Dancing Dead

by Deborah Woodworth

  “But we installed locks on the guests’ doors,” Rose said, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know any more details than necessary.

  “Oh, his door was locked, of course. I just . . . um . . . borrowed Mrs. Berg’s master key—she and the others drove to Languor for a shopping trip, so I thought I was safe, at least for a while. I went through Horace’s room as fast as I could. As it turned out, he only just returned to the hostel in time for sherry. Anyway, you’ll never guess what I found.”

  “All right, what did you find?” Rose had to admit she’d caught Gennie’s excitement. If any evidence existed that could clear Brother Linus’s name, she wanted it.

  “Papers, scads and scads of them. They were hidden in a leather case strapped to the bottom of Horace’s bed, so I knew they were important, if he tried that hard to hide them. Unfortunately, I didn’t get much time to read them ’cause I heard a car outside.”

  “Oh, Gennie—”

  “But I skimmed the first few pages, and they told the same story Mrs. Berg did Saturday night—you know, about the young sister looking for her fortune—and it was handwritten, like maybe Horace copied it down right after he heard it. Why would he do that? Anyway, when I heard the car I quick put everything back the way it was, except”—she reached in her sweater pocket and extracted a folded sheet of paper— “I pulled out this one page, so we could study it.”

  “Gennie, you stole something from Horace’s room? You invaded the man’s privacy, and you stole from him. We certainly never taught you to do that.”

  Gennie pursed her lips. “Well,” she said, “I’ll agree that Agatha never taught me such behavior, but you did. How many times have you searched someone’s room without their permission so you could prove someone innocent or catch a murderer?”

  Rose could think of nothing to say. She had to admit, sometimes she’d bent the rules she believed in for the sake of a higher good. As a result, she’d spent many hours in confession and prayer. Yet in her heart, she’d always believed she’d done what she had to do—that the Holy Father and Holy Mother Wisdom had guided her to the right end, even if the path had been a little crooked.

  “You see, Rose, I just can’t believe that Brother Linus did what he’s been accused of doing. Something else is going on here, I know it.”

  “I agree. All right, let me see what you’ve found.”

  Gennie handed over one sheet of paper covered with handwriting. Rose read it through twice. It sounded familiar. She’d been too busy to read the article in the Languor County Courier that Andrew had told her about—the story of the Shaker sister who died from eating rhubarb leaves. This page looked like a segment from the middle of the story.

  “I suppose Horace might be compiling Shaker stories, or perhaps ghost stories,” Rose said. “Perhaps he’s a writer of some kind, maybe a novelist. He is certainly well-spoken.”

  “In a nasty sort of way,” Gennie said.

  “I’m not convinced this has anything to do with Mrs. Dunmore’s death,” Rose said. “Why did you think it might be important?”

  Gennie maintained her zeal in the face of Rose’s skepticism. “Don’t you see? Horace must be hiding some secret life. Maybe he’s a blackmailer or something. Maybe Mrs. Dunmore found out who he really was, and he killed her to keep her quiet.”

  “Gennie, dear, how could he blackmail us with stories that have already been made public?”

  Gennie’s fervor dimmed, just a little. “I’m not sure,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a good reason. Do you want me to put it back when you’re done?”

  “Nay, for heaven’s sake, stay out of his room.”

  Rose stood to leave, and Gennie touched the sleeve of her dress. “There’s something else, too.”

  “Now what?”

  Gennie spilled out the entire story of Beatrice Berg’s visit to Horace’s room. Rose dropped back in her chair as if an anvil had fallen on her chest. “You must tell Grady,” she said, when Gennie finished.

  “He’ll kill me.”

  “Probably not, but he will be angry, and so am I. You violated a guest’s privacy and put yourself in grave danger. If you were still in my care, you’d be missing special outings for a year. As it is, you are honor bound to tell Grady everything. It is clear that Mrs. Berg had a duplicate master key made, and I suspect she has used it before. She may be going through everyone’s rooms, even yours.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Gennie said.

  “It also means that Mrs. Berg may know more about the other guests than anyone else. If she is not the killer herself, she may know who is, which would put her in great danger.”

