights of stairs? A very old one, perhaps. Might this be merely a Believer who couldn’t sleep and thought to make a nostalgic visit to the attic?
The figure reached the top step and paused, breathing heavily. Gennie peered through the maze of slats in front of her, looking for clues to the person’s identity. If it was a sister, Gennie thought she should be able to see at least the shape of a white indoor cap. Something covered the intruder’s head, but it didn’t look as smooth as a cap.
Gennie’s arms ached, and her muscles were starting to twitch from the effort to keep still. If only the creature would move. Gennie was almost ready to push the chairs over and make a run for it. She doubted she’d be able to hang on much longer.
The figure moved, lumbering toward the dresser next to the secret niche. To Gennie’s enormous relief, he or she did not light the lamp, but instead opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and reached inside. Holding something in both hands, the figure moved to the left to catch what little light the skylight offered. As the figure turned in profile toward Gennie, the light was just strong enough for her to recognize who she was—Helen Butterfield. The soft shape around her head looked like pincurls, and she was wearing a heavy robe.
Gennie stifled a gasp. Helen Butterfield. Of course. She always seemed to be around, claiming to be collecting furniture, yet somehow never spending much time doing it. But why? Was she seeking revenge for some unknown crime against herself or her family? How did she know about the dolls in the drawer? What did they really know about Helen? She had shown up so conveniently right after Julia’s murder, and she’d insinuated herself into the lives of the Hancock community. And on top of that, she used me to get here, Gennie thought, with a surge of resentment that almost toppled her precarious stack of chairs.
Gennie renewed her grip, now determined to escape and expose Helen Butterfield as an impostor—and probably a murderer. She willed her arms and legs to stop shaking and her breathing to be silent. Without the lamp, she had a chance to escape detection.
Helen took her bundle and quickly replaced it in the dresser drawer. She stood a moment, staring at the dresser, as if lost in thought. Then she turned full toward Gennie and headed for the staircase. Gennie wanted to close her eyes, like a child, and become invisible, but she had to see what was coming. Helen looked directly at her, or she seemed to. Gennie stiffened as something small and quick scurried between her feet and right toward Helen. Helen squealed, grabbed the railing, and bounced down the stairs.
Gennie dared to breathe again. She forced herself to wait until the footsteps had faded before she pushed the stack of chairs away from her and tried to steady it on the floor. Her weakened arms couldn’t hold on tightly enough, and the stack swayed too far in the opposite direction, threatening to fall toward the staircase railing.
The image of ladder-back chairs tumbling down the stairs after Helen Butterfield gave Gennie renewed strength. She clutched the pile and held it until it stabilized, then she slowly released her shaky grip. The chairs stayed put. Gennie wilted against the wall and closed her eyes. She had no desire to move, ever again. Finally, her breathing slowed to normal, and the eerie attic room became a less desirable place to spend the night. Besides, she was freezing, and she could feel a sneeze coming on—and she wanted more than anything to tell her story to Rose. Imagine—Helen Butterfield. It had never occurred to either one of them to suspect Helen of anything more than thoughtless nosiness. Now it seemed she might be something far worse than a busybody.
TWENTY
WHEN THE BREAKFAST BELL RANG, GENNIE AT FIRST thought it must be a middle-of-the-night emergency. Surely breakfast couldn’t have arrived so soon. It seemed only a few hours since she had snuggled under her covers. In fact, she remembered, it had been about four hours. After her adventure in the fifth-floor attic, she had rousted Rose from a sound sleep, and the two women had sat up sharing information and speculations for quite some time.
A burst of renewed excitement gave Gennie the strength to toss off her warm blankets and dress. She was eager to find out how Rose would deal with Helen Butterfield after learning of her midnight visit to the attic. Not that Gennie would have much opportunity to observe anything firsthand. With Mother Ann’s Birthday so close now, Fannie had asked if Gennie could be spared to help out in the kitchen. The very thought almost sent her back to bed. The kitchen wasn’t even cozy and warm, like the one at North Homage. And working with Carlotta was nearly as unpleasant as working with Sister Elsa. On the other hand, with Carlotta’s gossiping skills, Gennie would surely hear about anything exciting soon after it happened—though perhaps not accurately.
