Dancing Dead (20 page)

“We'll never catch up,” Rose said. “I want to watch as she leaves the Meetinghouse. Maybe we can learn something.”

They reached the observation window just as the figure emerged from the stairwell into the meeting room. She seemed to know exactly where to go. Upstairs she had looked out a west-facing window—perhaps she had noticed that the area was free of ghost watchers. She ran to a window next to the west doorway and looked out, taking no more than two seconds. Watching her movements, Rose saw impressive speed and agility. The ghost demonstrated superb awareness of her surroundings and quick reflexes. In another two seconds, she was out the door. Rose and Gennie rushed back into the hallway and to the west window.

“There she is—over there behind the South Family Dwelling House,” Gennie said.

Despite the moonless sky, Rose was able to identify the running figure. The long, dark cloak flew out behind her. It looked like she was heading toward the Shaker Hostel, but she disappeared before Rose could be sure.

“Shall we chase her?” Gennie asked. “I could go back right now to the hostel and search everywhere. I'd bet anything one of the guests has been playacting—that was no ghost that ran past us. A ghost wouldn't even have to run, it could just dematerialize, right?”

“Right,” Rose said. “Let's go.”

They searched the hostel inside and out as best they could without alerting the sleeping guests, but they found no sign of anyone, substantial or otherwise. Rose had run out of strength. “I can still get about two hours of sleep,” she said, “and I intend to do so. I'd advise you to do the same.”

Before falling into bed, however, Rose pulled out her notes and found the section on Sarina Hastings. She had the answers to a couple of her questions. Nay, the ghost had not disappeared after Mina Dunmore's death. Rather, she seemed to be keeping a low profile. And the ghost looked neither plump nor pregnant. It was still possible that Mrs. Dunmore had masqueraded as a ghost, the plump one several folks had reported sighting. But the one Rose had seen tonight . . . She—or possibly he—was quick, light-footed, and bent on some purpose of his or her own that might have nothing to do with embarrassing North Homage.

Rose pulled her dress off and, for the first time in her life as a covenanted Shaker, left it in a heap on the floor. Her last conscious thought was that she really was getting too old for all this.

Eighteen

“I
HAVE SUCH JUICY TIDBITS FOR YOU
, R
OSE
. I
COULDN'T
wait for you to call me back.” Terrence Smythe, Episcopal priest though he was, delighted in a good story. He'd never been a grim sobersides. For that reason, Rose had always enjoyed him, and Wilhelm had made his time with them as miserable as possible.

She'd been feeling tired and confused after the adventure of the previous evening, and she had settled in the new library after breakfast to think. The bright morning sunlight spilling in the dwelling house windows helped buoy her spirits. When she heard Terrence's excitement, her hopes soared.

“You've found out something about Horace von Oswald?” Rose asked. She grabbed some paper and a pen from the library desk and pulled a chair over to the phone.

“Have I ever. As it turns out, I didn't know him because he lived here during the year I spent with you all in North Homage. By the time I returned, he was gone, but the bad memories lingered.” Terrence chortled, a sound Rose remembered with fondness. She could picture his hollow-cheeked face with its long, white beard, so impressive in the pulpit, where no one could see the glint of humor in his blue eyes.

“I spent breakfast and lunch yesterday at the Chickadee Diner here in town, asking all and sundry if they'd ever heard of Horace von Oswald. I got quite an earful. Seems he was quickly and universally disliked. He had a sharp tongue and a habit of asking personal questions. The folks around here are friendly, but not that friendly.

“Anyway, he wangled a job on the
Birdhill Bystander
, our local rag, as a reporter, which made the situation worse. I made a point of talking to the old editor of the
Bystander
—Fred Strauss, finally retired last year at seventy-nine, but his mind's still sharp as ever. He said Horace von Oswald was a damn good reporter—his words, not mine—but he had a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. Fred, as you know, was another damn good reporter—my words, I'm afraid—so he decided to do some digging, as only reporters can do. I didn't ask how he did it, but somehow he found out that Horace was from Massachusetts. A small town somewhere near Pittsfield, I believe.”

Rose's heart picked up speed. “And near the Hancock Shaker Village?”

“Precisely.”

“Was he ever a Shaker or a novitiate?”

“That isn't clear. He'd left his little Massachusetts town as a young man, just after the turn of the century, and he was in his late forties when he lived here, so the trail was pretty cold by the time Fred got interested. Fred said he called the Hancock Shakers, but they didn't recognize the name. Then he called an old newspaper buddy in Pittsfield, who said that Horace had moved to Pittsfield as a young man. He'd been handsome in those days, quite the dapper man about town. Bright, too, with a rosy future. He got himself engaged and enrolled in Harvard. Then everything fell apart. Harvard changed its ivy-draped mind, for reasons no one ever knew—or no one would tell. His fiancée chose a public setting to throw the ring in his face. And then Horace disappeared.”

