Dancing Dead (21 page)

Every muscle in Beatrice Berg's body froze. Her stare held more surprise than cunning, which had been Rose's aim.

“So this is what we will do—first, I want the truth, all of it. I know already that you lied about where you lived before coming here. You never owned a home near the center of Languor. Before living in Winderley House, you lived near Hazard, Kentucky. Your husband died of poisoning, which you very probably administered. He was a violent man, but he beat you in secret, and he gave away money that should have been yours. So you killed him.”

Mrs. Berg opened a mouth still full of partially chewed cinnamon cake. “That's a lie,” she said. A few crumbs spilled out into the teacup. She swallowed quickly. “I never poisoned him, never.”

“The evidence seems clear,” Rose said. She had been trained all her life not to lie, so she chose her words carefully. In fact, the evidence did seem clear—just not conclusive.

“Who you been talkin' to? It's that woman, ain't it? I heard Brother Andrew left all of a sudden—you sent him down to check on me, didn't you? He talked to that woman, didn't he? Well, she's lyin'. She thought he'd leave me and she could get ahold of his money, but—”

“But you killed him first.” Rose said it as a statement, though she knew it was a guess. If she were wrong, she could lose her temporary advantage.

Mrs. Berg's gaze jumped around the room, landed for a split second on Rose, then jerked away. But not before Rose saw the fear in her eyes. Her guess had been right. Mrs. Berg would never admit to killing her husband, but she had done so all the same.

“If I kilt him, how come I ain't in jail?” Mrs. Berg asked. “Answer me that one.”

Rose poured herself a cup of tea and took several sips, to give herself time. She had driven tough bargains with businessmen from the world, stood her ground against Wilhelm, convinced recalcitrant sisters to confess, even tracked down criminals before. But she had never used her training and skills to manipulate a liar and killer into trading information for silence. It was wrong in so many ways, yet she saw no other way to get what she needed, as quickly as she needed it. Wilhelm's life hung in the balance, and perhaps other lives, as well.

“I know, too, that you had a second hostel master key made, so you could search the other guests' rooms. You made it obvious you left the original key in your apron pocket. That way, everyone would know where it was. If the others suspected their belongings had been gone through, you could say the key was there for anyone to borrow when you weren't around. It also means that if we asked you to leave at some point, you could sneak back and get into all the rooms. Were you just thinking ahead, or did you have a plan in mind? Did you think you might leave, then come back and kill Mrs. Dunmore and Brother Linus?” Rose knew she was on shaky ground, since she had no evidence to indicate Mrs. Berg had a motive for the killings, but one more hard push might loosen the woman's tongue.

“I never—that's a damn lie. All right, I did make a key. But I never kilt nobody.” She flapped her hand at Rose as if to dismiss the importance of the whole discussion. “It's just a game, that's all. I'm right curious, always have been. 'Specially when folks is uppity—that type usually's got a heap of secrets.”

“And knowing their secrets gives you power over them.” Rose was starting to feel tired and a little sick. More than ever, she was deeply grateful to be a Believer. Believers were fully human, of course, and therefore capable of every evil, but they were blessed with Mother Ann's guidance and the Shaker way of life to show them the path of goodness. Mrs. Berg was of the world—the worst of the world. Mrs. Berg began to eat again, more slowly, and Rose knew she hadn't much time to press her advantage.

“I should call Sheriff O'Neal right away,” Rose said. Mrs. Berg watched her warily. “But I will not, on one condition.”

“What?” She held the cake in front of her mouth but stopped eating.

“You must tell me everything you have discovered about your fellow guests, every little detail.”

Mrs. Berg's eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah? And you a Shaker and all. Aren't you supposed to be against killin' and gossip and all that?” She put down her unfinished cake and leaned back in her chair. “You must want that information
real
bad. Mind you, I ain't admitting nothin', but seems to me, you want this bad enough, you should give me a whole lot more. I want to get out of here, home free, no callin' the police after me, and I want some money, too—enough to take care of myself for the rest of my life.”

