A Simple Shaker Murder

by Deborah Woodworth

  Finally, Rose had to consider the brethren, Matthew and Archibald. Archibald surely was a follower. If he were involved in Hugh’s death, it would probably be under someone else’s influence. Matthew’s, perhaps? He was infatuated with Celia and inclined to simmering resentment. Might he have convinced himself—or had help doing so—that he could have Celia simply by eliminating her husband?

  Rose wished she could make her mind work faster, but it stalled. She knew one thing for certain—Mairin was in mortal danger. She had seen the killing, and the killer knew it. She was safe for now, but he wouldn’t let her live indefinitely. Her habit of drawing pictures was altogether too threatening.

  Shadows crossed the west window, and she looked up to see figures moving, alone and in groups, toward the Meetinghouse. She had no more time. All she could do was stay alert, hope for the best, and beg Holy Mother Wisdom to send her angels to watch over the girls and keep them from wandering into danger.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ROSE’S FOREBODING DEEPENED AS SHE OPENED THE WOMEN’S door to the Meetinghouse. Her first impression was that she’d stumbled on a three-ring circus, like the one she’d sneaked a peek at as a child, when Agatha had taken her along on a trip to Languor. Wilhelm stood, a grim statue, in the center of the high-ceilinged meeting room. On one side, the sisters sat in an attempt at prayerful silence, while their eyes darted around the room. On Wilhelm’s other side, several of the chairs were empty, and the remaining brethren scowled at the pine floor as if its smooth surface offended them.

  Behind the brethren’s seats, a group of men huddled in a circle, whispering to one another. Rose recognized four of them, including Matthew and Archibald, in their dark blue Sabbathday surcoats. The other two men were New-Owenites, dressed in their usual baggy brown trousers and shirts. Hands waved and heads nodded, as if they were negotiating a plan.

  The third ring clustered at the far end of the room, across from where Wilhelm stood. The group included Gilbert, Earl, Celia, and the other New-Owenite women. Unlike the others, Celia’s outfit was both elegant and odd. She was covered in black, from her ebony hair to her shiny dancing slippers. A black lace shawl barely disguised the sleek fit of her satin gown. She gazed around the room as if scouting out dance partners.

  Rose wished she’d eaten something. This promised to be an exhausting evening. Thank goodness they had decided not to open the service to the public—and that Mairin was safely hidden away. She chose a seat on the end of the back bench on the sisters’ side, so she could observe everyone. Frustration was gnawing at her; she longed to do something active to control the mounting tensions, but she could think of nothing. With her eyes open, she prayed inwardly for guidance and inspiration.

  Wilhelm straightened, closed his eyes, and raised his arms to call for quiet. The seated Believers were already silent, and they remained so. The other two groups ignored him. Wilhelm, in turn, ignored their rudeness and motioned to three sisters and two brethren to stand at his side and sing a welcoming hymn. The noise level increased, and Rose was able to recognize only a few words. There’d be no dancing if this kept up.

  Wilhelm nodded to the confused singers to begin another hymn. Despite the chill outside, the large room had begun to feel stuffy, as if the world had crowded inside with them. Wilhelm’s powerful baritone strengthened the singing, while Matthew’s group seemed to be whipping themselves into an angry lather. The New-Owenites laughed and chattered as if they were at a ball, giddy with champagne.

  Rose shrank in her seat to escape the cacophony. She wondered if the Meetinghouse walls were thick enough to withstand the insult. Spending the evening hiding in a hayloft was beginning to sound appealing. She considered slipping out and leaving everyone else to fight it out—but nay, she couldn’t leave the other sisters. She could sense their confusion and fear. None of this was their doing, and they needed her presence, even if she could not provide protection.

  A deep roar rose above the din. “Silence! Silence, now!” The shout erupted from Wilhelm like the blast of a train whistle. It startled everyone speechless just long enough for Wilhelm to claim the room’s attention. He wasted no time, and for once Rose was grateful.

  “We all agreed to gather together in this place of worship. Believers,” he said, with a stern look at Matthew’s group, “this is not a town square, it is a sacred place for thee. Mother Ann is with us here, and be assured that her heart is breaking to see us behave like squabbling children.”