Gennie splashed some water on her face and ran a comb through her tousled curls. She missed having a warm bath in the mornings, like she could in her boardinghouse back home. She strongly suspected she was growing soft, and it was okay with her. When she and Grady married, she’d have a bath whenever she wanted, and she’d enjoy it. And she’d have a cook and a housekeeper, and she’d only go to the kitchen to check on dinner. Although working in the Hancock kitchen might not be all that bad, she told herself—Fannie had said they’d be baking lots of Mother Ann’s Birthday Cakes, with rosewater frosting on top.
Footsteps outside her room told her the hired women were heading for the washroom or downstairs to gather for breakfast. Gennie was eager to get there early, so she wouldn’t miss anything. It would probably be her last time outside the kitchen until after the evening meal. Thank goodness she hadn’t been asked to help with breakfast, or she would have had no sleep at all.
A knock on her door was followed by Carlotta’s uninvited entrance. “Come on, sleepyhead,” she said. “You can’t stay in bed all day, not around here. We’ll be on our feet for the next twelve hours in that kitchen—not that it will matter. No one is going to show up for this big birthday party, not with all this snow coming in.”
“I’ve been ready for ages,” Gennie said. She couldn’t decide whom she found more irritating—Carlotta or Helen. She wished she’d caught them both wandering about in the middle of the night.
Carlotta slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. “Did you hear the news?”
Gennie managed to shake her head innocently, as she wondered if Rose had already called the police, and they had arrested Helen Butterfield for murder.
“Honora is here.”
“Honora?”
“Yes, silly, Honora—Aldon’s wife. The crazy lady—remember?”
“Of course I remember. You mean she’s come for a free breakfast?”
Carlotta sighed. “No, that wouldn’t be news. She’ll take a free meal whenever she can get away with it. What I meant was, Honora came last night and just told the sisters she was gonna nurse Dulcie back to health. Can you imagine? She claims she was some sort of nurse during the war, so she thinks she can work miracles. I think it’s real funny—all of a sudden, Crazy Honora is helping the Shakers.”
“But why would Honora care about Dulcie?”
“Gennie, you’re so innocent. She don’t give a hoot about little Dulcie. My guess is she thinks Dulcie was one of Aldon’s many lovers—or at least she thinks Aldon and Julia was lovers, so she figures she can get the story out of Dulcie while she’s weak. Maybe she plans to murder Dulcie before she can talk,” Carlotta added, with a ghoulish grin.
Gennie grabbed her sweater from a wall peg. “Come on,” she said, “time for breakfast.” She’d had quite enough of Carlotta DiAngelo, and she found the thought of spending the entire day working with her thoroughly unpleasant. Maybe a ful
l stomach would help.
Rose had been dressed and ready for the day long before the breakfast bell. Her sleep had been far from peaceful, and a howling wind hadn’t helped. She opened her curtains to black-gray clouds moving quickly toward the village. The snow never seemed to stop for long.
Rose didn’t yet know what to make of Gennie’s revelations about Helen Butterfield. She needed to find out more about the woman, which would take time. Meanwhile, she would relieve Helen of any nursing duty with Dulcie. Rose couldn’t shake the fear that someone might try again to harm Dulcie. As soon as Fannie stopped by her retiring room to mention that Honora had come to help out with the nursing, Rose’s fear redoubled. The offer seemed out of character. In fact, Honora’s character could best be described as demented—and wasn’t it most likely that a demented person had made those devil dolls Gennie had found in the attic? What if Honora had a wild plan to kill everyone she perceived to be stealing her husband from her? Whoever had poisoned those buckets might indeed have seriously injured many people, if the buckets had been used for drinking water. A minister’s wife might not know that they were intended for use with animals. She was in Hancock the night of the worship service. She might have gone to the barn looking for Aldon, seen the poison and the buckets, and simply acted on impulse.
