Death of a Winter Shaker (6 page)

“What was that boy doing in the Herb House, anyways?” Elsa continued, when it became clear that Charity was ignoring her. “Meetin' someone, one of them girls from Languor, more 'n likely. Better not be one of ours.” She looked hard at Gennie.

At this, Charity turned her startled-doe gaze toward Gennie. “Elsa,” she said, still watching Gennie. “Remember it was Eugenie who found—let's drop the subject, shall we? For Eugenie's sake.”

“Well, I just wonder what he was doing in the Herb House, that's all.” Elsa gave the bread dough a swift punch with her broad fist.

“As far as I could tell,” Gennie ventured, “Johann Fredericks wasn't doing anything in the Herb House except being dead. I don't think he was even killed there.”

Elsa's eyes widened until they were almost the size of Charity's, and both women paled. Questions hovered on their lips. But neither said a word, either then or for most of the remaining afternoon.

Gennie was pleased with herself. If she'd tried with all her might, she couldn't have found a better way to still the bickering between the kitchen sisters. She didn't think deeply about the significance of her guess, nor did it occur to her to wonder about its meaning to Elsa or Charity.

F
OR THE
S
HAKERS
, W
EDNESDAY AND
T
HURSDAY
passed in building tension. A constant string of visitors trampled the grass around the silent Herb House, which the police had cordoned off and secured with a padlock. A few townspeople arrived in cars and dressed in their Sunday best, others by horse or on foot in their workaday dungarees. A reporter and photographer from the
Cincinnati Enquirer
set up their equipment in the middle of the herb garden to get the best shot of the building and to collect stirring interviews with shocked and curious bystanders. The sheriff visited regularly, but he did nothing to stem the flow of intruders. His only interest seemed to be in the Herb House, where he spent hours searching each day.

The Believers were too busy to talk to reporters or to worry much about the behavior of outsiders. This time of year, the harvest ruled their daily lives. Everyone except the ill and feeble arose at 4:30
A.M.,
had a quick breakfast, and hurried to their assigned tasks. During harvest season, they often settled for only one more meal, a hearty picnic out in the fields, so they could continue to work until darkness forced them to quit. Wilhelm canceled the Thursday night Union Meeting. There would be no break from the work.

Unless they had special skills, most Believers worked
in four-week rotations. A sister might spend four weeks in the kitchen, followed by a rotation in the Laundry, and then the sewing room. Despite their belief in the equality of the sexes, Shakers divided work according to gender, with women performing domestic tasks. It was far more important, they felt, to keep the sexes separate, and if they worked together, anything could happen. During the harvest, though, men and women often worked side by side.

As trustee, Rose oversaw work assignments, though theoretically her decisions were subject to approval by the Ministry, Wilhelm and Agatha. Agatha always supported her. If she was lucky, Wilhelm ignored her. Just now, all three agreed that every available hand should rescue the apple crop before it fell to the ground and rotted.

Rose had reluctantly assigned Gennie again to the kitchen to help with the apple pies and applesauce. She knew how much the girl disliked kitchen work. But she was the best worker among the young girls, and Charity always requested her.

On Friday morning, Rose decided that Gennie deserved a break and invited her along to the farmers' market in Languor. An ecstatic Gennie clambered onto the front seat of North Homage's sturdy black Plymouth. After a thorough cleaning and buffing, only a deep slice in the seat betrayed the car's rough treatment by young rowdies on the day of Johann's murder.

Under Rose's firm touch, the Plymouth spurted to life. Rose and Gennie remained silent as they began their eight-mile drive into Languor. For a time, they watched the rolling countryside and rich fields bounce by.

“You're so quiet, Gennie. I hope you aren't too frightened by all that's been happening. It will be over soon, I promise you. You won't have to be involved
anymore. I'll arrange for you to have an extra rotation in the Herb House once the police give it back to us. Would you like that?”

Gennie twisted in her seat. “I'm not frightened,” she protested, “not really.”