  Matthew stared at the floor with a sullen frown, but he remained quiet. Archibald and the other brethren looked abashed. The two New-Owenite men with them, though they said nothing, watched Gilbert across the room, awaiting instruction.

  Gilbert watched Wilhelm. “I have a suggestion,” Gilbert said, in a conversational tone. “It’s obvious that we all have important issues to discuss. Let’s take turns, shall we? That’s fair.”

  ‘This is a place of worship,” Wilhelm repeated. His voice rumbled like thunder building in the electric air.

  “For you,” Gilbert said. “Not for us. And you might find that the place has become less than sacred for some of your own folks. However, we do acknowledge that this is your building, and we’ve never really stopped to observe your . . . ritual. So I suggest that you folks take the first turn. Show us why this worship business holds such power for you.” The New-Owenites pulled an empty bench away from the wall and sat down, polite interest on their faces. Celia whispered something in Earl’s ear, and they both smiled.

  Rose felt as if her heart were pumping lead. The worship service was turning into a debate by performance. She couldn’t believe such a scene would unfold in their Meetinghouse. Surely Wilhelm now recognized the foolishness of his plans. The angels must indeed be crying their eyes out.

  If Wilhelm understood his error, he showed no sign of it. With a forceful nod, he indicated to the anxious Believers that it was time for dancing worship. The Shakers pushed their benches back to open the floor for dancing. Rose made the choice to stand with her sisters. They formed a line facing the small number of brethren across the center of the room.

  But before the chorus could sing a note, a querulous male voice shouted, “Nay!” The command had come from the group standing in back of the brethren’s seats. Scraping sounds followed, and Matthew’s head appeared above the brethren. He’d climbed on a bench, shocking enough in itself, but then he deepened his impropriety by stripping off his surcoat and flinging it on the floor. The Believers fumbled back to their benches and huddled close together.

  “This time we aren’t waiting,” Matthew said. “You all have kept us quiet long enough, and now we’re going to have our say.” Murmurs of support came from the men around him.

  “By all means,” Gilbert said, before Wilhelm could bellow an order for silence, “speak your piece. Wilhelm and I are patient enough to wait.” He smiled across at Wilhelm, who said nothing. How could he? Rose thought. He has been out-maneuvered. She had no doubt that Gilbert had always intended for Matthew’s complaints to come first.

  “You all think you’ve got a heaven on earth here,” Matthew said, “but this ain’t heaven for us.” The others agreed with growing assertiveness. “You think it’s heaven to work all day and into the night, without pay, without even a nickel saved up? This village is dying. In a year or two, this’ll be a ghost town, and we’ll all be out on the streets with nothing—no jobs, no money, no family to take care of us.”

  Wilhelm’s ruddy features were contorting in fury. “Foolish sinner,” he shouted, “Mother Ann will always—”

  “Nay, Wilhelm, you listen to me! Mother Ann is watching us die, and she isn’t lifting a finger to help. And you know why? Because Mother Ann is dead, that’s why. Dead and buried and rotted away long ago.”

  The sisters around Rose gasped and whispered to one another. Matthew turned on them.

  “You’re shocked, are you? Well, maybe you should have thought of this yourselves. Most of you are old. What’s going to happen t
o you when North Homage collapses? You pinned all your hopes on your Mother Ann, and now you don’t have husbands or children or grandchildren. You’re like our sheep; you went along with the Ministry telling you how to live, it never entered your minds you should have had a say in how they got to be the Ministry.”

  Using a gesture copied from Wilhelm’s more fervent homilies, Matthew thrust his arm straight up, his index finger pointing to the heavens. “There ain’t no Holy Mother Wisdom up there, smiling down on you. You’re on your own. We all are. All we got is our brains and our strength. As I see it, we got one chance to come out of this alive. We join whatever strength we have left with these folks here.” He pointed toward Gilbert, who listened with a benign air. “We don’t have to become just like them. We own the buildings and the business and the know-how, and they got the people. If we put our heads together, we can make it through this Depression, and come out the other end in one piece. That’s all I got to say.”

  He jumped off the bench to applause from his own comrades and the New-Owenites led by Gilbert.

  Wilhelm’s stone-faced silence disturbed Rose more than an eruption of fury would have. She knew that look. He wasn’t worried. He had a plan.

