The Innocent

by Ann H. Gabhart

  Sheriff Brodie stood too and stepped between Sister Edna and the door. “One more question, Sister.”

  Sister Edna screwed up her mouth as though she wanted to refuse him, but instead she nodded once. “Then ask it.”

  “Did Brother Henry tell you the name of the other man? The one who had made the deal with Curt Whitlow?”

  “I knew nothing about that. Sister Carlyn neglected to tell me there was such a deal. She only spoke of the devil.” Sister Edna narrowed her eyes on the sheriff. “But then anytime we have to deal with someone from the world, we are dealing with the devil.”

  When she pushed past him, Carlyn followed her but dared a look up at the sheriff.

  The ghost of a smile crossed his face, and he put his hand on her arm to delay her leaving. “If you remember anything else, Mrs. Kearney, please let me know.”

  “I will,” she murmured. She wished she could remember more right then to have a reason to keep talking with him. But instead she stepped away from his touch and hurried after Sister Edna down the hallway past the winding stairs and out the front door.

  Sheriff Brodie followed them out. Carlyn chanced Sister Edna’s disapproval by turning her head to watch him ride away from the village.

  The road beckoned her too. A way to freedom, to life again, while the path back to the Gathering Family House seemed a return to bondage. Bondage she had chosen, she reminded herself. She had cast her lot with the Shakers and she would have to accept their ways, no matter how odd they seemed.

  20

  The Shakers weren’t sorry to see Mitchell on his way out of their village. That was obvious from how they had a man waiting with his horse when Mitchell followed Sister Edna and Carlyn outside. He didn’t have a chance to say anything more to Carlyn. The old sister made sure of that.

  The Shakers were tired of his questions and doubtful the answers would help him apprehend those responsible for the fire.

  Brother Thomas had summed up the Shakers’ thinking before he ushered him to the Trustee House to meet with Elder Derron. “Whether you determine who set the fire or not matters little. The damage is done and cannot be reversed. Nay, it is our duty to continue on, sorrowful for the loss of our brother but without anger in our hearts. Such is our way.”

  “It’s my job to find the responsible party,” Mitchell said.

  Brother Thomas looked sorry for Mitchell as he shook his head. “You must seek answers since that is the way of the world. But Mother Ann will bless us with new barns as long as we work faithfully with our hands and give our hearts to the Lord. The world cannot defeat us.”

  Mitchell wanted to ask if he thought Brother Henry would feel the same way if he had a voice, but some words were best unspoken. And perhaps Brother Henry wouldn’t disagree.

  But whether they wanted him to investigate or not didn’t matter. Somebody had set the barn on fire. A man had died in that fire. He couldn’t ignore that, even if the Shakers seemed willing to do so. Nor could he ignore the argument Carlyn had overheard between the Shaker man and Curt Whitlow. That complicated things and could mean the fire was more than an act of vandalism. Perhaps even murder.

  Carlyn was telling the truth. He was certain of that, but he wasn’t as sure about the older sister. She was hiding something. He had the same uneasy feeling about Elder Derron. Tension had crackled the air between the elder and Sister Edna while Carlyn answered his questions. Whether that had anything to do with the fire, he couldn’t say. Not without talking to them again and pressing for answers.

  First he would find Curt Whitlow. He’d make him tell his part in all this, even if he had to throw him in jail until he was willing to talk. Or better yet, he could take Asher with him when he confronted the man. Mitchell smiled. Not that he would really do that. Still, the dog might scare the truth out of him.

  He hoped Mrs. Snowden hadn’t gotten tired of Asher in her kitchen. Mitchell had been at the Shaker village hours longer than he’d expected to be, but when he rode out that morning, all he’d known was there had been a fire. The problem was he knew little more now.

  He gave his horse his head and tried to sort through what he knew. The Shakers were sorrowful over their brother’s death while resigned to the loss of the barn. It had happened before. It would probably happen again. They were persecuted for separating themselves from the world and living their beliefs.