Rose might be new at this type of negotiation, but she wasn't naïve to the ways of the world. She'd anticipated that the wily Mrs. Berg might try to raise the stakes. “Perhaps you are right,” she said. “Violating my beliefs is too high a price to pay. I'll call the sheriff right now.” She stood quickly and walked to the phone. Picking up the receiver, she turned her back on Mrs. Berg and spoke clearly into the horn.

“Ring the Languor County Sheriff's Office, please.”

“Wait.” As Mrs. Berg stood, her chair scraped back and fell over. She laughed nervously. “Don't pay me no mind, I was just joshin' you. Can't blame me for that.”

Without replacing the receiver, Rose turned to look at her.

“Hang that thing up. I'll do like you asked.” She looked genuinely frightened. Rose had won, but she did not feel elated. She prayed silently and very hard for forgiveness, for guidance, and for the eventual arrest of Beatrice Berg for murdering her husband. Rose knew she had no firm proof of that murder, but she knew in her bones it had happened, or Mrs. Berg would not now be so willing to talk.

“All right,” Rose said. She replaced the receiver. “Pick up your chair and sit down again, then we'll talk.” She kept her voice firm, edged with impatience, to maintain control of the situation. When they were seated again, Rose said, “Begin with Horace von Oswald. What do you know about him?”

Mrs. Berg shook her head. “Not much. He's a mean one—I wanted to know why, that's all.” Her glance darted to Rose and down to the floor. Rose did not reply. “Writ a lot, he did, but he tore the pages into little bitty pieces, so's I couldn't read even a word when I cleaned up his room. Every now and again, he'd take the car away without askin' the rest of us, till Daisy took him to task. So then he'd offer rides to us, and sometimes we'd go with him.”

“Where did he go?”

“Don't know. He'd drop us off where we asked, then he'd drive off to somewheres and come back for us later. Sometimes we had to wait a spell.” She crunched her iron-gray curls with one hand. “Knew lots about the Shakers. All that about y'all being against killin'? I learnt it from him. He told us about how y'all don't have babes or famblies like normal folks, and you let the women be in charge just like the menfolk. He said y'all go crazy when you dance, like that Sister Elsa did, and then you see ghosts.” Mrs. Berg now seemed to have forgotten her fear.

“What exactly did Mr. von Oswald say about ghosts?” Rose asked.

“Just that they was real to y'all, even if we couldn't see 'em, and maybe they was really real.”

Rose was surprised. She'd expected Horace to make fun of the Shakers, the dancing worship and trances. “I heard that you told a story last Saturday evening about the ghost of a young sister who searches for some jewels.”

“Yeah?” The guarded look returned to Mrs. Berg's eyes.

“Where did you get that story? Was it from Horace von Oswald?”

“No, he never told that story.”

“You didn't read it in his room?”

“Told you. He tore everything up in little pieces. Waren't nothin' to read.”

So Mrs. Berg hadn't found Horace's hiding place under his bed. “Then where
did
you get that story?”

“It was in a newspaper,” Mrs. Berg said. She picked up her cup and began to sip with intense concentration.

Rose realized that Mrs. Berg wanted to keep as much information to herself as she could manage. More than likely, she still had hopes she could use some of it for her own benefit. “What newspaper?” Rose asked.

“Don't remember. It was just some newspaper story, what does it matter?”

“It surprises me that no one in North Homage has seen it. Since you came here from Winderley House, in Languor, how did you see a paper no one else has seen?”

Mrs. Berg's shoulders dropped. “Oh, all right. I got a cousin in Owensboro. The story showed up in the paper there, and she wrote and told me about it.”

“I see. Let's go on then. What have you learned from Daisy Prescott's room?”

Mrs. Berg grinned. “She tries to hide things behind her undies in that little cupboard in the wall. If she wanted to hide things, she should've stayed somewheres else.”

“What else did you find there?”