Rose's mothering smile faded. “You've been through a lot for someone so young, and I feel that—”

“I'm almost eighteen!” Gennie bit her lip and sat back against her seat. “I'm sorry, Rose, I shouldn't have raised my voice.” She stared out her window.

These flare-ups had become more common in recent months. Rose remembered herself at Gennie's age, and she worried. She flashed Gennie a quick smile.

“All is forgiven, Gennie. You are right, you're almost eighteen, and I'll try not to treat you like a child.”

They reached the outskirts of the town of Languor, population 2,520, mostly poor. Rose slowed down to a crawl as they passed the crooked shacks that housed the poorest. As always, the big, black car drew attention from dirty, running children and jobless men sitting on broken stoops. One man raised a pint bottle in ironic greeting, since Shakers were known to be teetotalers, then lowered it to his lips. A woman hanging laundry glanced over her shoulder at the car, then shouted to a little girl sitting in the grass near the road. The child jumped up and ran to her.

The car headed for a group of older boys playing baseball in the road with stones and a stick. Rose had used the horn with the occasional cow, but never with people. Now she edged to the right as far as possible to avoid the boys without disturbing their game. Two boys moved aside to let the car pass. But another, apparently the pitcher because he held a large rock in his hand, whirled on the car and glared at its occupants.

“Rose?”

“We'll be through here in a moment, Gennie.”

As the bulky Plymouth passed him, the boy pointed a ragged arm at its occupants, his fist wrapped around the rock. He shouted something Rose couldn't hear. Then he shouted again, louder, his thin face contorted with hatred. “Witches,” he shrieked at them.

“Rose, he's following us!”

The small back window of the Plymouth exploded inward, spraying shards of glass across the spacious backseat. A rock, slowed by the impact, fell spent on the seat.

Startled, Rose swerved farther to the right and onto the grassy shoulder. The Plymouth stalled. Still within range of the boy, she could see his angry, triumphant face. She stepped on the starter button, shifted, and pressed hard on the accelerator, but the wheels spun deeply into the soft shoulder. She pulled on the brake, pushed Gennie's head down beneath the level of the dashboard, and leaned over her back to shield her. They waited, barely breathing, listening. A loose sliver of glass tinkled as it fell belatedly. The boy's shouting had stopped. They heard no children's laughter, no mother's call. In fact, they heard nothing at all.

Rose raised her head. She slowly lifted her upper body from Gennie's bent back but with one strong arm held Gennie's head down, out of sight.

“Stay down. I'll check outside.” Rose reached for her door handle.

“Nay, you mustn't get out of the car!” Gennie grabbed at Rose's arm. “One of those boys threw that rock. He might hurt you. Please can't we drive on?”

But Rose had already turned the handle and cracked open her door. With her free hand, she squeezed Gennie's shoulder and gave her a smile that didn't cover the worry in her eyes.

“If he wanted to hit us again, he's had his chance. Anyway, I need a rug from the trunk to help us get the car unstuck. We'll have to make arrangements in
Languor for repairs.” She stepped out of the car, sweeping her skirts behind her. For Gennie's sake she tried to appear fearless.

“Nothing to be frightened of, they've gone,” she reported cheerfully, as Gennie rolled down her window. “Not a soul around. But you'd better stay inside, just in case.” She reached over and patted the girl's arm, then straightened. She stood on dry and weedy grass which served as lawn for a ramshackle cottage. Three chairs, all empty, faced the road from the middle of the yard. The windows were shaded against the daylight with tattered brown curtains. One of the curtains twitched as if it had just been dropped into place.

Rose's unease grew with each moment outside the car. She hurried to the trunk and pulled out two rag rugs. She could hear the light tinkle of shattered glass as she closed the trunk lid. Bending quickly, she spread the rugs in front of the Plymouth's back tires.

With her heart thudding heavily, Rose took one last look around. Where the boys had played baseball, there was only an empty, dusty street. No children laughed and chased one another from house to house. The man with the whiskey bottle had disappeared. A basket still heaped with laundry sat on the ground next to a clothesline that held a white blanket neatly hung with clothespins for half its length. The other half grazed the dirt below.

