Death of a Winter Shaker (7 page)

“Yes'm,” he said, with a longing glance toward the newspaper. “You think you were attacked by a young boy. Look, I can see how you two ladies might of been spooked by a rock flying up and hittin' the car.” He glanced at Rose's thin shoulders and smirked. “Those roads are tough driving, even for a man.”

“If you'd care to examine our car,” Rose said, barely controlled anger seeping into her voice, “you'll find one rock is resting on the backseat and another on the floor. Believe me, they are far too large to have flown up, as you suggest, and hit the window on their own.”

The officer remained seated, an inert lump.

“Perhaps we should just wait for Sheriff Brock or Deputy O'Neal to return,” Rose said.

“I don't reckon they'll be back for hours. They're both out at the Pike farm, tryin' to calm down old man Pike and that younger son of his. Some feud goin' on with their neighbor, Peleg Webster. Say, don't Peleg's farm border on your land?” A local feud aroused more interest in the man than an alleged attack on Shakers, that was clear.

“The Pikes are saying that Peleg's hogs is gettin' into their corn. So they're doin' their own butchering.” He laughed hoarsely at his own joke and ended on a cough. He pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket. After selecting one, he started to put the pack away. He paused, narrowed his eyes, and tapped the top to loosen one cigarette. With a lopsided grin, he leaned forward and held out the pack.

“Have a smoke?”

“Nay, but thank you,” Rose said evenly. “We gave them up long ago.”

Gennie beamed at Rose, delighted. But she wondered, too, why the officer wouldn't believe them and even tried to embarrass them. She had made many trips to town with Rose before. Sometimes children stared at their clothing or pointed and laughed, but an adult usually shushed them. No one had ever tried to hurt her. And this policeman, why wouldn't he help them? If only Grady were here. He would believe them.

“Perhaps you would be good enough to bring me some paper and a pen,” Rose said, “and I'll write a note for Sheriff Brock or Deputy O'Neal.”

Sighing loudly, the officer shuffled papers in search of a blank sheet. As he did so, a young woman glided into the office. She closed the door behind her and stood framed against the frosted glass, as though waiting for all eyes to turn toward her. North Homage still nurtured a small silkworm industry, so Gennie recognized the fluid softness of fine silk in the bright red dress that clung to her slender form. Smooth blond hair capped her heart-shaped face. Red lipstick, brilliant against her fair skin, matched her dress. The scent of roses drifted behind as she pushed forward with her hips and swayed across the room.

“Hiya, Miss Emily,” the officer said, his face lighting at the sight of her. “Grady said you was stopping by. He said to wait in his office.”

Emily bestowed a closed-mouth smile on the group, lingering on Gennie's plain, dark clothing and bonnet. Without a word, she swung her hips toward a closed door behind the reception desk.

They all watched her slide through the door, the officer visibly savoring every movement. Gennie felt a pain that was new to her, like a cramping of the heart. Grady's girlfriend. That had to be who she was; she looked like a girlfriend. She hadn't worn a ring, so maybe she wasn't his wife, not yet anyway. Emily was the name the sheriff had mentioned as they'd
examined Johann's body, and Grady had looked so angry. Had Johann tried to take Emily away from him?

Soft hair and swaying hips and a red silk dress, not yards and yards of dark blue wool and a stiff bonnet. Gennie glanced at Rose, who was handing her completed note to the inattentive officer. Had Rose ever wanted to float in red silk? Her eyes wandered back to the closed door of Grady's office and back to Rose. The trustee was watching her intently, her head tilted to one side and a worried furrow between her brows.

“Come along, then,” Rose said firmly, “we've done all we can here, and it's growing late. We've some tasks to do in town before evening meal. There is no time now to have the car's window fixed. I'll ask one of the brethren to arrange for its repair.”

A few moments later they descended the worn stone steps of the courthouse. Two blocks brought them to Languor's open-air marketplace, which showed the Depression's effects on the rural town. A cafe and rows of old shops, some slanting and all badly in need of paint, lined three boundaries of a dirty, cobblestoned square, converted each Friday to a farmers' market. The western border of the square opened onto a park, or what would be a park if it were cared for. Benches, spotted with bird droppings, scattered in no particular pattern on the crushed, brown grass. Near the park's center stood a large kiosk, still showing patches of bright blue paint, where the small Languor band had played bravely through the 1929 stock market crash and the first few years of the Depression. Now the instruments were silent, sold long ago for spare parts to repair farm machinery bought on credit.

