A Simple Shaker Murder (22 page)

Rose shook her head to clear it. She still had virtually no factual information, but her suspicions were growing. She wished she could just leave it alone and let Hugh be recorded as a suicide. But there was too much at stake. Mairin's serious little face floated into her mind. She could never leave Mairin with the New-Owenites if there was the slightest chance one of them was a murderer, and it was looking more and more as if the New-Owenites would not hand her over to Rose without a fight. Mairin was, at the moment, a valuable possession for Gilbert.

A worse specter popped into her thoughts. What if, by some doubtful miracle, the New-Owenites decided to join with the Shakers? Even if they were only Winter Shakers—using the community's food and shelter for a time, perhaps pretending to be serious novitiates, and leaving in the spring—then Mairin could come, too, but at what cost? Would the Society be taking in Hugh's killer—or killers?

Rose took a sheet of paper and a pen from her desk drawer, set the drawings aside, and settled down to organize her thoughts. She drew three columns, labeled “Murder,” “Suicide,” and “Oddities/Questions.” After half an hour of writing—small, so she could fit everything on one page—she relaxed in her chair and read her lists.

Oddities/Questions

   
Was Hugh gentle or cruel?

   
Who took the chair from the orchard, and why?

   
Why so much furniture? Just how many New-Owenites are there?

   
What do they want from us?

   
Is the note real?

   
What is Celia's relationship with Gilbert, Earl, Matthew, and Archibald?

   
What did Mairin see in the orchard?

   
What frightened Mairin outside the Schoolhouse?

   
What does Gilbert keep locked up in his wall cupboard?

Despite the lack of factual information, Rose felt more sure, seeing it all written down, that murder was a stronger possibility than suicide. Mairin's shock proved nothing by itself; she might have been affected as badly by suicide as by murder. But something continued to frighten her, as if a threat still existed.

The amount of furniture being readied disturbed her. She had understood from Wilhelm that Gilbert had left behind a handful of followers, far too few to need all that. It was possible that Wilhelm had given the initial instructions to begin the repairing, and he might not have checked recently to see how much was being done. It would be like him to lose interest in the details. If that was what had happened, then the New-Owenites were the ones stockpiling furniture.

She folded the paper and staffed it in her apron pocket. When she heard from Andrew, perhaps she could straighten out some of her questions. In the meantime, the list would help to guide her efforts. She wanted a look at that so-called suicide note. Then it would be time for a heart-to-heart talk with Mairin, and she would need Agatha's help.

T
HERE WASN
'
T TIME FOR A VISIT TO
L
ANGUOR BEFORE PICKING
up Mairin from her extra lessons, so Rose asked Charlotte to deliver the girl to Agatha's retiring room. Then she made a quick call to the Languor County Sheriff's Office. Grady O'Neal had returned, and Sheriff Brock was out for the day. Perfect. Rose made an appointment to visit Grady in half an hour.

Andrew usually watched over the Society's black Chrysler, but since he was gone, Rose decided not to tell anyone where she was going—not yet. It was mid-afternoon, and the other Believers were busy at their rotations, so though she might be seen taking the car, especially by a New-Owenite wandering around, no one would know her destination.

She hurried to the parking space beside the Trustees' Office, slipped into the car with more haste than grace, and pressed the starter button. The brethren kept the Chrysler clean and well-maintained, and it was still fairly new, so she began her trip with no difficulties. However, as she pulled onto the unpaved road leading through the village center, she glanced out the driver's window and saw one of the brethren standing outside the Carpenters' Shop, watching her drive off. From the tall, thin stature, it had to be Matthew.

Rose headed west from the village over the eight miles of hilly, bumpy road to the town of Languor, the county seat. When she'd served as trustee, she had traveled to town regularly
to meet with customers and to order supplies. Since she had become eldress, the visits had become rare, though she had more freedom now to travel.

She drove through the outskirts of Languor, where the poorest of the poor lived, and she was reminded that not all the world lived as pleasantly and productively as the Shakers. As this grinding Depression wore on, their neighbors suffered more each day.