  They were different. Unnatural is what Mitchell heard most from the townspeople. Sinful, others insisted, sure that things went on in the village far worse than mere shaking and dancing in their worship services. But Mitchell had yet to see any signs of that. Nobody was forced to stay at Harmony Hill. They could leave.

  Carlyn could leave. She had no reason to be there. Shut away from the world. Shut away from him. Mitchell sighed. That was nothing more than wishful thinking. She had chosen to go to the Shakers.

  Because of Curt Whitlow. The words slipped through his mind. The man had taken more than Carlyn’s home from her. He’d taken her peace of mind. Just saying the man’s name had brought fear to her face. Mitchell wanted to assure her he could protect her. But he had no right to say anything to her. She was a widow with no proof of widowhood and now she was a Shaker with no reason to seek that proof to free her for a new life. She had a new life already at the Shaker village. A life that closed all doors to the love Mitchell was imagining.

  Without thinking, he tightened his hands on the reins. His horse slowed and tossed his head back.

  “Sorry, boy.” Mitchell patted the horse’s neck. “I’ll pay more attention. It’s just that right now I don’t know up from down.” Mitchell settled deeper in his saddle. “Good thing nobody’s around to see their sheriff blabbering like an idiot to his horse. What a woman can do to a man.”

  Hilda had never had him talking to himself. But he’d thought she was his. That it was just a matter of coming home from the war and starting their life together. By the time he knew that wasn’t so, it was too late to do anything about it. She was married to another man. Nothing at all he could do to change things.

  With effort, he had slammed the door on any feeling in his heart and moved on. The war was over. He was alive and didn’t have an empty sleeve or trouser leg. He was one of the fortunate ones. But maybe losing that dream he’d carried through the war had bothered him more than he was willing to admit.

  Maybe that was why he couldn’t get Carlyn out of his mind. She was his dream come back to life. He had her dog, but he wanted her. And she needed him. She didn’t need to be hidden away among the Shakers. She didn’t need to be afraid of Curt Whitlow. Mitchell was going to see to that.

  Night was falling by the time he got back to town. The few people on the streets raised their hands in greeting when they saw him. His town. His people. But the Shakers were his people too. He caught a whiff of smoke from his shirt, evidence of the Shaker’s fire.

  His stomach growled as he thought of the supper in Mrs. Snowden’s warming oven, but it would have to wait. First he’d talk to Curt Whitlow and see if his clothes carried the same odor of smoke.

  Curt’s house was an imposing two-story brick square with large windows looking out on the world. A white-columned front porch gave the house a stately air. A swing graced one end of the porch and a bench and chairs the other end, empty now. Children’s voices drifted out the open windows. A homey sound that took Mitchell back to his own childhood days. Their father hadn’t been an easy man, but they’d learned to work together. Brothers and sisters. Maybe the Shakers were on to something after all.

  Mitchell hesitated to knock on the door and bring a stop to the untroubled sounds inside. Curt had a couple of boys already taller than him and three or four younger kids. The gossip around town said Curt paid scant attention to his family, but they sounded happy enough tonight.

  Whether he spoiled their happiness or not, he had to talk to Whitlow. He rapped on the door and the talk inside abruptly stopped. When nobody came to the door, Mitchell knocked again. The silence co
ntinued, as though they hoped he would just go away. But a sheriff couldn’t walk away from what had to be done, whatever trouble it brought to a family.

  “Mr. Whitlow, it’s Sheriff Brodie,” he called loudly.

  The oldest boy, the one called Junior, pulled the door open. He didn’t smile. “My father isn’t here.”

  “Then can I speak with your mother?”

  The boy, thirteen or fourteen, appeared to share nothing with his father other than his name. He shifted uneasily on his feet but stayed where he was, blocking Mitchell from the house. “Mother’s not feeling well. Is it important?”

  Mitchell had the feeling Mrs. Whitlow was sitting right inside at the kitchen table hearing every word, but he didn’t insist. “Don’t bother your mother. It’s your father I need to see.”

