Dancing Dead

by Deborah Woodworth

  “You’re sure it was a man?”

  “I’m afraid I’m quite sure. I heard him laughing.”

  “Did you recognize the voice?”

  Daisy slumped. “No, I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear it that well. It was low and gruff, a man’s voice. I was far too embarrassed to go out into the hall and listen.”

  “Of course,” Grady said. “Is there anything else you can tell us about last night that might help, Miss Prescott?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Her smile hinted at shy self-deprecation. “You see, I pulled the covers over my head so I wouldn’t hear any more. Then I fell asleep.”

  Daisy left by the hall doorway and was replaced instantly by Hank, the officer Grady had sent in search of Brother Linus. Grady conferred with him, then closed the door and turned to face Rose. She could tell the news wasn’t good.

  “Grady, surely you can’t think—”

  “Brother Linus isn’t anywhere on the grounds,” Grady said. “The brothers helped look. I’m afraid this changes things.”

  “Nay, I will never believe that Linus had anything to do with this.”

  Grady said nothing, but he did look apologetic.

  “Shouldn’t we finish questioning the hostel guests anyway?” Rose asked. “We only have Saul Halvardson left. He might have something important to add.” She didn’t say it, but she hoped he would know something that would clear Linus of any and all suspicion.

  “I’m sorry, Rose, I need all my men. Right now we have to look for Brother Linus, and fast. He’s had plenty of time to leave the area. Given what I’ve heard so far from witnesses, when we find Linus, we might very likely have our murderer.”

  Ten

  “NO, MA’AM, I’M SORRY, BUT THE SHERIFF WANTS Y’ALL to stay put for now. We’ll let you know when it’s okay to leave.” Grady’s newest officer was well over six feet tall, with thick black hair that stuck out at odd angles. More black hair curled across his massive arms and broad hands. Since both he and the older officer were named Hank, and he looked so much like a black bear, the staff in the Sheriff’s Office had taken to calling him Bar.

  Beatrice looked Bar up and down, then complied more readily than usual. “Well, I’ll just keep my bag with me, and soon’s you say the word, I go out that door.” She claimed the settee, placing her suitcase next to her and her pocketbook in her lap. Gennie squashed a chuckle; Beatrice had walled herself in for protection. Grady worried that Bar was too gentle for police work, but with those looks, he could intimidate without moving a muscle.

  The guests had settled in the parlor after Grady told them they could not yet leave the hostel. No one seemed inclined to stay upstairs alone. Bar and Hank had scattered the chairs around the room, to keep individuals separate during Grady’s questioning. Everyone seemed content to remain as far apart as possible. Even the news that Brother Linus was missing did not allay their mistrust of one another.

  It could be anyone, Gennie thought. It would take more than a few hours missing to convince her it was Brother Linus, however. She hadn’t known him well when she was growing up—she’d had far less contact with the brothers than the sisters—but she remembered him as cheerful and even-tempered. The idea that he would toss aside his beliefs and deep commitment for a fling with Mina Dunmore was laughable. Even if Linus had found Mrs. Dunmore attractive—which twenty-year-old Gennie couldn’t imagine—it seemed out of character for him to have followed through with his feelings. Besides, Mrs. Dunmore was just . . . well, unpleasant.

  Gennie had been lucky enough to snag a wing chair and one of Daisy’s cast-off fashion magazines. Sun streamed through the open curtains. It would have been a perfect day for a worship service followed by a walk through the Shaker gardens. Her mouth watered as she thought about nibbling on tender young spearmint and lemon balm leaves or rubbing her hands against the lavender stalks that had begun to turn from brown to gray-green.

  Instead, she was stuck inside with a group of people she’d be glad never to see again. Her quiet weeks of contemplation were not to be. She and Grady had been thrown together again by death. She’d needed to be alone because Grady’s presence confused her, stirred her up until she couldn’t think straight. Now here she was, stirred up anyway. She swung a crossed leg with unladylike vigor. She flipped the magazine shut, tossed it on a nearby table, and sprang to her feet.

  “Ah, the young,” Horace von Oswald said. “Such energy.” Horace had, of course, appropriated the other wing chair, where he sat like a lump of lard, watching his fellow guests.