Rose had been scribbling notes on her lap as fast as she could. “Do you know the girl's name? Did Fred have any suspicions about why Harvard refused him?”

“I'm sorry, Rose. That's all I could get.” Rose heard genuine regret in Terrence's voice. “Shall I keep digging? I do have a sermon to prepare, but this has been great fun.”

“Don't neglect your own work,” Rose said. “I can take it from here. This information is helpful indeed.”

“Any time.”

Rose spread all her notes on the library desk and bent over them, resting her chin on her palms. Now she could answer a couple of her questions about Horace von Oswald. He'd worked as a newspaper reporter. He was from the area near the Hancock Shaker Village, which meant he almost certainly had knowledge of them, if not contact. She added another question:
Does he resent the Shakers because of something having to do with the break-up of his engagement?
She still couldn't explain his handwritten Shaker stories, but it was possible he'd been copying them from newspapers and meant to use them to hurt the Shakers somehow. Maybe he hadn't yet figured out of what use they might be. She also wondered why he hadn't given a more recent phone number. She suspected he didn't want Andrew to call and find out what he'd been doing the last couple of years.

She moved down her list to Daisy Prescott. Finding out more about her might prove almost impossible. From what Rose had observed of her, direct questioning likely wouldn't work. Daisy kept her private life a secret. She seemed to be hiding something, but what? If she wasn't exactly what she presented herself to be, then she had perfected her role. She wouldn't make a mistake, not unless Rose could surprise her, catch her off guard. To do that, Rose would need some knowledge Daisy wouldn't expect her to have. How to get it, that was the question.

Rose paced the full perimeter of the room, thinking. She wound up back at the phone. She picked up the receiver and rang the Shaker Hostel. Beatrice answered and grudgingly promised to find Gennie.

“Rose, shouldn't you still be sleeping?” Gennie sounded more cheerful and alert than she had any right to be.

“Can you come over to the library? Right now? I need your help.”

Gennie arrived so fast, Rose suspected she'd galloped. In flat shoes and a comfortably loose light blue dress with two long pleats down the front of the skirt, she looked fresh and ready for anything. Rose put aside her qualms. Gennie was a grown woman; it was time to stop treating her like a half child. Besides, Rose needed the help of someone who could mix more easily with the world's people.

Rose went over all her notes with Gennie, then sat back while Gennie went through them again.

“Looks like you need some help with Daisy,” Gennie said, handing the pages back to Rose. “What can I do? Shall I search her room?”

“Nay, I don't think we'll have to do that. We have a source of information about the contents of everyone's rooms, if we handle her carefully.”

“Mrs. Berg!”

“Precisely. I believe we have enough information about her to throw her into a tizzy. She'll be only too glad to cast suspicion on everyone else in the hostel.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to tell Mrs. Berg to meet me here. Don't alert any of the other guests. Then stay in the hostel and try to keep anyone from slipping away to wander around the village. If someone does leave, follow him or her—at a discreet distance, of course. I don't want anyone to know I'm talking to Mrs. Berg. I'm very afraid the killer will become suspicious and run.”

Gennie's small face puckered. “You know, there's something I don't understand. If one of the hostel guests is the killer, why hasn't he or she left already?”

“I can think of a couple of reasons,” Rose said. “The other guests are staying, and the killer can't be the only one to leave—it would look suspicious. But I think the more important reason is that the killer still hasn't fulfilled his or her purpose. The killings might be part of the plan, or they might have become necessary because Mrs. Dunmore and Brother Linus learned too much.”

“Which would put Mrs. Berg in danger.”

“It would put everyone in danger.”

 

Rose was not one to sit on her hands. While she waited for Mrs. Berg to show up, she closed the library door and made a series of brief phone calls to newspapers in and around the Lexington area. She checked her notes again and decided she needed more information about the self-effacing Daisy Prescott. She placed another call to the number Daisy had given when she'd moved into the hostel. This time she asked to speak to the lady of the house, Mrs. Carswell Houghton.

“Mrs. Houghton, I have rather a strange question to ask you,” Rose said, after she'd explained who she was.

“I don't mind strange,” Mrs. Houghton said, “as long as it's brief.”

“Of course.” This time, rather than using the name Daisy Prescott, Rose described her in detail.

“The more you say about the woman,” said Mrs. Houghton, “the more she sounds like that person our son was engaged to briefly five or six years ago. The hair was different—black, as I remember, though I never thought it was her natural color. But she carried herself just as you describe. At first we thought she was a lovely girl. She was polite, well-spoken, well-dressed. She seemed to hail from the right part of society, and she certainly presented herself as well-to-do. We must be careful, you know. All sorts of unsuitable women have pursued our son simply to get their hands on our money.”

