Killing Gifts
Authors: Deborah Woodworth
I am deeply grateful to many people who patiently gave of their time and their expertise to help me put together this story. Todd A. Burdick, Director of Interpretation and Education at Hancock Shaker Village, was invaluable for his knowledge of historical detail about the Hancock Shakers. Any errors are, of course, mine alone. For their memories and knowledge of train travel in the 1930s, many thanks to James R. Woodworth, David Schiferl, Mike Stousland, and Peter Dahoda. And, as always, I appreciate the insightful editorial comments provided by Tom Rucker; Becky Bohan; Norm Schiferl; my agent, Barbara Gislason; and my editor, Patricia Lande Grader.
In the late 1930s, Hancock Shaker Village, in Massachusetts, was still open, though in decline. The community contained fewer than twenty-five members, only two of whom were brothers, as well as a few girls being raised by the sisters. Many buildings had been abandoned, including the lovely Round Stone Barn and the Meetinghouse. The Hancock Shakers lived a quiet life, their membership dwindling until the village closed in 1960. Hancock Shaker Village has been restored as a not-for-profit educational organization, open year round, where visitors may see how the Shakers lived during the nineteenth century.
Brother Ricardo lived in the village at the time of this story, and Fannie Estabrook was eldress of Hancock throughout the 1930s and until the village's demise. However, the following tale and Fannie's and Ricardo's parts in it are fiction.
Deborah Woodworth
May 1, 2000
Contents
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Praise for the Shaker Mysteries by Deborah Woodworth
J
ULIA
M
ASTERS TWIRLED A HONEY-GOLD CURL AROUND HER
finger and pushed out her lower lip in a pout that might have been alluring to someone other than her companion.
“I'm cold,” Julia said. “I want my wrap.”
“It's unseasonably warm.”
“We're in for snow, and you know it.” Julia's voice quivered with petulance.
“Then you should have dressed more warmly.”
Julia paced the length of the unheated Summerhouse, hugging her bare arms. “Oh, stop being so mean,” she said. “This is my very best dancing dress.”
“So you said.”
“Well, I wouldn't even have this one if it weren't for Cousin Vera in Boston. She hasn't passed me down one for winter yetânot something up-to-date. Anyway, why did I have to dress up just to meet in this stupid old Summerhouse? I'm not one of the sisters, you know.”
“Indeed, you are not.”
“Then why are we here?”
“I told you,” her companion said with growing impatience. “I'm taking you dancing. You'll have so many invitations you'll be glad to be wearing something so pretty and light.”
“You've never taken me dancing before.” Julia tilted her head and smiled, as she had earlier to her mirror. She knew her smile was fetching. Few men had ever been able to resist her. But her companion was immune to her soft shoulders and the sweet, inviting scent of the rosewater she'd swiped from the Shaker store to dab behind her ears.
The midwinter sun had drawn in the last of its rays and given the moon its turn. The silent cold enveloped Julia. Freezing and alone was an all-too-familiar state, and one she'd vowed never to feel again.
“This is silly and boring,” Julia said. “If we're going dancing, then let's go. I still can't see why we had to meet here, of all places.”
“It isn't silly. I wanted a quiet place. Sit down, Julia. I've brought something for youâan opportunity, shall we say? You'll understand when you see it.”
“A present!” Julia spun toward the cracked wood table in the center of the Summerhouse. Her pink satin evening gown shimmered like a seashell in the moonlight as she clasped her hands together in childlike excitement. Two lengths of shiny fabric hung down her back to her waist; one of them had flipped forward over her breast, and she smoothed it back over her bare shoulder with a manicured finger.
“Sit down and be patient like a lady.”
With an irritated sigh, Julia shivered and slid into a ladder-back chair. Her companion placed a package on the table in front of her, just out of reach. Julia eagerly stretched out her arm.
“What is it? I hope it's a necklace or a bracelet. Something really bright and sparkly.” Julia's stiff fingers fumbled at the wrapping, a piece of calico tied with a ribbon. With a jewel or two, even if they were fake, she knew she could catch the eye of somebody important. Maybe she could get out of this boring town, go somewhere exciting, like Boston, or even New York.
Julia had managed to claw open the wrapping to find a wooden box, one of those roundish Shaker ones. It would make a good jewelry case. She paused, savoring the thrill. She hadn't received a gift that wasn't a hand-me-down since the Christmas of '29, just after the crash. It might be years before she got another.
“I wanted you to understand.”
Julia reached for the lid and lifted it.
“I wanted you to know, Juliaâjust a moment before . . . It's important. I wanted you to understand what you have done. Why you must pay.” The voice now came from behind her. Julia did not turn around. She stared at the contents of the box, her painted eyebrows knit together and her scarlet lips parted.
