A Deadly Shaker Spring (27 page)

R
OSE HAD SOME POINTED QUESTIONS FOR
S
ISTER
Elsa Pike, who seemed to know too much about Faithfull and Samuel and Sarah. Elsa would be cleaning up in the Center Family kitchen by now. Rose would let her finish her tasks. Rose's stomach gurgled with hunger, and she decided a side trip to the Trustees' Office kitchen was in order. An interview with Elsa on little sleep and an empty stomach sounded too onerous.

She whipped into the small trustees' kitchen and snatched a leftover slice of brown bread from a tray on the counter, slathered it with butter, and took a generous bite. Only one sister had remained to do clean-up. Rose gathered up dishes to be washed, assuring the sister that she was feeling better but would be unavailable all day, in case someone asked. Especially someone like Wilhelm.

As Rose headed for the front door, she heard the phone ring in her office. She hesitated. It could be another Languor citizen asking for a refund, but it could also be Grady with the information she had asked him to get about empty houses in Languor. She rushed back to her office and grabbed the phone.

“Reckon I found it,” Grady's voice said as he replaced the operator. “I checked at Worthington's bank, soon as it opened and before he got there. They listed three houses in town and one farmhouse they'd foreclosed on, and no one's bought any of them yet. The farmhouse roof is falling in, and one of the houses is fire-damaged, so I checked out the other two.”

“Did you go inside?”

“Yeah, briefly. The bank vice president—I went to school with him—he lent me keys, and we agreed not to mention it to Worthington. One house was completely empty, but the other one—well, no one answered the door, so I had a quick look around. The top floors were empty, except for two rooms that looked lived in, had men's clothes in the closet of one and women's clothes in the other. But guess what I found in the basement—a printing press.”

“Ah, that's it, then.” Rose's exhaustion yielded to excitement. “No sign of the inhabitants?”

“Nope, but I didn't stay more than ten minutes.”

“Grady, do you still have that key?”

“Yes,” Grady said, sounding guarded.

“I'd like to take a look at the house.”

“Rose, I don't know about that. Harry wouldn't like it much that I went in there at all. If I let you go, too, and he finds out, he'll give me—uh, heck.”

Rose laughed. “The sheriff has given us both ‘heck' before, and we survived the experience. The risk is worth it, believe me.”

Grady sighed, and Rose could almost see him run his hand through his straight brown hair. “I can't let you go in there alone,” he said. “We don't know how
these folks would react if they came back and found you there. All right, look, can you meet me in about half an hour? The address is 42 Ginkgo Lane. Worthington isn't due at the bank until noon; I could still get the key back without having to explain myself to him.”

“I'll leave right now.”

“You stay in your car until I see if the house is still empty,” Grady said as he leaned down to talk to Rose through the open window of the Society's Plymouth.

He knocked twice, then used the key to enter. Rose felt her first tingle of anxiety as a couple walked toward her car, arm in arm. She resisted the urge to sink down in her seat; that would look odd. Yet she felt exposed in her woven sugar-scoop bonnet, so she slipped it off. She stared straight ahead, watching the couple out of the corner of her eye. They passed her car and the empty house with no more than a quick glance in her direction.

Rose released the breath she'd been holding in her chest just as Grady appeared at the front door and beckoned her inside. She hopped out of the car, picked up her skirts, and trotted to the house. Grady locked the door behind her and led the way down a dark corridor to the kitchen. Rose had become so accustomed to Shaker buildings, which were cleaned and aired daily, that she could smell the dust in the stale air. Grady had a flashlight, essential in this gloomy house where sunlight could not penetrate the heavy brocade curtains.

“The steps are rickety,” Grady said. “Watch yourself.”
He descended the staircase to the basement. Rose followed him and stopped at the bottom of the steps, unable to make out anything but a large shape that filled nearly half the room. She saw a cracked stool pulled up to what looked like a typewriter, which was attached to a complicated machine as tall as a man. She took it to be a printing press. Grady lit candle after candle, until wavering shapes emerged: a ring of empty chairs, dozens more unlit candles, oil lamps, and a table covered with stacks of paper. Piles of books cluttered the floor underneath the table.