  “Do you think she’s a blackmailer?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m worried.”

  “I’ll keep a close watch on her,” Gennie said.

  “You are going to stay out of this, young lady. I have the power to send you back to Languor, and I won’t hesitate to do so. I’m sure Grady would be glad to move you himself. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, Rose.”

  They staggered their arrival in the dining room, so it wouldn’t be obvious that they’d been conferring. The other guests had finished their before-dinner drinks and had settled at the table. Rose entered last and chose the end seat, across the table length from Horace von Oswald. With a shiver, she noted that the seating arrangement was the same as it had been when she’d joined them three nights before. Mina Dunmore’s chair stood empty.

  The clattering of utensils on crockery was the only sound as the diners filled their plates without speaking to one another. Dinner was simple—eggs scrambled with leftover ham, accompanied by brown bread and Shaker-canned beets. The women, even Mrs. Berg, showed little appetite.

  “Off your feed, dear Mrs. Berg?” Horace asked. “I wonder why.”

  Beatrice neither answered nor acknowledged his presence.

  “Are you feeling ill?” Rose asked.

  “Why don’t y’all just leave me alone,” Mrs. Berg said. “I don’t want to be here, that’s all. Don’t feel safe in my bed. Soon as they find Linus, I’m leaving.”

  “Yet,” Horace said, “if the missing brother is found and arrested, won’t that make your bed safe once again?” He stabbed a slice of beet with his fork and watched purple liquid drip onto his plate.

  Mrs. Berg picked at her eggs.

  “I, for one, have no intention of leaving just yet,” Horace said. “I’m curious to see how the story turns out.”

  “I think I’ll stay, too,” Daisy Prescott said. “I’m sure the police will be successful in catching the man who did this, so I’m not afraid. I like it here.”

  “Oh, me, too,” Gennie said.

  “Well, then, it’s settled,” Saul said. “We’ll all stay. I’ve enjoyed your company, all of you”—he beamed around the table and lingered on Daisy—“and I look forward to many more pleasant times together.”

  “Y’all are crazy, just plain crazy,” Mrs. Berg said. “What if that man sneaks back here and poisons us all before the sheriff finds him?”

  “Why do you think Mrs. Dunmore was poisoned?” Rose asked.

  “Well, I mean . . . I heard there was nary a scratch on her, so I figured it had to be poison. What else could it be?”

  “You know, there’s another possibility,” said Daisy. She sounded more animated than usual. When everyone turned toward her, she patted her hair and moistened her lips. “What if Mrs. Dunmore actually died of natural causes—say, a heart attack? What if she and Brother Linus were . . . I mean, you know, if they were together, and she simply died? Maybe he panicked and tried to hide the body, so no one would know they’d been . . . together.” She cut a tiny slice of beet and ate it.

  “You know, I believe you’ve got something there,” Saul said.

  “Intriguing,” said Horace. His eyes followed Daisy’s fork as she raised another minute sliver of beet to her mouth. “And why would he stuff poor Mrs. Dunmore into a dyeing vat? That is
what happened, isn’t it, Sister?”

  Rose chose that moment to take a large bite of bread. Grady had kept quiet about the circumstances of Mrs. Dunmore’s death—even she hadn’t heard anything about poison—but apparently rumors had spread. At least she could avoid confirming them.

  “I suppose people do strange things when they panic,” Daisy said.

  “Strange indeed.” Horace shoveled the remaining scrambled eggs onto his plate, and for once Mrs. Berg didn’t chide him. She didn’t seem to notice. She pushed aside her half-eaten meal, and Horace eyed it hungrily. “Are you afraid the food supplies are poisoned, Mrs. Berg?” he asked.

  Several forks paused in midair.

  “Ain’t poisoned. I cooked it myself. And don’t go lookin’ at me like I’m the murderer.”

  “You are the only one who wants to leave,” Horace said. “I find myself wondering why that is.”

  Beatrice grabbed her plate and wolfed down the rest of her meal. “There, satisfied? And since you’re making such a fuss, I’ll stay another couple days. Gotta find another job, anyways, and that ain’t so easy these days.”