“I wish I could see your face now,” whispered her companion. “It would help somehow. But this way will have to suffice.”
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For most of the world's people, snowfalls ceased to be enchanting as soon as Christmas had passed. January and February were months to endure, especially in the Northeast, where gray skies dumped regular deposits on rolling hills and mountains and winter-weary villages.
The Shakers of Hancock, Massachusetts, however, not being of the world, watched with growing anticipation as the dreary midwinter days passed, bringing them closer to their treasured holidayâMother Ann's Birthday. Their beloved foundress had been born on February 29, and since it wasn't currently a leap year, the celebration was planned for the first of March, less than two weeks away.
Preparations consumed the energy of the small band of remaining Shakers, which was why no one had so much as glanced toward the Summerhouse for daysâdespite its proximity to the large Brick Dwelling House where they lived, ate, and worshiped. After all, the sisters had scrubbed the small building months earlier, once the weather had turned too cold for afternoon tea. So there'd been no reason to go near it. No one had even noticed that the door was slightly ajar. As Eldress Fannie Estabrook explained to the Pittsfield police, no one had the slightest idea how long the body had been in there. It had probably happened at night, though, Fannie speculated, when the residents of the dwelling house were fast asleep after a long day of work.
Fannie knew the identity of the unfortunate young woman, as did all the sisters. Her name was Julia Masters, and she'd often helped out in the Fancy Goods Store, selling Shaker products to the world. No one could even guess why she'd been found dressed for a summer night on the town, her long dark blond hair piled on her head in disheveled curls, a style more reminiscent of the turn of the century than the late 1930s.
The quiet village of Hancock had never experienced a murder inside its boundaries, and the pacifist Shakers, unlike their worldly neighbors, went to great lengths to avoid having to view the body. Nevertheless, word got around. Julia's shell-pink silk-satin gown raised a few eyebrows among the Believers and some snickers among the hired help. Within hours, everyone had heard exactly how Julia looked when she was discovered by one of the hired men, Otis Friddle, on his way to work at the Barn Complex.
Her dress was a few years out of style, but by all accounts quite glamorous. The bias-cut bodice and narrow skirt hugged Julia's slender body as if it had been sewn around her. The same shiny pink fabric gathered into straps, which fastened at her shoulders and then flared into pieces that hung down her bare back like two narrow capes. It looked like one of the lengths of fabric had been used to strangle her. Her arms were bare, the skin translucent. With no body warmth to melt it, snow swirled around her frozen feet, shod in light dancing shoes, and settled as a thin dust above the narrow leather straps circling her ankles. Julia had been found slumped against the straight slats of an old Shaker chair, but her arms lay on the table in front of her, stretched forward.
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“You will come right away, won't you, Rose?” pleaded Eldress Fannie. “Say you will. We are beside ourselves. Well, we all just . . .” The telephone line crackled and swallowed her next words. In an effort to hear better, Rose Callahan, eldress of the North Homage Shaker village, edged the telephone receiver under her thin white indoor cap and a thick layer of curly red hair.
“Slow down, Fannie. I can barely understand you.” The longer Rose served as eldress, the more commanding her voice became. “Did you say that one of the sisters has died? I am with you in spirit, you know that, butâ”
“
Not
one of the sisters,” Fannie said, her voice quickening with frustration. “A young woman from Pittsfield. She helped out in the store sometimes, during busy seasons. Julia, her name was. A pleasant girl, friendly. Maybe too friendly, if you believe the rumors, but that's no reason to kill her, surely.”
“Someone killed her?” Rose realized she was shouting to be heard, but she knew she was alone in the Ministry House, which she shared with Elder Wilhelm Lundel. Not content to let the brethren work on their own, Wilhelm had gone to the Medicinal Herb Shop to “help,” though his knowledge was minimal.
“I'm afraid so,” Fannie said, “and in our Summerhouse, too. I doubt I'll ever again wish to sip tea and watch a sunset from that dear little building. One of our own novitiates is under suspicion by the police, but we can't believe it. So you must come help us, Rose. You've . . . well, you've done this sort of thing beforeâremember you wrote to me about that dreadful situation last year with the poor man who was found hanged in your orchard?”
Rose sighed. She shouldn't have written that letter. It was a moment of hubris, for which she was about to be punished.
“And you
are
one of us,” Fannie continued. “You will understand.”
Rose hesitated only a moment. She didn't relish the idea of a midwinter dash across country. She'd never experienced February in Massachusetts, nor had she ever yearned to do so. She hated to miss Mother Ann's Birthday with her own village, and the first signs of spring in northern Kentucky. But Fannie was rightâRose would likely approach the crisis with deeper understanding and a more open mind than would anyone from the world.
“Of course I will come and help out,” Rose said. “I'll pack immediately.”