“A whole passel of stuff, like a carved wood box, prettiest thing I ever did see. Inside she had paint for her face and a spare set of spectacles and so on. Funny thing, though—those spectacles, I'd swear they was clear glass. Nothin' got fuzzy when I looked through 'em. Ain't that what's supposed to happen?”

“Perhaps her eyes need only a little correction,” Rose said. Mrs. Berg was cunning; if she hadn't already figured out that Daisy Prescott was playing a role, it was best not to encourage her.

Mrs. Berg was eyeing the last cinnamon cake. “Do take it,” Rose said, holding out the plate. “I had a full breakfast.”

“I work mighty hard,” Mrs. Berg said, grabbing the cake. “I need my victuals.”

I imagine ransacking other people's belongings takes a great deal of energy
, Rose thought. This time, she did not request forgiveness for an uncharitable thought.

“All right,” Rose said, “Tell me what you found in Saul Halvardson's room.”

“Hah, that flimflam man. He sells more than women's undies, I can tell you that.” She bit into the cake and washed it down with tea. Rose felt stuffed just watching. “Did you know he's been collectin' things from all over the village? I thought that'd get your attention. Yeah, I found bits of this and that, mostly small stuff, like those funny round boxes with the lids, some small baskets, those pegs y'all screw in your walls. Keeps 'em all in a big, beat-up, old suitcase under his bed. I reckon he's gonna sell it all after he leaves. Wouldn't surprise me none if he stole that hooch he's been so free with.”

“Did you see anything else in Mr. Halvardson's room?”

“Nope. He's got mighty fine clothes for a traveling salesman, but he probably stole them, too. Nothing else you'd be interested in.”

“And Mrs. Dunmore?”

“I didn't kill her, didn't have no reason.”

“I'm not accusing you. I want to know what you found out about her, that's all.”

Mrs. Berg smoothed the wrinkles in her dress, which looked homemade, and not very skillfully. “Didn't find nothin' there,” she said.

Rose watched Mrs. Berg in steady silence, a tactic that many had found unnerving—especially when they were trying to hide a lie. Mrs. Berg fiddled with the cloth tie around her waist. Rose waited. She had a strong hunch that, once she pierced Mrs. Berg's resistance, she wouldn't find out anything new; Mrs. Berg had probably seen Mina's journal with her notes about Wilhelm. However, she wanted to make it clear, without revealing that the police had the journal, that the opportunity for blackmailing Wilhelm or the Shakers was long gone.

Under Rose's scrutiny, Mrs. Berg caved in. “Well, now I think of it,” she said, “I remember seeing some old notebook lyin' around Mrs. Dunmore's room. It just had notes in it. I guess they was mostly about that elder of yours, that Brother Wilhelm. Seems like she knew him.”

“We know all about that,” Rose said. She didn't elaborate. Mrs. Berg looked crestfallen. Apparently she couldn't read all that well, or she would have gleaned a great deal more from Mina's journal. “Anything else?”

Beatrice shrugged. “That's it, I'll swear to it on a stack of Bibles. You gonna keep your word? You won't go callin' the sheriff on me?”

“I always try to keep my word.” With any luck, justice would tap Beatrice Berg on the shoulder without Rose's direct help—though she might have to find a way to nudge it along.

Nineteen

“W
HAT NEXT
?” G
ENNIE'S CHEEKS WERE PINK WITH
excitement. Unable to contain her energy, she'd sped ahead of Rose as they hiked through an overgrown, secluded area just west of the Trustees' Office. A century earlier, the North Homage Shakers had designated the spot their holy hill, which they had named the Empyrean Mount. The mount itself was a grass and weed-covered hill, the only part of the area that enjoyed any sunshine. Since Agatha's health had become so delicate, Rose had taken to coming here to think. Once, long ago, Believers had celebrated feast days on the holy hill. They had fasted, marched, and danced. From visiting angels, they had received celestial food and gifts, which they enjoyed using mimed movements. When she sat on the hill, Rose always felt the presence of those long-dead Shakers, guiding her as she thought through difficult decisions or problems.