  He nodded toward the five-voice chorus, and they took their places again. With reluctance, Rose again led the sisters to form a row facing the brethren. At Wilhelm’s cue, the singers began a shaky a cappella tune that Rose had never heard before. Apparently, neither had anyone else, because the worshipers stood still. Even the singers wavered, and Wilhelm joined in to bring them back to the pitch.

  The lyrics spoke of the beauty of the heavens and described the flowers and foods and sheer joy that Believers would encounter, once they had completed their life of chastity and hard work. The sweet, simple tune intrigued Rose—for about ten seconds, until she tumbled to what was happening. At that moment, the tune began again, made stronger yet by the addition of a rich contralto at the other end of the sisters’ row. Sister Elsa Pike. Of course. Wilhelm had Elsa’s unquenchable devotion. She had surely taken Mairin’s drawings for Wilhelm, and so of course she had helped him plan this service. And it would no doubt be quite a service.

  As the chorus began the tune a third time, Elsa led the dancing. Elsa Pike, a plump, flat-featured hill-country woman, was transformed in worship to a graceful and competent dancer. She performed controlled, choreographed movements matched to the song lyrics. She bowed from the waist to show her humility, made sweeping and cleansing movements to represent her willingness to work. She held her hands aloft to receive the bounteous celestial foods and, finally, began to twirl in grateful ecstasy.

  The other sisters were familiar with most of the gestures and learned them quickly. Soon they were dancing in flowing unison. Wilhelm joined the brethren and demonstrated a version of the dance that mimed sawing and building and other work normally done by the men.

  Rose hung back. The dance was lovely and stirred her heart, but she had learned from experience. When Elsa led the dancing, it soon became the frenzied, trancelike worship that Believers had practiced in their early years, and again during Mother Ann’s Work. Rose believed in the dancing, but not in Elsa’s practice of it.

  Many of the other observers seemed intrigued by the spectacle. Matthew watched sullenly, but his brethren followers swayed as if they longed to join in. Gilbert’s group was less than mesmerized, though they had stopped whispering among themselves. From her smirk, Celia must be assessing the dancers’ grace and beauty, and judging herself superior. Gilbert’s thin, scholarly features showed detached interest. Earl looked wary.

  At the moment, no one paid much attention to Rose, though she knew she was visible to everyone. She returned to her back-row bench and began adjusting her shoe, as if it pinched. Something was going to happen, and it would be soon. Rose fought off a sense of helplessness. There was no time. She couldn’t imagine what she alone could do when the three-way struggle intensified, but she had to think of something.

  Gilbert’s group was now to her right and in front of her, so she could watch them more openly. They’d begun to fidget. Celia’s shoulders drooped with boredom, and Earl took her hand. And Gilbert . . . Rose scanned the New-Owenites twice and couldn’t find Gilbert’s bony profile. She counted them. One was missing. They were close to the men’s entrance. Gilbert must have slipped out while Rose fussed with her shoe.

  A sound like a dog barking came from the dancers. It had begun. Elsa hopped in a circle, her arms rigid at her side. The other sisters—and the brethren, too—joined in, keeping their distance from each other, of course. Then Elsa flung out her arms and began to twirl, followed by the others, creating a kaleidoscope of butternut and dark blue swirls. Elsa twirled dangerously close to Wilhelm, and the New-Owenites were no longer bored. Rose’s limbs felt tight, bunched up for action. She still had no idea what that action might be, but her gaze darted from group to group, alert to danger.

  As Rose expected, Elsa stopped twirling and went rigid with a suddenness that almost threw her off balance. Except for her quick-step recovery, she gave every appearance of being in a deep trance. The other Believers stopped their dancing and formed a broken circle around her, sisters on one side, brethren on the other.

  A few moments passed, and Rose became suspicious. She expected Elsa to begin speaking in tongues and perhaps convey messages from Mother Ann, but the silence continued. Elsa seemed to be waiting—for what, Rose understood as soon as she saw Wilhelm step inside the circle. He held large sheets of paper that could only be Mairin’s drawings. He handed them out to three sisters and three brethren, murmuring instructions. The Believers turned their drawings outward, all facing Elsa.

