Dancing Dead (17 page)

Fifteen

B
EFORE VISITING
W
ILHELM IN HIS CELL
, R
OSE WANTED
to start her investigation with at least one interview. Maybe she'd have something hopeful to report to Wilhelm. She drove through the center of town and parked half a street down from Winderley House, the most respectable of Languor's boardinghouses, located just a block away from the town square.

Winderley House had once been an elegant Victorian mansion, owned by the wealthiest family in the county. One Winderley still remained, a middle-aged spinster named Ida, but the family fortune had vanished even before the onset of the Depression. Ida had never lived anywhere but in that house, and she had no intention of giving it up, so she'd turned it into a boardinghouse expressly for genteel persons in limited straits. Beatrice Berg claimed to have lived in the house for several months. Luckily, Rose knew and liked Ida, who often ordered eggs and woolen blankets from the Shakers.

“I wondered if I'd be hearing from you one of these days,” Ida said, once Rose had explained the reason for her visit. “As a boarder, Beatrice was perhaps less refined than one might have hoped. Do come into the parlor. I have the kettle on for tea, and I've baked some currant scones.” As a child, Ida had traveled extensively in England, and the effect had never worn off. Despite limited funds, she somehow managed to obtain a steady supply of tea, sugar, and cream to keep the illusion alive. Rose knew better than to refuse.

While Ida was in the kitchen preparing afternoon tea, Rose wandered around the formal parlor, letting the atmosphere quiet her mind. The furniture dated back to the previous century, but Ida had refinished and recovered in lighter hues to alleviate the oppressive effect of Victorian décor. A settee and two wing chairs of pale blue velvet clustered around a mahogany tea table covered with a white lace cloth. Andrew might do well to consult Ida about sprucing up the Shaker Hostel parlor—if it remained in operation long enough for him to do so.

“Here we go, Rose. Now, you just settle down and sip some tea before we speak of unpleasantness.”

Ida had made chamomile tea flavored with lemons—Rose could smell the apple-lemon scent as she took the offered cup. She treated herself to a spoonful of sugar in her tea and a scone, which felt warm, as if it had just come out of the oven. After all, she told herself, with all this sleuthing, she might easily miss the evening meal. For just a few moments, as she chewed the fresh scone and sipped her sweet fruity tea, Rose felt her tight shoulders relax. With a sigh, she put her empty cup and plate on the table and tackled the “unpleasantness.”

“Ida, you said you were expecting me. Was Mrs. Berg a problem for you?”

Ida poured them both another cup of tea, adding sugar to the cups. “Yes, I'm afraid she was quite difficult. Impolite to the other guests, rude to visitors, always complaining about this or that—no one liked being around her. I'd spoken with her about her behavior on many occasions, but she couldn't seem to learn. You know how difficult it is for me to send anyone away”—in fact, Rose knew Ida's spine was pure iron clothed in antique lace—“but I was just about to tell Beatrice to find other accommodations when she announced she'd be moving to the Shaker Hostel. She made it sound as if she'd been invited, even urged to come, but I knew her too well to believe that. I considered calling you, but I thought perhaps she'd be happier with you.”

Rose sipped her tea and said nothing. Ida was a wonderful woman and very determined to make a success of her boardinghouse. It was more likely that she hadn't wanted the Shakers to send Beatrice back.

“Can you tell me anything about Beatrice's background? She told us only that she was widowed and had a small inheritance.”

Ida took a bite of scone and chewed with deliberation. By the time she swallowed, she seemed to have come to a decision. She put down her plate and cup, folded her hands in her lap, and tilted her head at Rose. With her cap of hair, dyed black, and her tidy gray suit, she looked like a curious chickadee, peeking in the window during dancing worship.

“I had my suspicions about Mrs. Beatrice Berg,” Ida said. “So I did a little investigating of my own.”

A chickadee with the soul of a fox,
Rose thought.

“You might recall that I have an old friend in the newspaper business,” Ida said. Rose did recall. The man's name was Mr. DeBow—Ida never referred to him by his first name. Rose remembered that he had asked Ida to marry him. Ida seemed quite happy as a spinster, running her own business. Somehow she'd managed to turn the man down, yet retain his everlasting friendship.