  Gennie ignored him and paced over to a window. It was hard to tell that the worship service had been canceled—dozens of folks wandered the village, paying no attention to the paths. She let out a startled cry as a man appeared on the other side of the window. Gennie recognized him as one of the men she’d seen with Betty, the ghost watcher she’d met Friday night. He stared at her, then tried to peer beyond her into the room. Gennie yanked the curtain shut. She jumped as she turned and found Daisy Prescott standing right behind her.

  “I suppose you can’t blame them for being curious,” Daisy said, “but it really is rude. Do you think Brother Linus is the murderer?”

  “I doubt it,” Gennie said.

  “Oh? Why not? Just because he’s a Shaker?” Daisy’s penciled eyebrows arched over her eyes. Gennie noticed that she’d plucked out every last eyebrow hair, which gave her an old-fashioned look, as if she’d come straight from the Roaring Twenties.

  “No,” Gennie said, “not because he’s a Shaker, though I think it makes him a less likely suspect.”

  “Really? I’d think it would make him more likely—all that stifled desire and so forth.”

  “It’s a commitment people from the world don’t understand,” Gennie said. Aware she was getting testy, she moved away from Daisy and found a rocker set apart from the others. She just wanted to be left alone. She hadn’t realized before that Daisy, in her own self-effacing way, could be just as irritating as Horace and the others. Most of the guests seemed to be nursing deep grudges. Including the victim—Mina Dunmore had always sounded like she was angry at the world.

  As she considered the room full of potential suspects, Gennie felt her interest quicken. What could have brought such an odd assortment of folks to the Shaker Hostel? None of them seemed to fit there. They had shown no curiosity about the Shakers—worse, they criticized Shaker beliefs and practices. A Shaker Hostel room cost a bit less than a room in the most respectable of the Languor boardinghouses, but North Homage was isolated, and there was only the one old car to provide transportation into town for shopping and entertainment.

  Grady hadn’t questioned Saul Halvardson. He seemed the most easygoing of the group—was that just a cover? What was he doing there? Certainly not selling fancy undies to the sisters. He didn’t seem to have much interest in working, but he had money to spend on numerous bottles of port, cigars, and coffee.

  During her brief time in the world, Gennie had learned that men often responded to her with interest. Normally she did not encourage their attentions. She was an engaged woman, and she made sure to keep her ring visible. However, now was not the time to worry about propriety. She caught Saul’s eye and sent him a rueful smile, as if to say, Isn’t this a mess? So inconvenient.

  Saul was at her side in moments. He pulled another rocker next to hers and settled down for a friendly chat.

  Gennie leaned toward him and gazed up with a trusting expression. She hoped Bar wasn’t watching; he might be concerned enough to report her behavior to Grady. “So what do you think, Mr. Halvardson? Did Brother Linus kill poor Mrs. Dunmore?”

  “Call me Saul, I beg you. Mr. Halvardson sounds so . . . well, old. And may I call you Gennie? Lovely name—Gennie, that is. Suits you. It brings to mind sweet young maidens picking spring flowers.”

  Gennie began to understand how Saul sold so much underwear, but she wasn’t impressed. In fact, she felt a sudden urge to excuse herself and take a warm bath with lots of
soap. Instead, she tinged her expression with shy gratitude and leaned closer. “About Mrs. Dunmore,” she prompted him.

  “Poor lady. I’m afraid it does look like that brother did it. Otherwise, why would he disappear? Isn’t that an admission of guilt?”

  Gennie shrugged one shoulder and didn’t offer an opinion. In fact, she could think of several reasons Linus couldn’t be found, but her aim was to get Saul talking. “But what I don’t understand,” she said, “is why Brother Linus would do such a terrible thing. Can you?” She tilted her head at him. However, she refused to bat her eyelashes; there were some depths to which she would not sink.

  “Men do unspeakable things,” Saul said. “Especially when ladies toy with their hearts.”

  “I had no idea Brother Linus had any interest in Mrs. Dunmore’s heart. How did you know?”

  Saul gazed into space while an enigmatic smile played around his full lips. It was very effective. “I suppose I am rather attuned to such things,” he said. “So when I heard them together in Mrs. Dunmore’s room last night, I wasn’t surprised. Saddened, of course, but not surprised.”

  Gennie gasped. “You heard him in her room? In the middle of the night?” She was afraid she’d overdone it, but apparently that wasn’t possible with Saul.

