Killing Gifts (23 page)

TWENTY-THREE

R
OSE AWAKENED WITH A START
. S
HE LAY STILL, STARING
into pitch darkness, listening. If a noise had roused her, it was gone now. And so was her urge to sleep. She tried the light beside her bed, but to no avail. She had no idea what time it was, or how long she had slept. So far, Fannie's prayers had not returned the village to normal. Rose sat up in bed, pulling her blanket up to her neck.

More than likely, it was a dream that had awakened her. She had the foggy impression that, once she was deeply asleep, the dried-apple Shaker doll had returned to plague her mind. Perhaps it was trying to bring her a message. She believed, as did other Believers, that long-dead Shakers often spoke during trances or dreams. Though such experiences seemed to elude her, she tried to be open to their appearance. She closed her eyes, conjured up the visual memory of the strange doll, and invited her dream messenger to speak again.

At first, nothing happened. She stared at the doll, revolted by the shriveled face and the hint of horns still visible under the hat. Then the image began to change. The red horns bled slowly down the brother's Sabbathday surcoat and pooled at his feet. Repulsed, Rose opened her eyes and chased the image away. But it returned. This time, she forced herself to pay attention.

Why was her vision only the Shaker brother, not the sister? She hadn't even seen the brother doll. Was it only because she had watched the men file out of the dining room some hours earlier? Or was there some deeper message? She thought back over the faces that had preceded the doll in her half-dreaming imagination. And then she knew. Aldon, Johnny, Theodore, Otis—Sewell had not been among them. Sewell had not come to evening meal.

What if those dolls represented, in some horrible way, intended or potential victims? All along she had thought of Julia and Dulcie as the victims, so she hadn't seen how the dolls might connect with the killer. But if Dulcie had actually tried to kill herself, that left only one female victim. A male doll might then indicate a second victim, this time a man.

Or was her vision telling her that Sewell was indeed the killer she sought? She had pressured him to confess to her. Perhaps he had already escaped from the village, rather than admit how much blood was on his hands.

She tossed aside her blanket and slid off her bed. Her curtains were closed, but a faint square of light hinted at moonlight outside. She stumbled across the room toward the window and pulled the curtains open. Perhaps Fannie had some influence after all—the snow had stopped, and the moon, though weak, was making an effort to shine. At least it outlined the shapes in her retiring room. She located her only set of dry clothing and pulled it on right over her nightgown. Might as well be as warm as possible.

As she reached her retiring room door, her foot kicked something light. She could barely see a small object on the floor. She bent to pick it up. It felt like a wad of fabric. She must have caught the hem of her long dress on something and ripped it. She'd have to darn it back together later. She stuffed the fabric in her apron pocket and left.

A large window at the end of the hallway allowed some moonlight to penetrate, so Rose did not light her lamp. She might need the oil later. She wasn't ready to rouse anyone else. In fact, she wasn't sure whom she could trust. She lifted the phone in the hallway and jiggled the cradle gently. Still dead.

As quietly as possible, she hurried to the side of the dwelling house where the male novitiates lived. If this had been North Homage, Elder Wilhelm would have threatened to have her removed as eldress for such behavior, but this wasn't North Homage, and lives were at stake.

Rose paused and counted doors. Some, she knew, hid empty rooms. Following worldly desires, the men had spread out so they would not have immediate neighbors to snore and disturb their sleep. Sewell should be in the fourth room on the right. She blessed whatever instinct had made her ask, when she had first arrived, who lived in which retiring room.

She tiptoed to Sewell's door and listened for a few moments. She heard no sounds from within. Rather than take the risk of knocking, she eased the door open and peered inside. The curtains had not been drawn, thank goodness, and she could see the tightly made bed. A quick glance along the wall revealed that Sewell's outdoor coat was missing.

 

The stars had reappeared in the now-clear sky. Rose sent her most fervent thanks to the Holy Father, Holy Mother Wisdom, and especially to Mother Ann. She would have preferred not having to slog through knee-deep snow in the middle of the night, but she left this detail out of her prayers.