“I asked him to find out anything he could about Beatrice.” Ida stood and brushed a wrinkle out of her skirt. “If you'll excuse me a moment, I'll show you what he found.”

She returned in moments, carrying a sheaf of papers that looked like newspaper articles. Without comment, she handed them to Rose. As Rose read through the pile, Ida straightened the tea things, then sat again and waited in silence.

All the articles but one came from a Lexington newspaper during a six-month period in the spring and summer of 1932. However, the top article was from a four-page weekly, published in a small town Rose had never heard of near Hazard, in southeastern Kentucky. Both the prose and the printing were amateurish. The author wrote with glowing hyperbole about a town father named Darryl Berg. Toward the end of the article, Beatrice's name was mentioned as the “little wife.” Darryl had just given the town several thousand dollars, a huge amount in those early years following the stock market crash, to rebuild the town hall, which had been destroyed by fire. He'd also, on several occasions, given money to local businessmen to keep them from losing their businesses. There was to be an ice cream social in his honor, followed by a special town meeting at which folks would be invited to publicly declare their gratitude. Someone had suggested naming a street after him.

Rose put the article aside and turned to the next. Dated a year later, it reported, in the more professional tones of a big-city paper, that Darryl Berg was dead, apparently poisoned. His wife, Beatrice, had been questioned but not arrested. She claimed she'd been sick, too, so somebody was trying to kill both of them. She had no idea who the culprit might be.

All the remaining articles traced the evolution of the investigation into Mr. Berg's death. At first, a local handyman was suspected after Beatrice reported that her husband had refused to give him money to pay his gambling debts. “Darryl would give the shirt off his back for a good cause,” said the grieving widow, “but he had his limits. Gambling is a sin, no doubt about it.” The reporter had cleaned up Mrs. Berg's grammar, yet Rose recognized her distinctive tone.

There followed several articles, each presenting a different suspect, all suggested, in one way or another, by Mrs. Beatrice Berg. The police did not seem to find this suspicious, stating only that a wife would know best whom her husband had riled. For Rose, however, the pattern fell into place.

“So you think Beatrice Berg poisoned her husband?” Rose asked, raising her gaze to Ida.

“Well, I have no proof, and I certainly wouldn't accuse someone out of suspicion alone. But it does seem to be a reasonable conclusion. More tea?”

“Nay, thank you.” Rose gathered up the articles. “May I keep these for a while? I'll be glad to return them to you.”

“You may keep them forever,” Ida said. “I am finished with Beatrice Berg.”

“I'd better be on my way,” Rose said. She folded the pile of articles and stuffed them into her apron pocket, beside the small, napkin-wrapped slice of cake Mairin had insisted she take to Wilhelm.

“Do drop in again, Rose, perhaps on a cheerier errand.”

As Ida swung open the heavy front door, Rose thought to ask, “By any chance, did your newspaper friend know what poison killed Darryl Berg?”

“Mr. DeBow heard from another Lexington reporter that the police never figured out what poison was used. The poor man showed symptoms of some kind of poisoning—you know, dreadful sickness and so forth.” Ida's mouth puckered with distaste. “So they were convinced he had somehow eaten something he shouldn't have. He had a great interest in gardening, Mr. DeBow said. He simply wouldn't have eaten anything poisonous, not knowingly. Mr. DeBow and I strongly suspect Mrs. Berg of murdering her husband.”

Rose was inclined to agree.

 

“Wilhelm, you must eat.” Rose sat on a small stool Grady had provided for her, since the jail cell held only a hard, narrow bed.

Wilhelm knelt on the stone floor, his head bowed, mumbling incessant prayer. He raised his head just long enough to shake it once before resuming. Uncertain what to do or say next, Rose offered a few prayers of her own, both for Wilhelm and for guidance.

“Please, Wilhelm,” she said, after sending a special plea to Holy Mother Wisdom, “we must talk about this situation. You are in danger. I want to help, but I need to hear anything you know that might lead me in the right direction. I'm quite sure you are not responsible for these deaths. I mean to find out who is. We can set this right; I know we can.”

