Death of a Winter Shaker (15 page)

For the safety of the living, the brethren had stretched a three-slatted fence across the edge of the drop-off. On the other three sides, they had built thick fieldstone fences by piling large, flat pieces of Kentucky limestone horizontally in a jigsaw pattern, topped off with a row of additional flat pieces balanced side by side vertically. A wooden gate provided the only entrance.

To Gennie that night, the fieldstone fence looked like a massive, open jaw, lined with jagged teeth. She felt a prick of fear as she peered over the fence's saw-toothed top. It reached just above her waist, and it felt like a shield between her and the dim shapes on the other side.

“Molly, are you here?” she called softly, then “Molly,” again, with more force. Silence.

This is foolish,
she thought.
I know Rose would say
so.
Fear turned to anger with Molly, the reason she was out here feeling cold and silly and a little bit frightened. She shivered, pulled her cape tight, and followed the wall until she came to the entryway. The wooden gate felt cold and slippery. It screeched as she inched it inward.

As if in response, a cry of pain, faint but clear, pierced the still, night air. Gennie froze. It seemed to come from behind her. Sound travels far at night, she knew. She strained to hear above the thudding of her own heart, but she heard nothing more. Propelled by growing alarm, Gennie hurried around the inside perimeter of the cemetery, squinting at the crooked markers.

The Shakers' humility was reflected in their choice of small, metal markers, most inscribed only with initials and birth and death dates. But one especially beloved eldress rested under a larger, well-worn marble plaque, which faced toward Languor and was broad enough to hide a girl sitting in front of it. Gennie peered around the gravestone. The moon floated behind a cloud and left the cemetery in near darkness. She could still make out shapes, though, and none looked like Molly.

She was halfway around, intent only on finishing and racing to her room, when she heard the sound of creaking hinges. She froze and squinted into the darkness covering the silent grave markers, toward the gate. Framed in the opening was a huge figure, bearlike in size, with a large furry head and powerful shoulders. It stepped inside the gate. Thick arms swung at its side as it took another step, then a third, straight across the graves and toward her.

She spun around, desperate for an escape. She couldn't reach the gate without passing the creature, nor could she take her chances leaping over the slatted fence to the drop-off before he—or it—could stop her. She tossed her cape back to free her arms and clutched
at the rough fieldstone fence beside her. The stone edges felt sharp enough to pierce her palms.

“Halt there!” said an angry voice in a hoarse whisper.

Gennie whipped around to see the creature lumber toward her, his face still hidden by shadow. Was this what Johann had seen just before he died? She tried to mumble a prayer, but none came to her.

Scooping up her heavy skirt with one hand, she flung herself at the fieldstone fence. She poked frantically at the horizontal layers with her foot. After several agonized moments, she found a foothold and dragged one leg over the serrated rim of the fence, terror numbing her skin to the pain as the rock scraped through her stocking.

“Who is that? This is desecration! Halt now!” The voice, resonant with outrage, boomed close behind her. Gennie paused, straddling the fence. She had heard that deep timbre before—preaching at Sunday worship service.

Elder Wilhelm grabbed her around the waist and yanked her back into the cemetery grounds. She yelped as a razor-sharp stone scraped the inside of her thigh. He twirled her around to face him.

“Eugenie!” He dropped his hands from her waist and leaped back. “Is no one in bed tonight? Thy bonnet. Where is thy bonnet?” Gennie understood. Had he seen the outline of her bonnet, he would not have touched her as he did.

The returning moonlight lit his features. His lower eyelids drooped as though he hadn't been sleeping well, and his eyes were feverishly bright. Gennie wondered if he were ill or just very angry, but when he spoke again, his voice sounded tired, even defeated.

“Child,” he said, “it is not safe to be out alone at night. I'll not ask thy reasons for being here, they must be shared with the eldress in confession. Go back now
to thy retiring room and to bed.” He stepped aside and waved her past. Her trembling legs wouldn't budge.

“Run now, run along,” he said, with more of his old impatience.