Instinct alone sent Rose in the direction of the abandoned Meetinghouse. It was where Sewell always seemed to be. He loved the building, wanted desperately to save it. Her heart told her he might be inside, but whether dead or alive, she couldn't say. She knew only that she must hurry.

She didn't need to light her lamp. The moon, finally and gloriously bright, glimmered on the snow and bathed the village in blue-white light. As she crossed the road, Rose easily made out jumbled tracks in the deep snow, which convinced her she was heading in the right direction. She stepped in the tracks as best she could, noting that some seemed farther apart than her long legs could reach. It was a safe guess that at least one set was made by a man. Moreover, they were clear and sharp. Since there was no wind, she concluded the tracks had been made since the snow ended—not long ago, she suspected. Whoever made those tracks might still be inside the Meetinghouse.

As she approached the brethren's entrance to the Meetinghouse, she noted that the footprints in the snow led inward only. There were other entrances, of course. She stepped to the west side of the building. Keeping close to the wall, she worked her way to a window that was still intact.

With so many windows boarded up, it was difficult to see inside the dark Meetinghouse. Yet there was no mistaking what lay no more than a few yards in front of her, illuminated by moonlight. A man lay on his back, deadly still, his arms stretched straight out from his sides as if nailed to a cross. Something long and slender stuck up from his chest.

Rose groaned and pulled away from the window. All her prayers had done no good. She was too late. She forced herself to look again through the window and around the Meetinghouse. She saw no evidence of another person lurking inside. The fiend had surely left as soon as the deed was done—and had probably left the village as well.

Rose slogged around to the nearest entrance and pushed open the door, not caring if she made noise. She ran to Sewell's still body. Without much hope, she reached for his wrist. There was no pulse. His skin was cool to the touch.

She lit her lamp and examined Sewell more closely. She recognized the handle of a screwdriver—perhaps the very one he had held when she questioned him earlier. It protruded from the left side of his chest. A dark circle stained the area around the wound. A clean, precise blow by someone who knew where to aim. Someone able to catch Sewell off guard. Someone he trusted enough to meet in the middle of the night.

She sat back on her heels and looked around. She could see her own damp footprints leading to Sewell's body. The other footprints looked too large to belong to a woman, though she couldn't be sure. The floor was a mess.

Might the unsuspecting Sewell have brought along the weapon that would kill him? It seemed unlikely, since the killing gave the appearance of precise planning. Rose crawled all the way around Sewell's body, looking for anything that might help. She had checked the pulse in his left wrist, and now she saw that his right hand was tightened into a fist. The police might be furious with her, but she carefully pried open his fingers. Inside was a small piece of stiff fabric, badly crumpled. She pulled it back into shape. It was a tiny blue wide-brimmed, flat-topped hat, just big enough for a doll's head.

 

As soon as she returned to the Brick Dwelling House, Rose tried the phone again, still with no success. She couldn't expect help from the police anytime soon. It was time to gather a few trusted folks to support her. Gennie wouldn't like it, but the first room Rose visited was Helen Butterfield's. She knocked softly. When no one responded, she opened the door. Helen was not in her room. Her bed hadn't been slept in, and her heavy wool coat was nowhere to be seen. Helen's absence surprised and disturbed Rose. Could she have been wrong about Helen's role?

She gazed out Helen's window at the empty village, desperately trying to think. Absently, she put her hands in her apron pocket and felt the wad of fabric she'd found on the floor of her retiring room. She thought she could feel something hard inside. Rose lit her lamp and sat at Helen's desk. The cloth was bunched up tightly, so it felt smaller than it was. She spread it open. Inside, wrapped around one corner of the cloth, was a small, inexpensive ring with a fake ruby. Dulcie's promise ring, given to her by Theodore. This was probably what Helen had found in the hay under Dulcie's unconscious body. And now she'd left it for Rose to decipher.

What did the ring mean? Why would it have come off? Nay, it probably hadn't come off. Dulcie had surely removed it herself. Rose had a sudden image of Dulcie holding the ring to her heart as she jumped. Was Helen trying to tell her that Dulcie had, indeed, attempted to kill herself and her baby? If so, it followed that the folks who'd had alibis for the time of Dulcie's fall were still suspects for the murders of Julia and Sewell.