The little-used path was thick with brambles, which caught at their ankles. Gennie didn't seem to mind when a thorn pricked a hole in her stocking. She found a sunny spot on the hill, plunked down on the grass, and waited for Rose to catch up.

“Well, what do we do next?” she repeated impatiently.

“Let me catch my breath, for heaven's sake.” Arranging her long skirt under her legs, Rose settled next to Gennie. “It's clear to me that I've been doing too much traveling and sleuthing, and too little good physical labor.”

“Oh, you're strong as a horse,” Gennie said. “Come on, show me your notes again.”

Rose extracted her growing pile of notes from her apron pocket and handed them over. “As you can see, we're finding answers to my questions, yet I
still
have no sense of who the killer is. The hostel guests all seem to have secrets, but I can't link them to the murders. I have yet to find prior connections between Mrs. Dunmore and any of these people—except poor Wilhelm, of course.”

“So maybe that isn't it,” Gennie said. “Maybe they are all up to something, but those somethings aren't related. Maybe Mrs. Dunmore found out about one of them and that's why she was killed.”

“I agree that's the most logical solution, but . . .”

“You do have suspicions, don't you?” Gennie asked. “Just tell me, we can talk it out.”

“All right.” Rose readjusted her legs to release a kink in one knee. “Let's start with Horace von Oswald.”

“Goody, I knew he was bad.”

“I think Horace is actually deeply bitter. I called several Kentucky newspapers and found that the story Mrs. Berg told you all appeared in two of the papers just two days after we placed our first advertisement for the Shaker Hostel. We know that Horace has a handwritten copy of that story, and we know he has a stack of papers that might be many more stories about our so-called ghost. I searched our records, including the Covenant, and I found no sister named Sarina Hastings. I found several Brother Joshuas, but none during the period described in the articles.”

“So they're made up,” Gennie said.

“They might be real, I suppose, but actually from another village. That would be difficult to find out, since so many villages have closed in the past century. However, Eldress Fannie at Hancock Village—and Horace lived in Pittsfield, remember—assured me no such brother and sister lived there at that time, either. She found no Sister Sarina Hastings at all in their records.”

“You think Horace is responsible for the articles?”

“It looks so to me. That would explain his regular trips to Languor and his desire to avoid being in Languor with the other hostel guests for a period of time—he might be wiring stories to various newspapers.

“His life fell apart while he lived in Pittsfield. My suspicion is it had something to do with the Hancock Shakers, and he blames all Shakers for his losses. When we opened our hostel, he saw his chance to publicly embarrass a Shaker village, so he began to plant these stories, knowing they would bring the world pressing in on us. He came to stay because he wanted to watch and, I suspect, to foment disaster.”

Gennie gave a little bounce of excitement. “So Mina must have found him out somehow. He was always goading her, probably trying to get her to leave because she was suspicious of him. Finally he must have killed her to keep his plan quiet.”

Rose shook her head slowly. “Nay, Gennie, that isn't enough. If Mina had figured out his plan, he had only to leave and try again somewhere else. There was no reason to kill her.”

Gennie's shoulders slumped. “Grady is always talking about motive,” she said. “You're saying that his motive wasn't strong enough?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I'm not ready to give up on him,” Gennie said. “I know! I'll call Mrs. Alexander in Pittsfield, remember her? I stayed in her boardinghouse when we visited Hancock last winter. She was a wonderful gossip. If anyone will know what happened to Horace in Pittsfield, she will. I just have to call her before she starts pouring the sherry.”

“Good idea. Perhaps his motive is more serious than I've imagined.” Rose took her notes from Gennie's hand and shuffled through them until she found Beatrice Berg's name. “I strongly suspect Mrs. Berg had a hand in her husband's death,” she said, “or she wouldn't have given me all that information she discovered from searching the hostel rooms. But I have no real proof. I promised to say nothing to Grady about my suspicions, but if it turns out that she is the culprit . . .” Rose sighed.