On the other hand, Honora had an alibi for the time of Dulcie’s fall. What if someone wanted to give the impression that the killer was insane? Honora was the perfect dupe.
A few rooms in the Brick Dwelling House had been set aside for the care of ill Believers, and Rose headed directly for the one in which Dulcie lay comatose. According to Fannie, Honora had shown up near bedtime the night before and offered to watch Dulcie all night, so the sisters could get some rest. Luckily, one of the sisters had insisted on staying, so Honora had not been alone with Dulcie, as far as Rose knew.
Rose reached Dulcie’s room as Sister Abigail was closing the door behind her.
“She’s the same,” Abigail said. “I’m going to get some breakfast. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Rose entered the room without knocking. Honora sat in a rocker next to an adult-sized cradle bed, crooning a hymn and gently rocking the unconscious Dulcie. It wasn’t the scene Rose expected to see.
“She has lost a child, you know,” Honora said, as Rose approached the cradle bed. “I lost a child, too. It is always a judgment, to lose a child, but not on the mother. No, not on the mother. It’s a judgment on the father, the sins of the father. The mother only bears the pain. It’s the way of God.”
Rose had no inclination to argue the point. “How did you know Dulcie lost a child?” she asked. “Did someone tell you?”
“A woman knows.”
“Fannie said that you arrived last night, offering to watch over Dulcie to relieve the sisters. That was kind of you.”
Honora nodded in rhythm with her rocking.
“It’s quite a storm coming in, isn’t it?”
“Nothing we don’t deserve,” Honora said.
“I was wondering, how did you manage to get here last night? Surely you didn’t walk, did you?”
“I could have, you know. We grow up strong around here.”
“But last night, you didn’t have to?”
“God sent an instrument,” Honora said, with a smile. “Someone to help.”
“Really? Who did God send?”
Honora squinted at Rose as if she were unbelievably stupid. “Sewell has always been God’s instrument, ever since he was a child. That is why he bears so much pain. God bestows great pain on those he treasures most. It is a test.”
“Has Sewell picked you up and brought you to Hancock before?”
“Of course. He is a good boy, always thinking of others.”
“Indeed,” Rose said. “Was it Sewell who brought you here the other night for the worship service?”
“Such a dear boy. He knew without asking.”
“Honora, you must be hungry after your vigil. Breakfast is about to begin. Let me watch Dulcie while you eat. You must keep up your strength, you know.”
Honora slowed the cradle bed until it came to a gentle halt. “Yes,” she said. “I don’t know how many more nights I will be called upon to stand watch over this poor bereft mother. I will eat something.” She walked toward the door with tall dignity, as if God were calling from the dining room, leaving Rose sad but relieved.
Gennie ate every bite of her biscuits and oatmeal. Lack of sleep had increased her appetite. She noticed both Helen and Honora at breakfast, as well as Rose’s absence. Since it was unthinkable that Rose had slept through breakfast, she must be with Dulcie. So, Dulcie must still be alive.
For once, the basement kitchen was warm when Gennie arrived to help clean up and then bake for Mother Ann’s Birthday celebration. The sisters had started fires in all the ovens, in preparation for baking dozens of loaves of bread, numerous birthday cakes, and sundry cookies. If she had to cook, Gennie thought, baking was her choice.
To her relief, she was not alone with Carlotta in the kitchen. Esther had also been assigned to help out. She didn’t look happy about it, either. Gennie guessed that the demands of so much baking would make it difficult for Esther to sneak off to be with her children.
Gennie gathered the ingredients for Mother Ann’s Birthday Cake and began measuring. She reached for the rosewater and, to her astonishment, Helen Butterfield appeared by her side.
Smiling brightly, as if she’d had a full night’s sleep, she said, “I’ve come to lend a hand. Gennie, I see you’ve got the cakes. I’ve always wanted to make Mother Ann’s Birthday Cake. I’ll work with you.”