Wilhelm squeezed his eyes shut and continued praying. Rose couldn't watch anymore. She gazed around the cell and her spirit sank. Near the ceiling, weak light entered through one tiny north-facing window and painted stripes on the cement floor in front of Wilhelm. Mold grew in malignant clumps along the bottom edge of the wall. The chilled, fetid air sickened her. Shaker retiring rooms were always kept fresh and clean. She wasn't used to such squalor. She wished she'd brought her cloak along to pull tightly around her; she could have left it with Wilhelm.

“Wilhelm, I respect your desire to pray, but I believe the Holy Father would understand if you pause a few moments.”

Wilhelm ignored her.

“All right, then, I'll tell you what I've learned so far, and what I need to know from you. If you feel guided to do so, please answer my questions. It will make my task easier and get you out of this terrible place that much sooner.” She listed every piece of information she had gathered, speaking slowly so Wilhelm might interrupt at any time. He did not comment.

“And here's what I need you to tell me,” Rose continued. “Did you ever speak with Mina Dunmore?”

“Nay, I did not.”

She hurried to her next question, hoping to keep him talking. “I myself saw you enter the Ministry House just after Mrs. Dunmore had gone in—on last Saturday afternoon. Are you saying that you two did not run into one another?”

Wilhelm stopped praying. He stared at the floor in a silence so long that Rose wondered if he'd gone into a trance. Then he raised his eyes to her face. They were bloodshot and underlined with puffy, bluish circles.

“I saw her that day, but I did not wish to speak to her. Her demeanor struck me as unpleasant. My own daughter. I found an old chair, closed myself into my old retiring room, and wedged the chair against the door.” Wilhelm's normally ruddy face, now pale from hunger, twisted in unmistakable pain. “She walked around the building calling out ‘Father, Father.' I thought perhaps she knew about Mother Ann and was using the information to mock us, naming me father instead of elder or brother. I was enraged, wanted to order her out of the village. That is all. I never spoke with her, never saw her again.” His voice picked up power as his personality reasserted itself, at least for a moment. “I did not kill her, nor did I kill Brother Linus. These foolish police; they have no understanding. I would sooner cut off my own arms than kill another.”

“I know,” Rose said. “We have had our differences, but be assured that I will never stop searching until I have discovered who
did
kill Linus and Mrs. Dunmore. Now, I beg of you, eat—and rest. You need your strength. I hope you won't have to be here long, but—”

“Nay, leave things as they are.”

“What?”

“I did not kill my daughter in the physical sense. But I killed her spiritually. I am responsible for the woman she became. I deserve to stay here, in this hell on earth, until the Holy Father, in His mercy, ends my misery.”

Rose took the somewhat smashed bundle of birthday cake from her apron pocket and placed it on the bed behind Wilhelm. “Mairin insisted you have this,” she said. “She is concerned for you. We all are.”

Wilhelm did not respond.

Rose rubbed her forehead with her thumb and index finger. Wilhelm always seemed to trigger a headache—even now, when hardship had brought them closer than she'd ever believed they could be. She would continue, of course. There was no other choice. But Wilhelm would be little help, most likely would never thank her for her efforts. She called for Grady to let her out. She was not about to let Wilhelm hang to atone for his sins. He would just have to find another way.

 

It was late afternoon when Rose left Wilhelm, and the Kentucky spring was at its glorious best. After being in Wilhelm's dark, damp cell, she paused outside the courthouse to breathe in the balmy air. A sweet breeze brushed her face with warmth, and color surrounded her. She was tempted to walk to the town square, maybe sit on a bench under a magnolia tree, and think through everything she'd learned. Yea, that would surely clear her mind. She turned toward the square and nearly ran into two men of the world—businessmen, by the look of their pressed suits. They stared at her for several moments. She flinched with discomfort, aware of her long loose dress, tied to her waist with a white apron; the white lawn cap covering her hair; and the plain black shoes that gave comfort rather than glamour. One of the men slowly raised his dark blue trilby and nodded a silent greeting. The other did not.

Once the men had passed by, Rose reconsidered her visit to the town square. Since Grady had taken over as sheriff, the townsfolk had shown less animosity toward the Shakers. Relations between North Homage and the world were friendlier than they'd been in years, and the Shaker businesses were thriving as best they could during such painful economic times. But when something went wrong at North Homage, the world was still quick to blame. Because the Shakers strove to establish a heaven on earth, outsiders expected them to be perfect in every way.