Dancing Dead (23 page)

Twenty-one

“M
ORE PORT?
” S
AUL HELD UP A BOTTLE AND POINTED TO
the label. “I got an especially good one for this evening, as a farewell and thank-you for your pleasant company. I'll be moving on tomorrow morning. Must get back to work, you know, and with these murders solved, there's no reason to stay.”

Though the rain had stopped, all the hostel guests had gathered in the parlor after supper, choosing the cozy room over walks outside in the gloom and damp. Everyone accepted Saul's offer with eagerness and surprising good cheer. Gennie allowed Saul to fill her glass to the brim and returned his smile with a coquettish glance up through her lashes. Daisy Prescott wasn't the only one who could act a part.

“Let's drink to something,” Saul said, holding his glass aloft.

“By all means,” Horace said. “Shall we drink to your departure?”

Saul lowered his glass a fraction. He never seemed to get angry, Gennie noticed. “Let's drink to your future success,” Gennie said, lifting her glass toward Saul. The atmosphere relaxed again. Gennie pressed her glass against her lips but did not drink. She watched the others. Daisy seemed lost in her magazine, unaware of the entire interchange. She hadn't touched her drink. Mrs. Berg drained her glass, which Saul quickly refilled. Horace took a gulp and raised his eyebrows in appreciation. He sipped again, then asked to examine the bottle's label. Saul drank very little. Now that she thought about it, Saul had always busied himself filling everyone else's glass. Apparently he wasn't much of a drinker himself.

While the others were distracted, Gennie arose from her rocking chair, carrying her glass of port, and sauntered over to a small table centered before a window. The table held a potted begonia Saul had bought from the Languor Flower Shop to “brighten the room.” Gennie positioned herself directly in front of the table and leaned forward, as if to check the view through the window. Instead, her gaze slid downward as she carefully poured most of the contents of her glass into the flowerpot. The poor begonia probably wouldn't appreciate the fine quality of the port, but Gennie intended to stay alert.

Before turning around, she raised the nearly empty glass to her mouth and simulated drinking. She waited another few seconds, then turned and ambled back to her seat. No one seemed to be watching her movements. She slipped back into her chair and placed her glass on a nearby candle table.

“Your glass needs filling,” Saul said, striding toward her.

“Oh no, I couldn't,” Gennie said, with a tiny giggle. “I'm feeling a bit tipsy already. But I see Mrs. Berg could use a refill.”

Saul spun around and headed toward the fireplace, where Beatrice Berg curled in a wing chair, holding her glass close to her chest. The room grew quiet. Gennie forced herself to look relaxed, though she tingled with excitement. She and Rose had guessed the hostel residents would spend the evening in the parlor, given the weather earlier and the availability of free drinks. So Rose had given Gennie an assignment to carry out when the time felt right. Always impetuous, Gennie had a hard time waiting for that right moment. But she must, so much depended on completing her task without raising suspicions.

Horace held out his glass for a refill. “Perhaps I will depart tomorrow, as well,” he said. “Now that the excitement has dimmed, I'm finding the isolation here tedious. And I must say, the Shakers themselves have disappointed me. Imagine, an elder killing his own daughter. It seems these Shakers are not the saints they present themselves to be.”

Gennie swallowed her ferocious response to Horace's comment, and she was sure she'd bitten her tongue sharply enough to make it bleed. She could ruin everything if she drew attention to her fondness for the Shakers. However, the right moment to speak had better come soon, or she'd explode and give Horace a piece or two of her mind.

“I've had my bag packed since Sunday.” Beatrice said. “One ghost was bad enough, but this place is fillin' up with 'em. Pretty soon there'll be more ghosts floatin' around than there is Shakers.”

Daisy finally looked up from her magazine. “I'll be leaving, too,” she said.

“Tell me, Miss Prescott,” Horace asked, “what will you be going back to?”

“Oh, just my same old life, of course. I lead quite a dull existence, really. This has been an exciting time for me.”

“Do you have a job?” Horace asked.