  “Yes, I fear so. It must have been two o’clock, pitch dark, and I was awakened from a deep sleep by lewd laughter. I thought you ladies might be alarmed, so I went out into the hall to find out where the sound was coming from. I was appalled, of course, when I realized it was Mrs. Dunmore’s room. I thought she wasn’t like that—widow lady and all. She must be at least forty.” His appreciative eyes roamed over Gennie’s young face.

  Gennie had first heard about the man in Mrs. Dunmore’s room when Mrs. Berg had mentioned it at breakfast that morning. Saul hadn’t said a word about it then. So was he just trying to impress her, using the story to paint himself as the protective male? He was certainly pouring on the not-so-subtle flattery, at poor Mina Dunmore’s expense. Chances were he wouldn’t have told this same story to Grady.

  “I would have been too scared to go out into the hall like that,” Gennie said. “What if someone had gotten into Mrs. Dunmore’s room from the outside?”

  With a well-manicured hand, Saul waved away any suggestion of fear. “Oh, I knew it wasn’t dangerous. Like I said, Mrs. Dunmore was laughing, and the man’s voice didn’t sound threatening, what I could hear of it.”

  “Could you tell who the man was from his voice?”

  Saul rubbed his chin with his index finger. “Now that you mention it, the voice was pretty quiet.”

  “How did you know it was a man?”

  “Because it was so low and deep. Women just don’t talk like that. And Mrs. Dunmore’s laughter was, well, too friendly, if you catch my meaning.” His smile spread slowly, as if he’d drifted into pleasant memories.

  “Couldn’t it have been someone other than Brother Linus? I mean, what about . . .” She leaned toward Saul and whispered, “What about Mr. von Oswald?”

  Saul glanced at Horace, across the room. Before she could stop herself, Gennie allowed her gaze to follow. Horace sat alone, silent, watching them. She told herself he couldn’t possibly hear them, but she couldn’t shake the conviction that he knew what they were talking about. With his insatiable curiosity, it wouldn’t surprise her if Horace knew how to read lips. Just to be on the safe side, she turned away from him, to hide her face. Saul did the same.

  “Somehow I just can’t believe that Mrs. Dunmore would invite Horace into her . . . No, It’s unthinkable,” Saul said. “They hated each other from the first moment they met.”

  “Sometimes hate and passion go hand in hand,” Gennie said. Saul raised his eyebrows at her, and she knew she’d blundered. Sweet young maidens could be the objects of passion for men like Saul, but they weren’t supposed to have any insights about it. “I mean, what if they actually had met before, maybe when they were young? What if they had been in love, and then they got separated somehow, or one of them went away? When they saw each other again, the spark just ignited.” Gennie whispered with as much romantic fervor as she could manage. The notion was ridiculous, but Saul seemed to give it deep consideration.

  “Now you mention it,” he said, “that could have happened. But wouldn’t they have given themselves away before now?”

  “Perhaps. It makes more sense to me than the theory that Brother Linus was her visitor. I suppose you didn’t notice when they left Mrs. Dunmore’s room?”

  “Well, actually, I did hear a door opening and closing sometime later, maybe a half hour or so. I was just drifting off again. Whoever it was sure was quiet, though. I didn’t hear any footsteps, and if it’d been Mrs. Dunmore and a man, it seems to me they’d be making a racket. They must have been imbibing port for quite some time.” He frowned, perhaps regretting his generosity with the port.

  “Oh,” Gennie said, with a dollop of shocked innocence, “are you quite sure they were drinking together in her room? How do you know?”

  Saul’s eyes darted sideways. “I’m sure I heard that they were. Someone said so.” He sat back and crossed his legs. “I could have heard wrong, of course.”

  Gennie didn’t pursue the matter further, but she knew her digging might have turned up gold, at least a small nugget. Saul might just be creating facts out of Mrs. Berg’s speculations at breakfast, but there was another possibility—that he had seen the bottle in Mrs. Dunmore’s room. Or he’d given it to her himself.

  “I don’t suppose you looked out the window?” Gennie asked.

  “I was worn out by then. Next thing I remember, it was nearly time for breakfast. What about you? Didn’t you hear anything at all?”