Gennie scrambled out of the car to huddle beside Rose. The girl's shoulders were hunched in fear as she wrapped herself tightly in her cloak. Her eyes were wide and dark, like those of a wary cat.

“Don't you notice it, Rose?”

Rose's breath caught in her throat. She listened now to the silence. Circling slowly, she peered down the empty street and abandoned yards. She caught a sudden movement by the corner of a nearby house. Just a hint of sleeve, the flash of sun on a stone surface.

“Gennie, get in the car. Now!” The girl obeyed instantly.

Her heart lurching, Rose dragged open her own heavy door and jumped inside, barely pulling her skirts off the narrow running board in time to avoid catching them as she slammed the door. She hit the starter button. Through clenched teeth, she mumbled an urgent prayer of supplication.

As the Plymouth sputtered to life, another rock whipped through the shattered back window with force enough to slam the back of Gennie's seat and thud to the floor behind her. Gennie instinctively slipped down in her seat and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head.

“Good,” Rose said. “Stay down, we'll be out of this neighborhood soon.”

The car lurched and the tires skidded briefly, then slipped onto the rugs. At once the Plymouth shot back onto the road, spitting the rugs out from under it. Rose pushed the sturdy automobile to speeds it had not yet experienced in its short life. It bounced wildly over the ruts in the old dirt road.

They reached a quiet residential street, lined with elm trees that touched in graceful arches over the center of the road. Rose pulled the car over to one side, and folded a trembling Gennie into her arms. At that moment, Gennie had to be a child again.

In a few moments, the girl pushed away and sniffled.

“I'm okay,” she said as she pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and swiped impatiently at her nose. Her lapse into childhood was over.

“Do you feel up to talking to the police?”

Gennie nodded bleakly. “Why did they do that to us?”

Rose sighed and leaned back against the black leather. “Because we Shakers are being blamed for Johann's death, and for other problems, as well. This has happened to us before, though you've never had to
witness it. We are different. We dress oddly, we worship strangely, we create our families differently. We often have better crops and more food than our neighbors. So some people say that we must be evil, maybe we're able to cast spells or some such ignorant nonsense. If something goes wrong, it seems easy and convenient to blame the odd ones. The parents talk about it, and the children act.” Rose glanced back at the shattered rear window.

Gennie sat up straight and pushed her handkerchief into the pocket of her cape. “My eighteenth birthday is coming up in February, you know.”

Rose watched her in silence.

“Well, I don't know if I really want to be different,” Gennie said, without meeting Rose's eyes. “I just don't know.”

“Perhaps we could talk about it later, when all this has settled down?” Rose eased the car back onto the street. Gennie stared at her hands as they drove the two remaining blocks to the Languor County Courthouse, which housed the sheriff's office.

E
VEN IN SUCH A POOR AREA, THE COUNTY COURT-HOUSE
dominated the town center. A broad flight of stone steps, worn in the middle, led to story-high, wooden double doors, ornately carved with motifs of tobacco leaves. The building itself, of large limestone blocks, looked more impressive from a distance. Up close, the doors needed sanding and painting, and years of grime stained the limestone. Shaker buildings were simpler but far cleaner.

Rose and Gennie clattered across the large rotunda, over a huge map of Kentucky formed with colored stones and painted slate tiles. The gold outline of Languor County had nearly worn away. They climbed a scuffed marble staircase and pushed open a frosted glass door with
COUNTY SHERIFF'S OFFICE
painted in large, black letters. A broad, oak bar, once varnished but now dull and gouged with cigarette burns, stretched the length of the room, separating the sheriff's office from the public.

The officer on duty sprawled at a desk behind the wooden barrier. A hefty, broad-faced man, he made the cluttered desk look a size too small. A coffee-stained copy of the
Cincinnati Enquirer
shared the desktop with a cracked coffee cup and an ashtray spilling over with cigarette stubs.

“You're sure someone attacked your car, Miss
Callahan?” the officer asked without leaving his chair. “But you didn't see who did it?”

“Because the rocks were thrown from behind, as we told you.” Rose spoke each word with the weary patience of one who has said the same thing three times over.