Daisy's lips curved in the gentlest of smiles. “Yes, I've been very lucky, I've been able to keep my position through these terrible times. And you, Mr. von Oswald? I don't believe you've ever discussed what you do for a living.”

“Who cares what anybody does,” said Beatrice, clanking her empty glass on a nearby table. “We're all leaving, we ain't likely to see each other again, and that's all that matters. I'd leave now if I had a way. It ain't safe. I keep tellin' y'all, there's more'n one ghost now. Mina Dunmore and Brother Linus—you think they're gonna rest peaceful in their graves? No, sir. They'll be out there tonight and every night till they get justice.” She suddenly jumped out of her chair and pointed to Horace. “Here you, change chairs with me. I ain't sittin' another minute in Mina Dunmore's old spot. Gives me the shivers.”

Everyone except Horace refrained from snickering. Beatrice grabbed a handful of his sweater and yanked. “Stand up.” Horace complied.

“Far be it from me to torture a guilty conscience,” he said, as he switched seats with her.

Now is the moment
. Gennie cleared her throat. “You know, maybe the ghost of Sarina Hastings will leave soon, too.” She paused until she knew she had everyone's attention. “I heard another story about her—I think it must have been in some newspaper, but I'm not sure. Anyway, this story said that Sarina was a sister who came from somewhere far away from here, maybe back East. She'd come from this really rich family and was beautiful, and she got engaged to a man who had looked like he was going to be successful. But her fiancé betrayed her, I think it was by courting another woman, so Sarina just up and left town. She took all her gorgeous jewelry with her to use for money. She got on a train and ended up in Languor, where she heard about the Shakers.”

Gennie feared she was rushing the story, but when she gazed around the room, her audience was riveted. Even Beatrice seemed to have forgotten her nerves. Rose had carefully constructed the story, and Gennie was determined to repeat it perfectly. She wished Rose had confided her suspicions, but she understood why she hadn't. It was important Gennie not know yet. If she knew, she might give something away with just a look or a word, and then the trap wouldn't work.

“Sarina's heart was broken,” Gennie continued. “She didn't want anything to do with men or love anymore, so she decided to join the Shakers. But that isn't a very good reason to become a Shaker, I guess. She knew right away that she wouldn't stay forever, so she took all her jewels and hid them in one of the buildings. She figured she could take them with her when she was ready to leave. By then it was winter, and she decided to stay until spring, when it would be easier to travel. Besides, she liked working in the Herb House, and she couldn't right offhand think of a job she'd like better.” Gennie was tempted to explain about “Winter Shakers,” but she stopped herself. That would be knowing too much.

“Then a terrible thing happened,” she continued. “A deadly influenza swept through Languor County and next came to North Homage. Sarina caught it. Even though North Homage had its own doctor in those days, there was nothing he could do. Sarina got weaker and weaker until she died.”

Horace leaned forward in his wing chair and stared at Gennie. “What an odd story,” he said.

“Ain't odd,” Beatrice said. “It's practically like what I heard. That ghost is lookin' for her jewels. She died before she could get 'em back.”

“Yet in this new story, she told no one of the jewels' whereabouts,” Horace said. “So how does the author of the story know about them?”

Gennie was ready for him. Rose had guessed that Horace, knowing he had not written the story, would pick holes in it. “Because,” Gennie said, “she did tell someone. She'd made friends with another young sister, who wrote about it in her journal. After Sarina died, this sister looked and looked for those jewels. Whenever she could, she searched the buildings, but she never found anything. She said so in her journal. She—this other sister—stayed with the Shakers for many years, but then she left with one of the brothers—Brother Joshua, I think his name was—so she took her journals with her and never told the Shakers about the jewels. She died soon after, and no one really read her journals until recently, when all these stories started about Sister Sarina.”

Horace said nothing more. Gennie was sure his blank face hid a desperate attempt to figure out what was going on. She took stock of the other guests. Beatrice looked like her old self—bad tempered and crafty. Saul and Daisy's expressions showed polite interest. Saul turned away and began to fill empty glasses. Beatrice was the only one to reach for her drink.

