A Simple Shaker Murder (21 page)

Rose replaced the bookcase with care. Unlike Celia, Gilbert was likely to notice any rearrangement of his belongings. She took a last look around. The room showed Gilbert to be secretive, well-organized, and single-minded—there was no evidence
of any woman, certainly not one so flamboyant as Celia. If Celia adored Gilbert, it was apparently one-sided.

The next room had to be Earl's. It was similar to Gilbert's but more expressive of personality. A bookcase held more scholarly works, as well as a battered copy of Hemingway's
To Have and Have Not
. He'd thrown his blanket over the bed without smoothing out the sheets underneath. Some clothing hung on pegs, but without hangers. His drawers were neater than Celia's, certainly, but not so precise as Gilbert's.

The built-in cupboard was in plain view, and Rose opened it. Inside she found a stack of novels of the sort she wouldn't have read even during her stay in the world, though it did give her a moment of pleasure to think how Wilhelm would react if he saw them.

Earl's desk held stationery, envelopes, pens, and stamps. The desk itself was another lovely old Shaker product, and it looked natural with its chair, a refinished old ladder-back with a red-and-white woven seat.

The loose, brown work clothes the New-Owenites favored were missing; Earl was probably wearing them. The clothing left in the room looked unfamiliar to Rose. She touched the fabric of a long black coat hanging from a peg. The smooth softness reminded her of the fine wool the sisters used to make Dorothy cloaks. The rest of Earl's wardrobe showed, in Rose's perception, the understated elegance of high-quality clothing. So Celia wasn't the only one who liked expensive things.

Sensing the approach of the noon hour, Rose moved on to the next room, but she hadn't yet slipped through the doorway when the sound of men's voices floated up the stairs. She didn't stop to think. She only knew she mustn't be in one of the occupied rooms. She ran to the far end of the hallway, slipped into a room that was unlikely to be in use, and closed the door behind her. She could hear the voices again as they drew closer. Then they ceased, probably because the men had entered their rooms.

She leaned her back against the door to give her aching knee a rest, and took a look at the room she'd likely be in until everyone
left for the noon meal. When she'd entered, the room had seemed small and dark. Now she realized why. Furniture was everywhere—in front of the curtained windows, with pieces piled on top of each other, even on several Shaker beds that had probably been there since the South Family had died out.

Rose didn't dare turn on a light, so she examined the pieces as best she could. They were old, like the ones already in the New-Owenites' rooms—and like the pieces she'd seen Matthew and Archibald working on. The wood felt smooth, refinished. Tapes were stretched tight across the seats of ladder-back chairs. Nothing looked broken or crooked.

Her knee throbbed and her head swam; she dropped into a nearby chair, a rocker, and let her body go limp. How long had the New-Owenites been living here? No more than two weeks at the most. In that short time, Matthew and Archibald must have worked well past dark every night to repair all this furniture, even if some of it hadn't needed much work. But why?

She suspected the answer before she'd finished the question. There must be many more New-Owenites, waiting in their temporary home near Bloomington, perhaps, for word that North Homage was to be renamed New Harmony, and the Shakers were to become industrious, land-rich converts to New-Owenism. Wilhelm was cooperating, of course, because he truly believed the New-Owenites would become Shakers. Perhaps he thought that once they sat in Shaker chairs, they would be unable to resist the spiritual power of the Society. As if a true Believer could be created without a call from within.

All at once, Rose felt a heaviness on her chest, as if the room and the hubris it represented had fallen on top of her. She had to get out. She didn't care if the men had left yet for the noon meal. The thought of a direct confrontation was almost a relief. She left the room, walked openly down the hall, then down the staircase, and out the front door. She encountered no one. Perhaps Mother Ann had been watching over her. Much as she longed to force the battle into the sunlight, it wasn't yet time.

A
FTER HER SOJOURN IN THE
S
OUTH
F
AMILY
D
WELLING
H
OUSE
and a quick meal, Rose made straight for the Carpenters' Shop for a talk with Matthew and Archibald. She was in no mood to stop and chat with anyone, so she cut through the grass between the Children's Dwelling House and the Schoolhouse. In so doing, she had a clear view of the area in back of the Carpenters' Shop. She saw someone walking toward the grove of sugar maples, well past their autumn prime. The figure was dressed in trousers and a long coat, but the swaying gait could only be Celia's. There was nothing suspicious about a walk in the woods on a crisp fall afternoon, of course. But Rose was fairly certain Celia was walking from the back door of the Carpenters' Shop; otherwise, she'd have been visible earlier. All the more reason to give the carpenters a serious talking-to, since Wilhelm had on his blinders.

By the time Rose reached the door, it was clear that all was not well inside the shop. She heard no sanding or sawing through the open window, only the unmistakable sounds of an argument.

“I was only thinkin'—” said a protesting voice, which Rose recognized as Archibald's.

“Well, don't, all right?
Don't
think,” Matthew responded in a harsher voice. “And for God's sake, don't open that mouth of yours.”

Tempting as it was, Rose couldn't stand outside and listen.
She might be discovered at any moment. She could, however, question Matthew and Archibald about Celia's visit. Even if they lied, she would learn something.

She rapped on the door and stepped inside. Both men sat at worktables, in front of partially finished projects, but neither held any tools. As Rose entered, Matthew grabbed a ladder-back chair and examined its splintered leg. Archibald stared at her, his mouth slightly open. Neither of the brethren greeted her.

“Surely our visitors have enough chairs,” Rose said. “How much furniture can seven people possibly need?”

“I couldn't say,” Matthew said, without looking up. “I just do the work I'm given as best I can.”