“They'll smell those candles and know someone has been here,” Rose warned. “If they come back while we're here, what do we do?”

“Run,” Grady said with a laugh. “What can they do? We'd hear them come in, and I'm the law. They shouldn't be living here. Chances are they're the ones who'd run.”

“And then we'd lose track of them,” Rose said.

“Well, that's one way to get rid of them. Do you want to leave?”

“Nay, I need to know what's going on, even at the risk of giving them warning.”

Grady seemed fascinated by the printing press. “Old model,” he said. “Linotype. I remember seeing one like this as a kid. My father was friends with the editor of the
Languor Weekly Advocate
, and he used to take me over to watch the paper go to press sometimes. It would take some determination for them to cart this thing here and set it up.”

“Determination and knowledge and anger,” Rose said. She had carried a large candle over to the table
and was reading a page with printing on it. “Grady, look at this.”

Grady took the paper she held out to him, and read:

The Shakers have kidnapped their last child!

The message ended in the middle of the page. “Strong words,” Grady remarked. “Any idea what it's about?”

“It's more than strong, it's a horrible lie. They've got something planned, I suspect. My guess is it's coming up soon. Several of these pages are variations on this one, some longer, as if they were drafts. Yet there is no evidence of a final version.”

“Being distributed, you reckon?”

“I'm afraid so.” Rose scanned the room. “There's nothing here. I want to look upstairs in the bedrooms.” She was up the basement stairs before Grady could blow out the candles.

They split up, Grady searching the man's room, and Rose, the woman's. The woman's dresser held a few underthings, not enough to hide anything underneath, so Rose moved to the large closet. Stacked neatly into a far corner, she found what she'd hoped to find.

“Grady, come in here and look,” she called. “These are Shaker journals.” Ignoring the dust and dirt, Rose scrambled on her knees on the floor of the closet. “I'm certain these are Samuel's journals,” she said, opening one volume in the middle. “I don't really know his handwriting, but here he's talking about
discussing his sales trips with Fee. Fiona, our late trustee,” Rose explained when Grady looked puzzled. “I'm taking these back.”

“Are you sure that's wise? I bet they'll notice.”

“I'm afraid they will destroy everything. These belong to us, to all Believers. And these journals are the only way I'll really understand what has been happening in North Homage. Will you help me?”

Grady sighed. “All right, I'll help.” He began gathering up the small volumes. “These look different,” he said. “Different handwriting.”

“That's Agatha's handwriting,” Rose said, grabbing the whole stack. “These are the volumes someone stole from my retiring room.” She held one volume to her chest.

“Rose, are you positive the folks involved are former Shakers? I mean, couldn't they have gotten plenty of information about you all from these journals?”

“Nay, the articles about us began before any of these were stolen. But they must have one more set of journals.”

“Why?”

Rose told him about the old journal pages Sarah had given her.

“I'm fairly certain,” she concluded, “that the handwriting on those pages does not match Samuel's.” She stood and brushed the dust from her dress. “Did you find anything in the man's closet?”

“Just piles and piles of old newspapers. They contained articles with the byline “Klaus Holker.”

“Then it's certain. Klaus Holker and Evangeline Frankell are involved, and Klaus is almost certainly
the author of the
Watcher
. Did you find any other Shaker journals in Klaus's room?”

“Nope, not a one.”

Rose looked back at the closet. “I do want to take these with me.”

“How about we just take the ones you're sure you'll need? Maybe then they won't notice right away that any are missing.”

Rose nodded in sad agreement. She selected volumes for 1906 and 1910 through 1912 of Samuel's journals, along with his most recent one, and Agatha's 1912 journal. She carefully stacked the remaining books to look as they had originally.

“What time is it?” Rose asked.