  The boy looked relieved. “I told you. He’s not here.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “Hard to say. Pa’s business can keep him away for days at times.” It was plain the boy knew what kind of business that was and that he didn’t care when or if his father ever came home.

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “He left day before yesterday. Something about collecting some debts. I don’t know where he was going.”

  “Would your mother know?”

  “No.” The boy stated the word flatly, staring straight at Mitchell, wishing him off the porch.

  Mitchell seemed to be losing his welcome everywhere this day. “You’re the oldest, aren’t you, Junior?”

  “I’ll be fourteen in January.” Even that seemed more than the boy wanted to tell.

  “Does your father ever take you along on his business trips?”

  He almost smiled then. “No.”

  “I see.” Mitchell kept a steady gaze on the boy.

  “He’ll be back sooner or later. He always is.” The boy didn’t sound glad about that.

  Mitchell saw no reason to push him for more. The boy might be covering for his mother who didn’t want to talk to the law, but he was telling the truth about not knowing where his father was. “When he comes home, tell him I want to talk to him.”

  “Why? Is he in trouble?” For the first time, the boy sounded curious about why Mitchell was looking for his father.

  “I need to ask him about some trouble out at the Shaker village.”

  “He won’t know anything about those people.”

  “You sound sure of that,” Mitchell said.

  “I am. Pa has no use for Shakers. Says they’re half crazy and the other half miserly. Talking people into joining up with them to grab their land.”

  “They do have a lot of land.” Mitchell felt a little ashamed to be egging the boy on for information, but he did it anyway.

  “Pa says some of it they the same as stole from him.”

  “Oh? What property was that?”

  “That Widow Kearney’s house. He already had a buyer for it.”

  “Do you know who that was? The buyer?”

  Color climbed up into the boy’s cheeks as if he realized he was talking too much. He shook his head and stepped back to close the door. “I’ll tell him you were here, but he won’t know anything about those Shakers. Mama doesn’t either. None of us know anything.”

  Mitchell didn’t try to keep the boy from shutting the door. The kid didn’t know about the fire. Or his father. None of us know anything. Mitchell was right there with them. He didn’t know anything either. He’d just have to wait until Whitlow came home.

  It had been a long day and Mitchell was ready for it to be over. He led the horse to the livery stable and then headed to the boardinghouse.

  Stars were popping out in the sky. He stopped and looked up at them for a long minute. Familiar old friends. He’d spent many nights under them during the war, not sure if he’d meet his Maker before they spread across the night sky again. His mother had loved the stars. She would point out the brightest ones and give them names she’d learned from her father.

  Mitchell remembered once pointing at other stars and asking their names.

  His mother had laughed softly and put her arm around his shoulders. “I don’t know them all. Who could? There are more than the eye can see or the mind can count.” She had gazed up at the sky for a long moment then. When she spoke again, it was with wonder in her voice. “But our God knows them all. The Bible says so. My father taught me this verse in Psalm 147:4. Now it’s your turn to learn it. ‘He telleth the number of the stars; he calleth them all by their names.’”

  Mitchell didn’t remember exactly how old he was at the time. Still a boy, but that night there by his mother, he got his first inkling of God’s power as he stared up at the stars spread across the black sky. Able to number and name every star. And so, during the war when the world was exploding around him, he studied the stars above him and remembered that verse. If the Lord knew every star’s name, he knew his. Whatever happened, however much Mitchell didn’t know, God did know. Every star. Every sparrow that fell. Every answer.

  It was just up to Mitchell to search out some of those answers before anything else bad happened. He started to walk on, but then he looked back up at the stars. He hadn’t exactly left the Lord behind, but once the war was over, prayer hadn’t seemed as necessary. He could handle things now. But maybe that wasn’t true.