“Well, you didn't promise to say nothing to
me
, and I haven't promised anything at all. Don't worry, if we find evidence she's a killer, I'll take it straight to Grady.”

Rose still felt uncomfortable with her ploy to extract information from Mrs. Berg, but allowing Wilhelm to be wrongfully convicted of murder would have been unbearable. “Mrs. Berg, I suspect, came to the hostel because she had little money and wanted a safe, out-of-the-way place to stay. She has acted like a blackmailer, yet there's no evidence she has used any of the information she's collected. She even knew that Mina had tracked down Wilhelm, but she kept it to herself. My guess is she was simply protecting herself. She must feel enormous guilt—”

“I think you give her too much credit,” Gennie said, laughing.

“Well, then, she must feel threatened, always in danger of being discovered. Finding out about her fellow guests might be a way to protect herself. If one of them is there to follow her, to find out about her, she needs to know so she can get away.”

“Which means none of the guests is a detective or policeman or anything like that,” Gennie said. “Otherwise, Mrs. Berg would be long gone.”

“Good point.” Rose checked her notes again. “It concerns me that poison keeps popping up. If Mrs. Berg killed her husband, she did so with poison. And Mrs. Dunmore was poisoned.”

“Oh goodness, I just realized.” Gennie put her fingers over her mouth. “We've been eating Mrs. Berg's cooking!”

“No one else has complained of being ill. It's unlikely she would poison anyone now, knowing she has come to my attention. To be on the safe side, I won't eat at the hostel again. I'm the only one she might try to get rid of.”

Gennie pulled up her knees and curled her arms around them. Rose couldn't help smiling. Gennie had learned to dress and hold herself well in the world, but that didn't mean she wasn't still the same eager, adventuresome girl who'd brightened all their lives.

“If I can't have Horace as the killer,” Gennie said, “my second choice is Mrs. Berg. Remember she was the only one packed and ready to leave after the murders. I'll bet she only stayed 'cause it would look suspicious if she tried to leave. If Mrs. Dunmore found out she'd killed her husband, that would sure be enough of a motive, wouldn't it?”

“Definitely,” Rose said. “But if I couldn't find out for certain, how would Mrs. Dunmore?”

“It might have been enough just to
say
she knew for sure, even if she didn't.”

“I don't know,” Rose said. “After all, Mrs. Dunmore was completely focused on one mission—to locate and probably punish the father who abandoned her. Did you ever see her show much interest in anyone else?”

Gennie rested her chin on her knees. “No, I suppose not. I think she was a little sweet on Saul Halvardson, from the way she looked whenever he flirted with Daisy, but she never asked questions about anyone or even really held a conversation with anyone.” Gennie sighed with her whole body. “Okay, who's next?”

“Let's tackle Daisy Prescott.”

“She's a tough one,” Gennie said. “She likes fashion magazines, although her clothes aren't terribly smart. She just seems like a spinster typist or something.”

“Yet she never talks about herself or her life, does she?”

Gennie's spine straightened. “You're right. Never. And I've noticed that she's really graceful when she walks, like a dancer.”

“I'd noticed that, too. Adding together our observations and Mrs. Berg's, I suspected she is playing the part of spinster typist, or something along those lines. I didn't have a chance to add it to my notes, but I made a second call to the number Daisy listed as her last residence. This time I spoke with Mrs. Houghton. When I described the Daisy we know, without mentioning her name, Mrs. Houghton said she sounded like a woman her son had once been engaged to. She said the woman had been unsuitable for her son because she was an actress.”

Gennie giggled. “I'm lucky Grady's people aren't quite so uppity.”

Rose recounted Mrs. Houghton's description of Clarissa.

“Sounds like our Daisy,” Gennie said. “Seems odd she'd be staying here. If she's looking for another rich man, she isn't likely to find him among the Shakers.”