Mrs. Houghton didn't seem to require any answering comments, so Rose remained silent.

“I'm afraid I've forgotten her last name—there have been so many women, you know—but I seem to remember her first name was Clarissa or something like that. When they announced their engagement, my husband, Mr. Houghton, had the girl's background investigated. Well, you can imagine our shock when we discovered she was nothing but an
actress
. She wasn't wealthy and well-born at all; she was just playing a part. We got rid of her quickly, of course. Haven't heard a word about her since then. Is that all? I'm in rather a hurry.”

“Just one more question. Your butler mentioned your husband has a secretary named Daisy Prescott.”

“Off and on, when he requires her services. He hasn't needed her for a while, though. I believe she keeps busy with other clients.”

“How long has she worked for your husband?”

“Oh, at least ten years,” Mrs. Houghton said. Impatience showed in her voice.

“What does she look like?”

“Tall, thin, lightish hair. She always wears her hair pulled back in a practical style, most appropriate for her station. Is that all?”

“That's very helpful,” Rose said. “Thank you so much for your time.”

Mrs. Houghton broke the connection without any further niceties.

So
, thought Rose,
our Daisy might easily have known the real Daisy Prescott. Perhaps they'd become friends. But why assume her identity?

Beatrice Berg still hadn't arrived, and Rose suspected she was dawdling out of innate distrust. Rose had just begun to rearrange a few books on the new library shelves when the telephone rang. Worrying that Mrs. Berg might be getting ready to flee, she grabbed the phone. To her delight, the operator put through a call from Brother Andrew.

“How good to hear your voice, Andrew.”

“Yours, too. I have interesting news about Saul Halvardson. May I speak freely now?”

“Yea, but I might have to cut you off. I'm expecting Mrs. Berg to drop by. I have some tough questions to ask her.”

“Wish I could be there. I'll be brief. Saul Halvardson lied to you about his route. What he told me originally was the truth. Perhaps he thought of us as so unworldly he had no need to lie—until he met you, that is. He told you he traveled north, all the way to Cleveland, but according to several of our customers, he had a regular southern route, down to Lexington, at least. That's as far as I've checked—or need to. Several folks told me the same story. Saul had a habit of romancing the ladies to whom he sold lingerie.”

Knowing the world all too well, neither Andrew nor Rose was embarrassed or shocked by the topic of conversation. So neither wasted time on cries of disapproval.

“Finally he romanced one woman too many. He left a young woman with child. About a month ago, the woman confessed everything to her husband, including the name of the child's father. The husband gathered together a band of friends, and they took off to find Saul and punish him. There was talk of a lynching. Saul disappeared right around the time our advertisement appeared in the Lexington paper. He reappeared at our hostel, apparently thinking no one would look for him there.”

“I'm a little surprised he used his own name.”

“From what I've heard about Saul, he greatly exaggerates his own abilities. He was often heard to say that he'd always been blessed with ‘the most wonderful luck,' so it might not occur to him to question the wisdom of any plan that might pop into his head.”

Rose heard a belligerent knocking on the library door. “I must hang up now,” she said.

“I understand. At the risk of sounding like Saul, good luck with Mrs. Berg. I'll see you very soon.”

 

“Would you close the door behind you, Mrs. Berg? It seems a bit drafty today.”

“I got lunch to get ready, can't set around jawin'.” Beatrice Berg edged into the library and stood halfway between the door and the desk. Rose had quickly ordered a pot of spearmint tea and requested a few of the cinnamon cakes Gertrude had whipped up as a treat for the children. Mrs. Berg shifted her weight from foot to foot as if she couldn't decide between the safety of the hallway and the allure of those cinnamon cakes.

“Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule,” Rose said. “This won't take long. Have some tea and a cake.” She used her firmest eldress voice, so Mrs. Berg would assume she didn't really have a choice.

“That tea—spearmint, ain't it? My gram used to collect spearmint from the hills and make up tea for us chillen when we took sick. She used to put a heap of molasses in it, said it'd give us strength.”

“Will sugar do?”

“Reckon it'll have to.” Having made her decision not to bolt, Mrs. Berg wasted no more time. She stirred three heaping teaspoons of sugar into her tea, dipped a cinnamon cake in it, and ate crouched over the cup so the liquid would catch the crumbs. Rose watched quietly as she gobbled up the cake, then drained the cup.

“More?” Without waiting for an answer, Rose filled Mrs. Berg's cup and offered the plate of cakes.

With no apparent diminution of appetite, Mrs. Berg began the process again. As she chewed her second bite, Rose spoke. “It has come to my attention,” she said, “that you have been less than open with us about your background. Because of that, and given the recent tragedies in our hostel, I have become increasingly alarmed.”