Rose turned over the piece of cloth. It was calico with red-and-blue checks. The corner that had been pulled through the promise ring was stained with oil. Was Helen also telling her that this was the bit of calico Dulcie had taken from under the hem of Julia's skirt? Did the oil stain implicate Theodore, who used such rags to clean farm implements? Was he, after all, the father of Dulcie's child?

Rose shook her head to clear her jumbled thoughts. Nay, something was wrong with all this. Certainly it made sense that Dulcie had taken the calico to protect Theodore from suspicion, but Helen had not found it in the barn with the ring; Rose would have seen her do so. Helen must have searched Dulcie's room and found the rag there.

How confused and desperate Dulcie must have been. She thought she was protecting her future husband by hiding the oil-stained cloth, and then he cruelly rejected her and her unborn child. No wonder she tried to take her own life.

To preserve oil, Rose extinguished her lamp and sat in the dark, thinking. If Theodore had indeed murdered Julia, wouldn't he have either married Dulcie or killed her to keep her silent? Surely he wouldn't have sent her away. She might have gone straight to the police, or at least to Rose. Theodore could not be the killer.

Rose smoothed the calico over her lap. It was faded, frayed, and looked just like the rags Rose had seen Theodore and Otis using in the barn. Otis? Nay, none of her searching had uncovered a reason why he might kill Julia, and he showed no anxiety about what Dulcie might say when she regained consciousness. The entire village had access to such rags. Rose could only conclude that the oil-stained rag had been placed under Julia's dress on purpose, to implicate Theodore—and perhaps to destroy Dulcie.

Surely only a lover could entice Julia to dress in a dancing gown and meet at night in the Summerhouse. Perhaps he promised her a gift if she would do so. He thought he had covered his tracks, so no one would suspect their relationship. He would have thrown guilt onto others. No doubt he chose the Summerhouse because Julia's body would chill quickly, making it difficult for anyone to establish an alibi. He wanted to create as much confusion as possible.

And then, he prepared the dolls. The horns suggested a spiritual motive, such as the need to cleanse two souls of evil. Yet that implication might be a ruse, too. Rose rubbed her aching forehead and willed herself to think clearly. The killer must have brought the brother doll to his meeting with Sewell and not noticed that the dying man was clutching its tiny hat. So the “gift” that Julia was reaching for was probably the sister doll, which the killer then returned to its hiding place. The dolls must have been messages to his victims. The killer had not meant for them to be seen by anyone else. Rose stood so suddenly the calico rag fell to the floor. She grabbed it up and stuffed it back in her pocket, along with Dulcie's ring. There was no time to lose. She went directly to Gennie's room and entered without knocking.

“Gennie? Wake up, it's Rose.”

“Rose? What . . . ? Has something happened?”

“I'm afraid so.” She held Gennie by the shoulders. “It's Sewell. He's dead.”

“Oh no! Do you mean murdered? Sewell? But then he can't be the killer.”

“That's right. Come on, get dressed. I need your help.”

With the resilience of youth, Gennie leaped out of bed and shivered into her clothes. “What do you want me to do, track the killer?”

“I want you to stand guard at the front doors.”

“Is that all?”

“Gennie, it could be dangerous. I want you to be very alert and careful—and stay out of sight. If anyone goes in or out, come and get me right away, but don't try to stop them. Is that understood? And even more important, I want you to test the phones frequently. If they start working again, call the Pittsfield police at once.”

“All right, you can count on me.”

“Oh, and one more thing. Helen Butterfield isn't in her room, and her bed hasn't been slept in—”

“She's the killer, isn't she? I
knew
it. I never trusted that woman.”

“Gennie, you and I will have a long talk when this is over, but for now—nay, Helen is not the killer. I believe she is a private detective who has been investigating right along with us. If she comes in while you're watching, she's the one person you can show yourself to, and be sure to ask her to find me right away.”