Gennie waited for more questions, but none came. She hoped the hint had been clear, yet not too obvious. She'd find out soon enough.

 

Rose could barely make out Gennie and Brother Andrew's faces in the faint moonlight, the only light in the empty Medicinal Herb Shop, but she knew they were determined to help. The hostel guests, savoring the last night of their stay, had stayed unusually late in the parlor. Rose and Andrew had waited with growing impatience for Gennie to change into her darkest, most comfortable outfit and make her escape. Now they had to move fast or lose their opportunity.
Wilhelm would be furious if he knew we were doing this
, Rose thought, without guilt.
But it is for him that we are doing it—at least in part
. She did, however, feel fear and heavy doubt about the wisdom of involving Gennie and Andrew in her plan. They were up against a murderer who killed without conscience. The danger was real. Yet she could not do this alone.

Grady had been no help. When she had suggested to him that he and his officers try to set a trap for the killer, he'd replied that the killer was already trapped in jail. He would come if they got into trouble, of course, but it might then be too late. However, if her plan worked, Grady would already be in the village when the crucial moment arrived.

“If my suspicions are correct, we have very little time,” Rose said.

“What
are
your suspicions?” Gennie asked in a hoarse whisper. “I've done my part, can't you tell me now?”

“I wish I could, Gennie, but there just isn't time. You and Andrew must go immediately to the west side of the village, over to the far side of the holy hill. Andrew already knows what to do.”

“Where will you be?” Gennie asked.

“Here, for the most part.”

“But—”

“Gennie, I promise you will understand very soon—if I am right.”

“And if you aren't right?”

“Then we'll change our plans. Even if I'm wrong about who the killer is, I think the right person will fall into our trap. Now
go
.”

 

Brother Andrew led the way out the back door of the Medicinal Herb Shop and into the night. They ran without speaking, several yards apart. The rain clouds had disappeared, turning the moon and stars into infinite bright searchlights trained on the earth. The danger was that a brother or sister suffering from insomnia would gaze out a retiring room window just as one of them passed by—or visitors from the world might hear the rhythmic squishing of their shoes in the rain-soaked ground, and follow them. It could happen at any stage in their journey. They had to risk it.

They reached the eastern edge of the holy hill without hearing shouts or an alarm bell, so they slipped under the cover of some trees and stopped to catch their breath. Gennie longed to ask questions, but she was afraid her panting was loud enough to wake the dead, not so far away in the old cemetery. Before her breathing had returned to normal, Andrew whispered to follow him.

Andrew must be able to see in the dark, because he managed to find a path that was reasonably clear of brambles. However, by the time they'd crossed the little crick and reached the southwest corner of the holy hill, Gennie knew her sandals had perished in the line of duty. She didn't care, as long as they held up through the night. As they approached the end of the tree cover, Andrew put out his hand to tell her to stop.

To their left was an open area about the width of the Trustees' Office, and beyond that they could see the narrow rutted road that linked North Homage and Languor. Gennie followed Andrew's example and peeked out beyond the trees toward the road. She saw nothing—no people, cars, or wagons. On the other hand, she wasn't sure what she was supposed to be looking for. She was just about to whisper the question to Andrew when he turned and headed north, staying inside the tree cover. She followed. He walked slowly, crouched down like an animal stalking its prey. She imitated his stance, even though his crouching only brought him down to Gennie's normal standing height. He seemed to be searching for something.

They both saw it at the same time. Just outside the tree line, about a third of the way along the western edge of the holy hill, heading north, they spotted what looked like a hillock, a small mound probably no higher than Gennie's knees. It blended into the undergrowth and probably wouldn't be noticeable from the road, even in the daylight.

Again Andrew gestured her to stay where she was. He stepped outside the tree cover, looked in all directions, then went quickly to the small mound. He lifted what looked like a tarp. It was too dark for Gennie to see what was underneath, but she thought she knew anyway. Rose had told her about the items missing from her old retiring room and workroom in the Ministry House, though she hadn't shared any speculations about who might have taken them. Perhaps this was where the items were being stored.