  “What good news,” Saul said. “I’d say that calls for a celebration. Shall we retire to the parlor, and I’ll bring down the port?”

  Greatly relieved, Rose excused herself. Now that the hostel guests had decided to stay, she had some breathing space, and she wanted to use it fully. She was afraid she’d get little solid information from the guests about themselves. It was time to try elsewhere.

  Twelve

  ON TUESDAY MORNING, ROSE RUSHED THROUGH HER before-breakfast chores, lingering only for prayer. Wilhelm and Andrew wouldn’t return until late that evening. Rose ran a broom over the floor of Wilhelm’s retiring room and smoothed the sheets over his unused bed. He hadn’t lived in the room for two days, but it collected dust all the same.

  Rose itched to know more about the hostel guests—their backgrounds, jobs, anything at all—and she couldn’t sit around and wait for Andrew to return and dig out his records for her. She felt some compunction about rummaging through his desk in the Trustees’ Office, but it was the best way to begin. She hurried over to the building before the bell rang for breakfast.

  For ten years, Rose had been the community’s trustee, and she still missed it. She’d loved the excitement of starting new business ventures, buying and selling land, and watching over the daily work life of the community. Her practical nature had fit beautifully with the demands of the position. Becoming eldress had required more adjustment. She now felt at peace with the change and grateful for the challenges, but it had been a slow process. If she thought too much about it—and she tried not to—she suspected that some of her most satisfying experiences as eldress were those times when the world threatened the village’s reputation and sometimes its very survival. This was one of those times. While she had come to embrace her role as spiritual guide for her Children, she had to admit that the call to action always invigorated her. And worried her.

  Rose sat at the double desk that had once been hers. She’d always loved its golden patina and economic design. Two trustees could work comfortably side by side without getting in each other’s way. Cubbyholes provided organization for smaller items, and generous bookshelves fit on top of the cubbyholes. She ran her hand over the clean surface, remembering its well-used smoothness.

  This was no time for sentiment. She sifted through papers, looking for anything Andrew might have written about the Shaker Hostel. Andrew was both creative and well-organized, bless him. He had crammed both sides of the bookcases to the brim with ledger books and journals. Some he’d identified with carefully printed labels on the spines, some were plain. She skimmed over the titles and grabbed one that said “Shaker Hostel.” She turned the pages quickly. Numerous pages outlined Andrew’s plans for renovating the West Dwelling House. He’d listed sources within the village for furniture, plates, cutlery, kitchen equipment—they’d had to purchase little from the world to complete the project.

  Finally she came to his notes about the first set of guests. Andrew had said there wasn’t much information about them, and he’d been right. However, he’d scratched some notes that might be helpful. All the guests had approached him by telephone, and he’d jotted down bits of the conversation. Andrew’s handwriting was clear and legible. She took some blank paper and began to copy.

  Horace von Oswald had been the first to call, early in February. Andrew had noted that his call arrived the very day the first advertisement had appeared in the major Kentucky papers; therefore, Horace might have been staying somewhere nearby. Andrew’s notes said: Well-to-do, no permanent job, likes to experience new places. Sounds well-educated. Asked about transport to Languor. Mentions plain living, wholesome food. Asked if worship service public. Knows about us??

  No one else called until early March, when the second set of advertisements hit the newspapers, this time in Ohio and Indiana, as well as Kentucky. Saul Halvardson was next to inquire about a room. Andrew had written: Salesman, ladies’ personal garments. Travels often through Kentucky and points south. Wants a place to rest between sales trips. He asked if women would be allowed to the share the building. Asked if furniture authentic—odd.

  Mina Dunmore had called next, followed closely by Beatrice Berg. According to Andrew, Mrs. Dunmore had asked several questions about the community. He had written: Widow, small inheritance. Needs inexpensive but safe place to stay for a time. Asked who was elder, eldress? How many buildings? Location? Beatrice Berg had been brief: Needs job, place to live. I said we needed housekeeper who can cook, send refs. Andrew had noted to the side that she’d never sent references, but she’d arrived early and demonstrated that she could handle the old kitchen equipment. Andrew’s final cryptic note about Beatrice said: Asked—isolated?