With fumbling fingers, she gathered up her cape and skirts and flew through the dark until she saw the silhouette of the Children's Dwelling House. Once inside the building, her fear-induced energy drained away. Gasping, she used the railing to pull herself up the stairs, no longer caring if anyone heard her. Without knocking, she slipped into her darkened retiring room.

Too tired to undress, she stumbled toward her bed. Even in the dark, she knew her way. With a sigh that was half moan, she slid between the sheets and pulled the coverlet over her head for comfort. She had no strength left for thought or worry about Molly, and even the throbbing scrape on her thigh could not keep her awake.

She began to sink into a dreamless sleep, when a strong arm grasped her shoulder.

“Gennie Malone, it's past midnight!” Molly's voice sounded hoarse through the layers of fabric. Gennie snapped awake as her coverlet was flung aside.

“Where you
been?
”

“W
HERE HAVE
I
BEEN
?! M
OLLY
F
ERGUSON
, I
OUGHT
to . . . to . . .” Gennie was so angry she couldn't think of a painful enough punishment for her roommate. She swung herself to her feet. Both girls stood with their arms akimbo, glaring at each other in the dark. “Do you have any idea what I went through tonight to find you? You were gone
forever
and I thought something awful had happened to you. Where
were
you?”

“I can take care of myself,” Molly whispered harshly. “You're the one oughta be horsewhipped. I been worried sick about you.”

“You? You probably were sound asleep when I came in,” Gennie said.

“Was not.”

“You were, too. Now you're just trying to keep me from asking where you were. You'd better tell me this minute, Molly Ferguson, or I'll march right out in the hall and call over to the Trustees' Office, and I'll tell Rose everything, and I'll tell it loudly, too, so everybody in the House can hear.” Gennie crossed her arms and flopped on her bed.

“Yell a little louder, most everybody can hear you now,” Molly said. She grabbed a corner of Gennie's coverlet and pulled it over her shoulders as she, too, plunked down on the bed. “Look, I wasn't nowhere,
OK? I was just walkin'. I like to get out, you know that.”

“I went to the cemetery. You weren't there,” Gennie said.

“The cemetery? Did you go anywhere else?” Molly sounded startled, but her eyes were dark hollows, unreadable in the dim light.

Gennie thought she saw something else, too. She switched on her bedside light. She was right, one eye was darker than the other. The skin around Molly's left eye was swollen and red.

“Molly, what happened? Who hurt you?”

“Nobody. It's none of your business. Leave me alone.” Molly jumped to her feet and flipped off Gennie's light.

Gennie heard her crawl back into her own bed.

“Are you going to tell me where you were?”

“Ain't nothin' to tell,” Molly whispered.

Rose awakened making lists in her head. It was Sunday, a bright and glorious morning, and she had preparations to make, tasks to complete, and many questions to ask. First priority, the worship service. It was now too late to cancel the public portion of the service, so she would take what precautions she could to control the crowds. She had Agatha's permission to limit the number of people in the Meetinghouse and to keep the small children away from the service.

She tossed off her covers and dressed quickly, then straightened her room with frenzied speed. The bell rang five times, still an hour before Sabbathday breakfast, so she went downstairs to her office to pull the lists from her head and write them down.

By 5:45, she had filled a sheet of paper. She picked up her phone and made an indecently early call to Deputy Grady O'Neal, who clearly had been asleep.

“Uh, Rose?” He responded groggily. “Is anything wrong? Is Gennie all right?”

Rose hesitated. She feared bringing Grady and Gennie together. She could lose Gennie, and that would cause her pain. She wasn't sure she trusted either Grady or Brock. Neither had a good reason to help the Shakers. She remembered the quickly hidden hatred on Grady's face when he examined Johann's body. Her knowledge of Grady was too sketchy. But to trust no police might put Gennie's life—and the lives of others—in great danger.

“All is well so far, Grady,” she said. “But I do need your help. Are you on duty today?”

“Nope, free as a bird.”

“Good. Then would you come to our worship service this afternoon? It begins at 1:00
P.M.
, but you might come early. Have a light midday meal with us. And do not wear your uniform.” She preferred that Wilhelm not know that she had taken matters into her own hands.