  What was it he had read in a book about George Washington a few weeks ago? It is impossible to rightly govern a nation without God and the Bible. If old George thought that about running the country, then it might be just as important in keeping law and order in a town. Tonight he felt like he needed all the help he could get. Not only with figuring out who was responsible for Brother Henry’s death but also with what to do about his heart speeding up just at the sight of Carlyn.

  And while his first prayer should have been about figuring out the crime, instead his heart jumped ahead. “Please, Lord, either help me forget her or let her find out what happened to her husband. That way I can be about the business of keeping the peace,” Mitchell whispered. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “You can help me with that too, Lord. I’m little better than a fish lost in a new lake, swimming this way and that with not the foggiest idea which way leads to the answers I need.”

  He felt better then as he walked on toward the boardinghouse. He still didn’t know any answers, but he could believe that in time he would. The kitchen windows spilled out light, giving him hope for supper.

  Mrs. Snowden pulled open the door the minute his boots hit the back porch. Light spilled out behind her so he couldn’t see her face well, but there was no mistaking the tears in her voice. “I’m so sorry, Sheriff. I didn’t aim for it to happen. I’ve been watching for you for hours. Florence wouldn’t have done it on purpose for nothing.”

  “Done what on purpose?” Mitchell stepped across the porch and Mrs. Snowden backed up to let him in.

  “Asher. She opened the door to dump the mop water and he was gone before we could say boo.” She wrung her hands up in her apron while new tears streaked down her cheeks.

  “How long ago?” Mitchell looked behind him out at the dark yard. The empty yard.

  “This afternoon. We went out and called and called, but he must have took off running. Florence and me, we walked to both ends of the town, but we didn’t see hide nor hair of him, and I had to get back to put out supper for the boarders. I couldn’t very well keep them waiting. They’d all be moving to Mrs. Wallace’s down the road.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Snowden.”

  “I’m sorry as I can be.” She swiped the tears off her cheeks with her apron tail. “I know you didn’t want him running loose. And he’d been laying right in the corner there on that old blanket I put out for him all the livelong day. I never thought about him up and shooting out the door like that.”

  “Don’t let it upset you. Asher will be fine.” Mitchell patted her shoulder. He couldn’t blame her. He should have locked the dog up. Or then, maybe it was better this way. Let the do
g take his chances. “Could be, he’ll get hungry and find his way back.”

  “You could call him. He might come to you.”

  Mitchell stepped back on the porch and whistled, but all that did was set a dozen other dogs barking in the yards up and down the street. Asher wouldn’t come. He’d be back out at Carlyn’s house by now and then who knew where after that.

  “I’ll hunt him in the morning,” he told Mrs. Snowden when he went back in the kitchen.

  “You really think he’ll be all right? I know he’s just a dog, but I can’t help worrying over him. That Curt Whitlow won’t do nothing to him, will he?” She got his supper out of the warming oven.

  Where moments before he’d been starving, now his appetite was gone, but he sat down at the table anyway. “You don’t have to worry about that. I was just over at Curt’s and his boy said he’s out of town on business.”

  “Some business.” Mrs. Snowden snorted. She handed him a napkin. “Land’s sakes, you smell to high heaven. Smoke from that fire out there at Shakertown, I’m guessing. Wasn’t one of their big buildings, was it?”

  “No, a barn.”

  “Lightning?”

  “It doesn’t look like it.”

  She sat down across from him. “What’s this world coming to? Guess that’s why you were out there so long. Did you see Carlyn Kearney? Find out how she was doing?”

  “I saw her. She looked like one of the sisters.”

  “Is that so?” Mrs. Snowden shook her head slowly. “I just can’t hardly believe that. She never seemed the Shaker type. But I guess as long as she’s happy.”

  “I don’t know that anybody was happy out there today. One of the brothers died in the fire.” There wasn’t any reason not to tell her. That kind of news would travel fast. In fact, it was surprising she didn’t already know. Plenty of people from the farms around Harmony Hill were at the village and knew about Brother Henry.

  Mrs. Snowden looked stricken. “Dear heavens, and here I am worrying over a dog. The Lord won’t know what to think of me.”