Rose and Gennie wove through the open town square, among stalls filled with produce. Each stall had its own special scent, from sweet-tart apple to the grassy smell of fresh corn. The horse-drawn farm wagons added the familiar odors of manure and damp earth.

“Do we really need potatoes?” Gennie asked as Rose picked through a pile of them in one of the first stalls they came to.

“We'll need extra, I'm afraid. We'll probably be feeding the whole town on Sunday. Hold this for me, would you?” Gennie draped the solid, well-worn basket over one arm. She watched as Rose examined each potato, feeling for soft spots, before placing it in the basket. So many questions spun in Gennie's mind. Her feelings seemed to tumble over one another, creating the force of a midwestern tornado. Intent on her task, Rose's movements were so quick and sure, her features composed. She seemed completely recovered from the frightening attack on their car and the unsympathetic reaction of the police officer. But Gennie remembered Rose's response when the officer had mockingly offered her a cigarette, and it made her more approachable.

“Rose,” she said, “I was wondering about something you said back at the sheriff's office.” Her voice came out in a nervous squeak, and she fumbled with the nearly full basket.

“What would that be, Gennie?”

“What you said about smoking. That you've given it up, I mean. You didn't really, did you?”

“When have you ever seen me smoke, now, I ask you?” Rose grinned as she selected one last potato and placed it carefully in the basket.

“Never. But, I mean, you didn't really smoke, did you?”

“Many Believers did, you know.” She raised her eyebrows at Gennie. “I hope you will not take that as permission to smoke. Most of us gave it up many years ago, when we decided that it might not be healthy, though we delayed much longer than the eastern Believers.”

Gennie was still puzzled and showed it.

“All right,” Rose continued, “I'll explain. Believers used to smoke pipes mostly, sisters and brethren both,
but it's been, oh, nearly one hundred years since we stopped. Once, early last century, I've heard that Believers in several villages expected Mother Ann to appear to them, and they actually held a smoking meeting to honor her arrival. Brethren and sisters both smoked for an hour in a closed room.” Rose snickered. “I don't suppose any of them cared if they ever smoked again after that!”

All the stories Gennie had heard before painted the old Believers as saints, or nearly so. Gennie felt more comfortable knowing that maybe they were human, too, and she was pleased that Rose had shared the story with her.

“We angered our neighbors when we stopped, of course,” Rose continued in a more sober tone. “Many of them were and still are tobacco farmers. That young deputy, Grady O'Neal, his family became quite well-to-do tobacco farming. That is how he was able to attend college.” Gennie felt her cheeks grow warm at the mention of Grady's name.

Rose touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Gennie, we'll have a talk, you and I, very soon. You are growing up so quickly.”

Before Gennie could respond, she heard a familiar voice. Rose heard it, too, and they both turned to see Grady himself gesturing angrily to a man several stalls away. The man was half a head taller than Grady, with muscular shoulders squeezed into a tight flannel work shirt. Gennie felt there was something familiar about his broad face, distorted though it was in anger. She turned to ask Rose about him and was surprised to see her frown.

“Who is that, Rose? Do you know him?”

As if he had heard the question, the man looked over at them, his eyes barely brushing Gennie and locking on Rose.

Rose raised her chin a fraction and took Gennie by the elbow. “Come along, I'll introduce you. You may as
well meet him, and we need to speak with Grady, anyway. I have some questions for them both.”

The men watched as they approached. Gennie wanted to swing her hips, just a little bit, even though her efforts would be hidden by her heavy clothing. She glanced just beyond Grady to a park bench where a blond vision in red silk, now warmed by a rabbit's fur jacket, sipped Coca-Cola from a bottle with a straw. She sat on a spread-out newspaper to protect her expensive dress. Her silk stockings glowed in the sunlight.