  Rose checked the New-Owenites’ reactions. Clearly, they had not expected this. Celia and Earl leaned close and whispered to one another. The other New-Owenites closed ranks with them, and hands jerked in agitated gestures.

  Matthew and his group also huddled together and appeared to be arguing. Wilhelm ignored them all. He stepped outside the circle surrounding Elsa and signaled to the chorus to begin another unfamiliar song. Rose couldn’t hear the lyrics, but the tune was unusual. Most Shaker songs had a sweet simplicity and could be sung by most anyone. This one extended beyond the range of most Believers, and, to Rose’s astonishment, included some harmony. She wondered if this had been Elsa’s idea, and if it was meant to give her a special place as the chosen instrument who brought truly new music to the Believers.

  Elsa opened her eyes and stretched out her arms, palms upward. She began a slow circle, round and round, giving her a few seconds’ view of each picture, as if she were studying a mural. The plan was now clear. Elsa would slip into a trance and become an instrument for—whom? Probably for Holy Mother Wisdom, since she was thought to be the giver of gift drawings. Then what? Rose could guess. Elsa was to bring forth a message from Holy Mother which instructed the New-Owenites to open their hearts to the Society of Believers in Christ’s Second Appearing. They would be urged to give up their carnal ways and accept the guidance of Mother Ann—and undoubtedly of Elder Wilhelm.

  Of all Wilhelm’s schemes to reinvigorate the Shakers, this was surely his most foolish—and his most desperate. He must be worried. He was not alone. Matthew and his followers watched, their hands tightened into fists, ready to fight.

  At the New-Owenite end of the room, Celia bolted upright. She began to moan and sway, while her companions fell back to let her be seen.

  “Who are you?” Celia wailed. “Make yourself known to me. Why have you called me?” Her body grew still, and her head jerked backward as if she’d been hit. She fell back, and Earl caught her, in a movement too seamless to be spontaneous. He lowered her limp body onto a chair and stepped aside.

  Celia’s body stiffened as if a jolt of electricity shot through her. She raised her hands toward the ceiling, and her lace shawl slipped off to reveal slender, bare arms. Slowly, she stood, arching her body in a graceful movement that seemed almost to lift her off the gro
und. She had the attention of the room. Most Believers’ faces showed fascination as well as discomfort. Matthew’s expression was closer to worship.

  “I have returned to help you, my faithful followers,” Celia said. Her voice came out in a lower register, with a distinctly British accent.

  “You are Robert Owen, aren’t you, sir?” Earl said. “You can see we are in turmoil. Tell us what we must do.”

  Rose edged back to the wall, unwilling to be a part of the charade. Across the room from her, close to the ceiling, was the observation window, where elders and eldresses sometimes used to watch worship services, especially when the public attended. The small room had not been used since Agatha, frail and ill, had stepped down as eldress. Rose preferred to be an active part of the worship. Now she had a strong desire to be closeted away, watching from behind glass. To reach the door leading upstairs, she would have to sneak around half the perimeter of the room, behind the Shakers and behind Matthew’s group, but it was worth a try. Near the observation room was a small office with a phone, should she need to make another effort—no matter how fruitless—to convince the Sheriff to come.

  With everyone’s attention on the show, reaching the door proved easy. Matthew and his followers were especially oblivious to anything but Celia. Rose was through the door, up the stairs, and into the dark observation room before Celia had finished entrancing the audience with her lithe movements. As Rose pulled a chair up to the window, Celia began again her rendition of Robert Owen. It was loud enough for Rose to hear. The acting was quite good, Rose had to admit, but Celia had miscalculated the accent. Robert Owen had been Welsh, and Celia’s tones were pure, public-school English. Rose had heard both accents during her time as the Society’s trustee, in her dealings with businessmen from the world.

  “First, you must hear the truth,” Celia/Robert announced. “I, Robert Owen, am the only one in this room who knows the truth, because I have seen it for myself. I am a shade from the spirit world. Yes, there is a spirit world, where all of you will go someday. But there is no God, and there is no heaven. I know it is hard for the Shakers among you to hear this, but it is best to hear it now. Stop living a lie!” By now, Celia/Robert was shouting over the agitated voices filling the air.