Grady pulled out his pocket watch. “Just past eleven. We'd better get out of here. If Worthington and these folks are together, and he is due at the bank at noon, they may return soon.”

They left the house quickly, relieved to find the street still deserted. Worthington had chosen the house well; it was on a remarkably quiet street. They stowed the journals in the small trunk of the Society's car.

“If my guess is right,” Rose said, “and the apostates are planning something, can I find you quickly?”

Grady nodded. “Call me at the sheriff's office or my home, anytime, day or night. Harry won't be back for a few more days, or I'd have a hard time being so helpful. I'm hoping you won't have any need to mention this visit to him in the future? Good, thanks. Let me know if anything happens, and I'll be there.”

A rattling Model A turned onto the street, and Rose slipped behind the wheel of her car. Grady strolled to
his own Buick as if he had just finished admonishing someone for erratic driving. Both started their cars and drove off before the Model A had sputtered close enough for the driver to see them clearly.

Rose's mind churned with plans and with fears. She was convinced that Samuel's journals would fill in enough details to help her figure out what was going on in her village, but she didn't have time to pore over them just yet. She drove toward Richard Worthington's elegant mansion on the other side of town. Despite Worthington's coldness, Rose believed he was the only one she could approach. It was in character for him to threaten to call in North Homage's loans, but she could not envision him taking part in an angry mob. If he planned to be at the bank by noon, he might just be home now, preparing for work.

Worthington's estate covered several acres on the corner of the most exclusive street in Languor. The home had originally been built by his wife's grandfather with the questionably gotten profit from his railroad empire. The Depression had not touched the house or grounds. A high wrought-iron fence surrounded the property. Just inside, a thick wall of lilacs and golden forsythia obscured any view through the fence.

Rose parked the Plymouth around the corner from the entrance, hoping to attract as little attention as possible. She walked around the corner and slid through the gate, from which hung an open padlock. The Worthingtons might own a mansion, but they still lived in a rural Kentucky town, where locks were rarely used. Her feet crunched on the shell fragments
lining the driveway, which split into two directions—off to the right, toward a carriage house converted into a garage, and to the left, toward the curving limestone stairs that led to the front door. Rose stuffed wisps of hair back in her bonnet, shook out her wrinkled dress, and approached the door.

A uniformed maid answered her ring and stared at her, her wide eyes moving from Rose's dusty black shoes and loose dress to her heavy bonnet.

“I've come to speak with Mr. Worthington,” Rose said.

“He's not home,” the girl said with a deep Southern drawl. No wonder she stared; she might never have seen a Shaker.

“Will he be home soon? It's important that I speak with him.”

“Who is it, Abbie?” Frances Worthington's small, pinched face peered around the shoulder of the taller maid. “Oh, hello.”

“Mrs. Worthington, my name is Rose Callahan, and I'm eldress of North Homage Shaker village.”

“Yes, of course, I know who you are. Richard isn't home yet.”

“May I speak with you?”

“Well, I suppose so.” Her dark eyes registered an emotion stronger than discomfort. Fear, perhaps? “Come in. Abbie, bring coffee to the parlor.”

“You needn't bother, truly. I'll only take a few minutes of your time, and we don't drink coffee.” Her stomach was complaining again, and she longed to request a snack, but she decided against it. Best to make this a quick visit and get back to North Homage.

“Oh, yes, of course. I forgot.” Frances rubbed her
arms as if she were chilled and led the way to the parlor.

Rose stifled a gasp when she saw the room. The size did not surprise her; Shaker rooms were large enough to accommodate groups. But Shaker rooms also gave a sense of openness and light, with their generous windows and sparse furnishings. The Worthington parlor looked as if its owners had begun to collect possessions during the Victorian era and forgot to stop when it was full. Small Persian rugs lay on larger ones, while furniture, paintings, and painted statuettes lined all four walls. Heavy brocade curtains, slightly open, allowed only a sliver of light. To Rose, the room felt as stale and unlived-in as the abandoned house the apostates were using.