Rose strolled to a corner of the shop and took a closer look at the jumble waiting to be refurbished. Bookcases, small tables, rocking chairs, desks, and a variety of baskets were stacked precariously.

“Who has been giving all this work to you?”

Matthew bent close to the chair and seemed not to hear her question. Archibald had gone to work on his oval box, but he glanced up when Matthew didn't answer.

“Elder Wilhelm told us, go ahead and fix up what's needed,” Archibald said helpfully. When Matthew scowled at him, he cringed and went back to his work.

“I see,” Rose said. “I wondered because I saw Celia leaving the shop and thought perhaps she'd come to order more furniture.”

She didn't expect an immediate answer, and she was not surprised when neither man spoke. In fact, she was encouraged and even somewhat amused by their discomfort. She might yet convince one of them to blurt out some information. Archibald was the better bet, once he'd recovered from Matthew's rebuke.

To buy time, Rose pulled down a small oval box waiting for repair. It was aged maple with tiny cracks under the swallowtail joints and a few streaks of mustard yellow paint clinging to the top. Across the side the word “nutmeg” was written
in careful script. She pulled off the top. If she held it close to her face, she could still smell the spicy-sweet nutmeg, some grains of which had lodged in the seam between the bottom and the curved sides.

Carrying the box, she walked over to Archibald's worktable. He was sanding a larger box, which looked to be of the same vintage. His pudgy fingers worked the surface of the wood as if he were petting a newborn kitten. “You're doing a good job on that,” she said. “You've brought out the grain, and I can't tell if it was ever painted.”

“Bright red it was,” Archibald said, “and cracked worse than that one.” There was pride in his voice, for which Rose forgave him, since he seemed unaware of it. She sensed Matthew was watching them, so she continued to chat to keep Archibald's attention away from the other carpenter. Her voice was low and casual, and she hoped Matthew could not hear her.

“By the way, I've spoken with Wilhelm about some special lessons for you, as we discussed. Since the harvest is finished, one of the older brethren could spend some time teaching you. Would you like that?”

Archibald's grin broadened his already round face. “Yea, I would. It might be a while, though,” he said, looking at the box in Rose's hands. “We have a lot of work left to do.”

“How many of these boxes have you repaired already?”

“A couple dozen, thereabouts,” Archibald said. “There was a lot of them in some empty rooms.”

“Did Wilhelm send you around to look for unused furniture?”

“He started us off, but he didn't know all the places.” This time the pride came through with a shy smile. “We found some on our own, in the South Family Dwelling House, getting the place ready, you know.”

Rose nodded. “Of course, when the South Family was gone, we really didn't have room to store all that they'd left behind, so we put most everything into a few rooms and just took out what we could use. Goodness, there was furniture enough for
fifty Believers, at least. You must have been working day and night to repair all of it.”

Archibald beamed. “Day and night,” he agreed. “Matthew's been sleeping here, in the room upstairs, so he can work past bedtime. That's the last of it, over there. That you're holding is the last box, and Matthew, he's doing the last ladder-back.”

Archibald's face fell as he glanced up and caught another of Matthew's glowers. But this time his fleshy lips formed a pout, and he turned his attention back to Rose. “Matthew and me, we've been working mighty hard to help out. We got near three rooms full of fixed-up chairs and tables and such-like back at the dwelling house, and those folks've been real grateful.”

“I imagine they are. Why else would Celia come over here just to thank you for your work?”

“Oh, she just come to pass the time of day, see how things are going, like she always does.” It didn't take Matthew's disapproval to quell him this time. At once he realized what he'd said. He gulped hard and began sanding, just a bit harder than before.

Behind her, Rose heard the clunk as Matthew put down his work, and she knew he was coming in her direction. With a light spin, she faced him.

“Well, it's good to know you will be done with this huge task soon,” she said. “There's quite of bit of repair needed elsewhere in the village. When do you suppose you'll be ready to turn to that?”

“Soon,” he said. “If we can get some peaceful work time.” He stood in the middle of the room, and his tall, gangly body made it seem as if he'd be more comfortable galloping through the pastures. Apparently aware of his rudeness to his eldress, his shoulders hunched forward and he took an awkward shuffling step out of Rose's path.

“I'll be running along, then,” she said, with determined cheerfulness. As she headed for the door, she passed the chair Matthew was repairing. It had a cracked leg and a seat woven from red-and-white tape, like the ones she'd seen in the South
Family Dwelling House. This one had dirty streaks across the seat, as if someone had stood on it with muddy shoes, and then slipped off.

Rose pulled out Mairin's three most recent drawings and spread them across her desk. She picked up the checkerboard. Despite the lack of color, it could represent the interwoven tapes used for ladder-back chair seats—like the one she had just seen Matthew repairing—the one that looked as if it had been kicked aside by a man committing suicide. Even old chairs were unlikely to have such scuff marks on them. Shaker furniture was functional but delicate, more easily broken than furniture used by the world. Shaker pieces were made to be treated gently, used with respect. They were crafted for the glory of God and the pleasure of the angels. No Believer would use a ladder-back chair as a step-stool, especially without wiping his feet first.

The chair Matthew had been repairing was surely the one that had disappeared after Hugh's death. She had questioned all the Believers, and no one had admitted to taking it out of the orchard. How did it get to the Carpenters' Shop? Matthew and Archibald had just shrugged when she'd asked them. Had Celia perhaps stopped by on one of her frequent visits and told the brethren there was one more chair to be picked up and fixed? That seemed cold-hearted. She would have known, surely, how it had been used. Or perhaps she had used it herself.