That task accomplished, Rose glanced at the office clock. Time to gather for breakfast. She threw her cloak over her shoulders and cut across the grass between the Trustees' Office and the dining room next door. Halfway there, she saw Sheriff Brock walk briskly away from the Children's Dwelling House. He didn't see her.

What was he doing near the Children's House? Should she rush after him and demand to know? The bell tolled. Breakfast was starting, and maybe he hadn't been at the dwelling house, after all. She let him go.

Rather than line up at the dining room's west doorway with the other sisters, she went directly to the kitchen door. There would just be time, she thought, to schedule a talk with Elsa for after breakfast. But when she entered the kitchen, she saw only Charity and two young girls, all tearing around the room with trays too full to hold steadily. Rose hung her cloak on a peg and scooped up a tray that was slipping from the grasp of a thirteen-year-old.

“It's for the brethren's table,” the girl said, and flew off to fetch another.

Rose carried the steaming bowls of porridge out to the brethren and served them silently. As she did so she scanned the room for Elsa, without success. On her return to the kitchen, she found Charity, her cheeks flushed and oatmeal dribbling down her white neckerchief, filling bowls too quickly and wiping off spills with an apron tied loosely at her waist. Rose found a ladle and began filling bowls from the opposite end of the tray, so that they met in the middle. Only when all the trays were on their way to the dining room did Charity break her concentration. She sagged into a ladder-back chair constructed for a much larger person, so that she looked childlike and overwhelmed.

“It was kind of you to help us,” she said. “The girls are too small for such heavy work.” She looked as though she were also too slight for such work, but Rose had been impressed by the ease with which she had whisked the laden trays into the dining room.
The Shaker life builds strong young women,
Rose thought with pride.

“Is Elsa ill this morning?” Rose asked. Normally Elsa, with her strong country arms, would have carried the heavier items.

“Nay,” Charity said with a sniff. “Elsa was excused from work to pray alone.
Excused,
when there is work to be done! I've never heard of such a thing.”

“But surely Agatha did not excuse her,” Rose said. “I spoke with her only last night, and she said nothing about it.”

“Not Agatha. Wilhelm. He said that the eldress would agree.”

“Would
agree,” Rose said. “So in fact he did not ask her.” Rose frowned. For Elder Wilhelm to have usurped the eldress's authority with the sisters was serious indeed. The reason must be profoundly important to Wilhelm, and it involved Elsa. Rose added
another item to her mental list. She would talk to Agatha, try to get her to confront Wilhelm. She would have to speak with the eldress soon, so that the meeting could occur during the midday meal in the Ministry dining room, when Agatha and Wilhelm would be alone.

“I'll send Gennie and Molly to help you prepare for the midday meal,” she said to Charity.

Charity gave a tired smile for thanks and dragged herself from her chair as the remains of breakfast arrived.

Rose turned to leave, then paused. “Charity, do you know where and why Elsa has gone to pray?”

“Nay,” Charity said. “Nor do I care. It will take more than a morning of prayer to make her a true Believer.”

Eldress Agatha looked ill. Her pallid skin seemed to be melting away, molding itself more each day to the shapes of the frail bones underneath. A hand tremor shook the cup of tea she raised slowly to her lips.

“Do have some of my tea, Rose,” she said, in a voice that seemed stronger than her body. “Josie said it was ‘strengthening.' And she did mention that you were looking less vigorous than usual, yourself.” She smiled thinly, but it was enough to soften her gaunt face.

Rose put her hand over the one that twitched in Agatha's lap.

“Is tea all you've had today? You must try to eat. Josie's tonics are miraculous, but food is more strengthening. Let me fetch you some oatmeal from the kitchen.”

“Nonsense, Rose, but don't worry so about me. I no longer work in the fields, I can afford to miss a meal now and then.” She withdrew her hand and patted Rose's. “Now,” she continued, “tell me why you've come to see me again so soon.”

Rose sighed inwardly. Her plan would never work.
Agatha was too ill to confront Wilhelm, and no one else had the authority to do it in her stead. For a moment, Rose, too, felt her strength ebb away. She was losing her mentor, her guardian, her dear, dear friend. Agatha had always been there, calm and quietly powerful, a gentle force.