“Nay, but it might seem a good and inexpensive place to practice a new role—or wipe out the last one. At any rate, even if Mrs. Dunmore had recognized her from somewhere, perhaps the stage, that doesn't seem enough motive for Daisy to kill her. I do wonder, though, if Miss Daisy Prescott might be our ghost.”

Gennie drew in her breath in a gasp of delight. “Oh, do you think so? Is it more playacting, do you suppose? Maybe she got the idea from one of the articles and thought it would be fun to see if she could be convincing.”

“That's possible, but we don't yet know enough about her. I intend to find out more.” Rose glanced down at the notes in her lap. “The only one left is Saul Halvardson.” She relayed what Andrew had learned about Saul.

Gennie listened with avid interest. “So maybe he
was
the man in Mrs. Dunmore's room.”

“Quite possibly. It would be in character. And you said she seemed taken with him. But it doesn't seem in character for him to kill her. Even if she threatened to reveal his apparent stealing or his past, all he had to do was pack up and run.”

“Motive again,” Gennie said, sounding tired.

“Yea, motive again. We still need to know more. Let me know what you learn from Mrs. Alexander.”

“I do have one more piece of information for you,” Gennie said. “You asked me to find out from Mairin where she has seen the ghost. Mairin claims she's been staying indoors more now, but she admits to looking out the windows when she's checking on her kitten. She said she's seen the ghost in every building except three—the Laundry, the Infirmary, and the Herb House.”

“Good, that might help,” Rose said.

Gennie stood and brushed off her skirt. “How is Wilhelm doing?”

“He won't speak to me. When I phoned this morning, he sent the message through Grady that I must stop any attempts to free him. He said it is up to the Holy Father to determine his fate. I mustn't interfere.”

Gennie merely nodded.

“I feel the answer is very close,” Rose said. “I will pray for it to come in time.”

 

“Ida? It's Rose again, calling from North Homage. I'm sorry to bother you again so soon, but I wondered if I could ask a favor of you?” Rose glanced around the hallway nervously. She'd decided to make her call from the second floor hallway of the now-deserted Ministry House because she wanted absolute privacy, but she thought she'd heard a noise.

“Rose, dear, if I can help in any way, I will—except, of course, I'm afraid I simply couldn't allow Beatrice Berg back in Winderley House. I'm sure you understand.”

“And I would never ask you to do so,” Rose said. “My request has nothing to do with Mrs. Berg.”

“Then ask away.”

“I'm hoping this won't put you in an awkward position . . . I was wondering if you might ask your newspaper friend, Mr. DeBow, to investigate another name for me?”

“Oh, my dear, that's no problem at all. Nothing awkward about it.”

Rose felt free to smile, since no one would see her amusement. Ida Winderley took her ardent friend's devotion for granted and never felt beholden to him, no matter what he did for her. “It may be rather complicated. I have only a first name and a physical description, and both might have altered many times over. However, I do know that five or six years ago she was an actress on the stage.” She gave Ida every detail she could think of about Daisy Prescott.

“This should be quite fun for Mr. DeBow. Since he retired, he hasn't known what to do with himself, poor dear. Now, don't you worry about a thing. I've written everything down, and I will call Mr. DeBow just as soon as we finish speaking. How are you faring?”

The question, Rose knew, was Ida's delicate way of asking about the murders in North Homage. “When this is all over, Ida, I will make a special visit to Winderley House and tell you everything. I promise.”

“Lovely. We'll have high tea. Do take care—I'm counting on that visit.”

Rose replaced the receiver and stood very still. She was sure she'd heard another noise, a clattering somewhere downstairs. She told herself to relax. With Wilhelm in jail, one of the brothers was probably gathering up the last of the items to be moved to the Center Family Dwelling House. They'd almost finished the downstairs before the murders, but the upstairs had hardly been touched yet. Since she was here, she might as well pick up a few things herself. She'd left some small items in her old retiring room and in the workroom she'd set up and barely had a chance to use.