  “Oh, I sleep like a baby,” Gennie said. She had no intention of sharing any information, just collecting it.

  Gennie stood at a small window halfway up the hostel staircase, watching the other guests drive away in the Society’s huge old Buick. An entire day had passed with no sign of Brother Linus and no progress in finding Mina Dunmore’s killer. Now that he suspected Brother Linus of the murder, Grady had told everyone they could leave the village for the afternoon—as long as they were back by evening. Horace had offered to drive. Gennie had decided to stay home, citing the onset of a sick headache. In fact, it had been some time since she’d felt so well—or so full of energy.

  She watched the rear of the car disappear down the road to Languor, then waited to make sure the dust stayed settled. She listened for several moments. A faint tick-tock came through the open parlor door, but no other sound spoke of human presence. It struck her how rarely she had been completely alone in a building. For what she wanted to do, being completely alone was essential. Satisfied, she went downstairs to the kitchen. The warm, rich scent of rosemary biscuits baked in a wood-burning oven still hung in the air, making Gennie wish she could linger for a snack, but she didn’t dare. She couldn’t guess how long the other guests’ errands in town might take. Mrs. Berg, at least, would have to be back no later than four o’clock to start fixing dinner, and it was already one forty-five.

  Gennie was an observant young woman. She knew that Mrs. Berg had a master key for all the hostel rooms and that she carried it in her apron pocket. When she wasn’t wearing her apron, she usually tied the sash in a bow and hung it on a wall peg, leaving the key inside the pocket. Gennie located the apron without difficulty, extracted the key, and hurried upstairs. She stood in the hallway looking at the row of closed doors. Of all the guests, Gennie was most suspicious of Horace von Oswald. If she had time to search only one room, it should be his.

  The master key worked smoothly, and she was inside Horace’s room in seconds. She closed the door behind her, locking it from the inside. If the worst happened and Horace came back early, at least he wouldn’t be put on guard by an unlocked door, and his fumbling with the lock would give her a few seconds to hide—where, she had no idea.

  She started at one end of the room and worke
d her way across, examining everything she could find. His room was neat—by the world’s standards, anyway. He seemed to own almost as little as a Shaker brother. His few outfits—all of which Gennie had seen him wear—hung from hangers on pegs. A nightshirt looked like it had been tossed at another peg, probably by Mrs. Berg when she’d straightened the room. Shaving things lay on the desk, along with a pen and some blank sheets of paper. Pretty disappointing so far, Gennie thought. Time to dig deeper.

  Like most Shaker retiring rooms, this one had drawers and a small cupboard built into the wall. Gennie opened the cupboard first. It was completely empty. She felt around it just to make sure. That puzzled her. Even Believers normally had small items—books, letters, journals—that stowed easily and neatly in their cupboards. She went on to the drawers. The top one held a small supply of socks and underwear. The sight of men’s underwear failed to shock Gennie—not because she was now of the world, which seemed to make some women more squeamish, but because she had done so many laundry rotations that male clothing was no mystery to her.

  She moved quickly through the remaining three drawers and found nothing the least bit interesting. Horace didn’t even read, as far as she could see. He sounded so literate, though; he had to have books somewhere. Determined to find something to justify her mistrust of him, Gennie went through everything one more time. Nothing. Then she remembered a tidbit from her childhood—it was possible to hide small or flat items under the mattress of a Shaker bed.

  Mrs. Berg had made Horace’s bed, that was clear. No Shaker sister would have left such wrinkles in the bedclothes. Gennie figured she could tear it apart and put it back together, and no one would be the wiser. She flipped the blanket back and dropped it over the foot of the bed, then ripped the sheets away from the mattress. The Shakers, who had many more spare mattresses than covenanted Believers, had piled three thin mattresses on each hostel bed. The people of the world required comfort. Her heart thudding with delighted anticipation, Gennie whipped off the first mattress. All she found was the next mattress. She slid the second mattress onto the floor. Again, she found nothing. Okay, there was still one last chance. The netting under the bottom mattress surely was tight enough to keep something—a journal, maybe—from falling to the floor. This time she moved more slowly, staving off disappointment. Nothing sat on top of the netting. However, through the netting, Gennie saw a small, dark, rectangular object. Horace had secured it to the bed with lengths of string that almost blended into the pattern of the strong fibers supporting the mattresses.