Gennie couldn’t suppress a shudder. It was bad enough Helen wasn’t under arrest, but now Gennie would have to work side by side with the woman who nearly gave her a heart attack just hours earlier. A woman who might be a killer. On the other hand, at least Gennie could keep on eye on her, maybe wheedle some incriminating information out of her.
“I do so love the feel of flour. So silky,” Helen said, as she used her hands to dump flour into a bowl. “Now, I’ve heard that the Shakers used to stir the batter with the branches of a peach tree, but apparently we aren’t going to do that?” Helen smiled, and Gennie’s heart chilled.
“Are you all right, dear?” Helen asked. “You look ill.”
“I’m fine,” Gennie said, with feigned cheerfulness. “Have you been satisfied with your stay here?” she asked. “I mean, have you found what you were looking for?”
“You mean furniture and so forth? Oh yes, more than I imagined. Such precious items, just lying about unused. I’m thinking of opening a store, an antiques store. Shaker furniture is so simple and lovely. Even with times being what they are, I’m sure I’ll be able to make quite a bit of money selling what I’ve been buying from the Shakers.”
“This has been quite an exciting time, too, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, it has.”
“What do you think is going on? I mean, who do you think murdered Julia and hurt Dulcie?”
“I can’t imagine, my dear. Furthermore, I thought Dulcie simply fell. Do you think differently?”
Gennie busied herself with measuring butter. “I’ve no idea,” she said, after a while. “After all, I just got here. I never met Julia, and I barely knew Dulcie.”
“Of course.”
Gennie tried a different approach. “I noticed Honora Stearn showed up for breakfast. Why do you suppose she’s here?”
“I heard she offered to help nurse Dulcie,” Helen said.
“Do you think that’s safe?”
“I can’t imagine why not. I also heard that Honora had nurse’s training, so she might be quite helpful to the sisters, and I’m certainly glad to share the work with another nurse. Why? Do you have reason to believe Honora isn’t capable—that she might hurt Dulcie in some way?”
“Well, it seems odd, that’s all. Honora hates the Shakers and seems to think every woman here has been involved with her husband.”<
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Helen measured and stirred in silence. Finally, she reached over with a floury hand and touched Gennie’s arm. “Curiosity killed the cat,” she said. She released her hold on Gennie and picked up the rosewater.
Gennie had to restrain herself from throwing her bowl of cake batter at the unbearably irritating Helen Butterfield. Instead, she poured the batter into a pan and started another batch, to give her temper ample time to cool. She had no intention of giving up.
“Where do you intend to open this antiques store?” she asked, forcing her voice to sound casual.
“What? Oh yes, the shop. I hadn’t really gotten that far. Pittsfield, perhaps.”
“What about back in your hometown? Where did you say that was?”
“Oh no, it’s far too small. Perhaps I’ll even try Boston—there are still wealthy families in Boston.”
Helen was almost as skilled at not answering questions as Grady, when he didn’t want Gennie to know something. Why was her life so filled with frustrating people? The more Helen avoided answering her questions, the more suspicious Gennie felt, and the more determined she became.
“I hear the Shakers stored dozens of items up in the attics in this building,” Gennie said, “Have you had a chance to explore up there?” She pretended to test her batter for lumps while watching through her lashes to note Helen’s reaction.
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Helen said. She poured her batter into a pan, which she carried over to a table near one of the large ovens. When she returned, she gave Gennie a sunny smile and said, “Well, that was great fun. I have a few little things to do just now, but I’ll return in a while to help some more.”
Gennie had picked up a few curse words around the Sheriff’s Office, and she used them silently on herself. She was certain she had just caused Helen to fear that Gennie was planning to explore the attics herself. Helen was probably going right now to move those grotesque dolls to a safer place. And Gennie was stuck in the kitchen. Maybe someday she’d learn to keep her mouth shut.
Killing Gifts Page 20