A
CUTELY AWARE OF THE FARMERS AND TOWNSPEOPLE
crowding near the potato stall, Rose led Gennie as close as she felt she could to Grady and the man he'd just been arguing with. “Gennie Malone, meet Seth Pike,” Rose said, meeting Seth's eyes only briefly.

“Mr. Pike,” Gennie asked, “are you perhaps kin to Sister Elsa Pike?” The penetrating gaze shifted toward her.

Rose fidgeted with the button on her cloak. Grady's observant eyes darted from Rose to Seth and landed with a small smile on Gennie.

“Sister Elsa,” Seth said with a snort. “Yeah, that's me. The sister's son.” His eyes slid to Rose. “Her first little mistake. Eh, Rose?” He picked up a crate and balanced it on the edge of his stall. Swiftly, he began to fill the crate with unsold potatoes, his muscular arms straining against the flannel shirt as he reached across the stall.

“Rose,” Grady said, “your note said that your car was hit by a rock?”

Rose noticed his reluctance to say that they had been attacked. She also noted that Seth paused with his back to them, as if listening.

“A boy threw the rock,” Gennie said. “I saw him. At least . . .” She hesitated. “I did see him through the window as we passed him, right up close. And I saw his
arm go up. But I didn't see anything else. And then, after we got out of the car because we were stuck, there was no one around. No one at all! They were all hiding, of course. We knew something was wrong, so we tried to leave, but the car got stuck. Then the second rock came. It had to be thrown by someone, it just had to be. We were so frightened.”

“That's a rough neighborhood out there,” Grady said. “Anybody with a car can attract attention from that sort. If someone did throw a rock at you, it was probably just envy that you all have a car and plenty of food on the table. I wouldn't worry too much about it. But I'd go home the long way, if I were you.” He reached out to pat Gennie's arm reassuringly, then pulled back quickly.

“Nay, you must listen to us. The attack was against us, as Shakers, I'm certain of it, and Rose thinks so, too. The boy looked hatefully at us, and he shouted something, I don't know, something like ‘witches' and ‘devils.' He wanted to hurt us!”

Rose took Gennie's hand and held it tightly.

“Let's not make too much of that sort of talk,” Grady said, a shade too heartily. “We've all lived and worked side by side now for many years. Surely, no one hates you Shakers any longer. Those days are long gone.”

“Ha!” Seth Pike's voice pierced the air. He lifted the crate he was filling and dropped it with a thud on the display shelf of his stall, smashing potatoes underneath. “Be careful who you talk for, Grady O'Neal. Some of us don't have much use for Shakers. They steal away our families and our sweethearts and twist 'em up inside.”

“Seth, for goodness sake, your mother wasn't rejecting you when she joined us,” Rose snapped. “She made her own choice, just as I made mine. We heard a call you did not, and that's all there is to it. It's no one's fault.”

Seth's eyes bored into Rose as a mocking smile spread across his face. “Maybe not such a good choice if one of you is a murderer. Oh, yes, I know all about Johann, so does everyone. We were friends, more or less. Did you know that? We rode the rails together, him and me, all last year, ‘til I got word about this feud of my pa's. Johann rode on back here with me.”

“I'm sorry, Seth, I didn't know.”

“Yeah.” Seth flung a potato into the crate.

“Where was Johann from, do you know?” Rose asked.

“California,” Seth said, wiping his hands on his overalls. “Rode the rails all the way to Minnesota, but it's gettin' too cold up there about now, so he was more than ready to ride back here with me. What do you care about it, anyway?”

“If he has family,” Rose said, “we'll need to notify them. They will want to know.”

“We'll take care of that, Sister,” Grady said. He had been so quiet, watching Rose and Seth, that his voice startled them.

“No kin,” Seth said. “He was all alone. Left a pack of unhappy girls everywhere we stopped, though,” he said with a grin. “You might want to tell them if you can find 'em all.”

He glanced at Rose as though looking for a reaction. But she was not to be riled again. What she felt most was sadness. Seth had once been a gentle man, full of eager plans for the family farm. With a deep breath, she pushed aside her memories.

“When did you and Johann arrive in Languor?” she asked.

Seth shrugged. “Couple weeks ago or so, I didn't keep careful track.”