  Daisy Prescott had been the last to call, just two days before the hostel opened. She’d said little. Andrew had written: Wants vacation. Concerned safety. Soft-spoken.

  Rose turned the page and discovered that Andrew had listed questions for each guest to answer upon arrival. He’d requested a home or last address; telephone number, if available; and source of income, to ensure payment. He’d noted that each had paid for a two-week stay, in advance. She copied down all the information. Horace had given an address in the village of Birdhill, in southern Ohio. Beatrice listed a boardinghouse in Languor; Rose knew the proprietor. Saul and Mina gave Lexington addresses, and Daisy cited Indianapolis as her last address. Everyone except Saul had listed phone numbers; she’d start with those.

  She tidied the desk and gathered up her papers. Breakfast would be ending soon, and she was hungry. She missed the days when she could slip into the Trustees’ Office kitchen and grab some bread and cheese. She’d swing by the Center Family Dwelling House kitchen and beg some leftovers from Sister Gertrude, then sequester herself in the now empty Ministry House library. The phone hadn’t yet been disconnected, so she could make her calls in private.

  “Landsakes, you’re just going to waste away if you keep missing meals like this,” said Sister Gertrude, as she hacked off a thick slice of bread and wrapped it in a towel with a hunk of cheese.

  “I expect I’ll survive,” Rose said, laughing. “I can’t stay away from your recipes for long. That dill potato soup I tasted the other night at the hostel was superb.”

  Gertrude beamed. “Tonight I’m using basil and some of our canned tomatoes to make soup.”

  “Sounds delicious.” Rose stowed the bundle of food in her apron pocket and hurried out the kitchen door to avoid an extended conversation, Gertrude’s specialty. Careful to avoid bruising the young oregano plants, Rose cut through the kitchen garden and between the Infirmary and Laundry. She had almost reached the Ministry House when she heard her name called by a high, frantic voice. She turned and saw Nora, Mairin’s best friend, running toward her.

  “Sister Rose, please, you’ve got to come right away.” Nora ran right up to her and clamped her small hands on Ros
e’s wrist. “Please, now.”

  “What’s wrong, Nora?”

  “It’s Mairin. You’ve got to come. I can’t—oh, just follow me, please. It’s really important.” Her voice squeaked with frustration and fear. Rose didn’t ask any more questions until they’d reached the Children’s Dwelling House.

  “Aren’t you both supposed to be in school?” Rose asked.

  Nora ran into the dwelling house without responding or even waiting for Rose to catch up. By the time Rose got through the door, Nora was halfway up the staircase to the second floor, where the children’s retiring rooms were located. Rose followed as fast as she could. She reached the second floor, but Nora was already heading for the third floor, where no one lived. Rose had given Mairin permission to keep her kitten in one of the empty third-floor rooms, to keep it warm and safe but away from the rest of the children. One of the girls being raised by the Shakers had breathing problems, and cats seemed to make them worse.

  Nora scurried down the hallway, and, to Rose’s surprise, passed right by the room Mairin had been given for her kitten. At the far end of the hall was a narrow staircase that led to a small attic, where the children’s out-of-season clothing was stored. Nora turned and beckoned to Rose to hurry. She clambered up the attic stairs and disappeared. Rose climbed the stairs more sedately, having worn herself out.

  At the top of the staircase, Nora paused and waited for Rose. Nora took her hand and led her into the attic room. A high window provided minimal light, since it hadn’t been cleaned in some time. As they approached a dark corner, Rose heard a tiny cry, which she now recognized as the mew of a kitten.

  “Mairin?” Rose asked. “Is that you? What on earth are you doing up here? Are you all right?”

  A gasp and a sob joined the kitten’s mew. Rose pushed aside a row of winter dresses hung on a horizontal pole. Mairin crouched in the corner, curled against the wall as tightly as a ball of yarn. She held the calico kitten against her shoulder, one hand on its back to keep it from escaping.