The autumn chill had driven the children inside, giving the area an abandoned look. Porches and steps sagged, windows were covered over with paper, and more than one roof had a hole or a patch. And these were the folks who had homes to sleep in. The Society's carpenters shouldn't be wasting their time helping the wealthy New-Owenites stockpile furniture. Right here was where Matthew and Archibald should be working. She was still dreaming about turning all the repaired Shaker furniture over to the Languor poor when she parked near the Sheriff's office.

“Rose, it's good to see you again,” Grady said, with genuine pleasure, as he ushered her into his tiny office. “I just spoke with Gennie on the phone, and she sends her love. She's staying on with my family, to help my mother while my father recovers.”

“I only knew you were away on family business,” Rose said. “I had no idea your father was ill. I should have pressed harder for information. How is he?”

“He's better,” Grady said. “He had a heart attack. Gave us a bad scare, but it looks like he's through the worst.”

“We will pray for your father and your family,” Rose said.

“Thanks.” Grady riffled through a stack of papers on his desk, and Rose sensed his discomfort.

“I wouldn't presume upon our friendship at a time like this if it were not a matter of extreme importance—perhaps of life and death.” She drew her list from her pocket and handed it to Grady. A crease between his eyebrows deepened as he read it twice.

“I'd heard there'd been a suicide on your land, but nobody
said anything about suspicion of murder,” he said.

Rose sighed and closed Grady's office door. “Sheriff Brock does not seem eager to pursue the matter,” she said.

“Now, it seems to me, if there'd been any way to pin a murder on you folks, Harry'd be the first to pipe up. So to my way of thinking, that means there wasn't even the slightest evidence pointing to murder. Why are you so concerned about this? Do you all
want
to be accused of murder?”

“Nay, of course not, but . . .” She bobbed her head toward the list in Grady's hand. “There's a child at stake—a sad and hurt little girl named Mairin. I think she witnessed the incident, as you can see on my list of questions. Right now she can't remember, but someday she might. What if it
was
a murder, and she was the only witness? How much will her life be worth? There are so many unanswered questions, so many contradictions. I know I don't have anything solid yet, but something is very wrong, I
know
it.”

He scanned her list again. “Is it really so odd that the chair got picked up later?”

“Nay, it's just what a Shaker would have done—but no one will admit to doing so. Given the slovenly habits of our guests, I doubt any of them would have picked it up, just to neaten the orchard. But someone must have carried or sent it to the Carpenters' Shop for quick repair.”

Grady tipped his chair back and stared at the yellowed ceiling. Rose noticed dark circles underneath his eyes and a couple days of beard growth. Dragging him into this right now, with his father ill, cost her a guilt pang, but there was no one else to whom she could turn.

“Okay,” Grady said, “suppose we assume the possibility of murder. More'n likely it was one of your visitors killing another, for reasons of his own. Why not stay out of it? If any solid evidence comes to light, let us take care of it. Just ask them to leave. You've done it before. Sounds like they'd love to get the kid off their hands, so you could probably keep her.”

“I don't believe it's that easy.” Rose explained the power
the New-Owenites had over Wilhelm and her fears that Mairin had become a pawn. “Besides,” she added, “would
you
want a killer to go free, perhaps to kill again?”

“Of course not, but . . .” Grady let the front of his chair drop forward with a clunk. “All right, what do you want me to do?”

“You can show me the suicide note. Have you seen it?”

Grady shook his head. “I just got back to work last night, and Harry didn't fill me in much.” He heaved himself out of his chair, quite unlike the strong, eager young man Rose knew. “We'll go take a look at the note,” he said, “but don't you dare tell Harry or anyone who might tell Harry—promise?”

“Promise.”

Grady stuck his head out the door. “Ray, you busy? Yeah, it's a slow day. You might as well run out to the Pike place and check on things. The Pike kid's been complaining about that neighbor of his again. Something about broken fences. Thanks. I'll watch things here.” He closed the door and waited a few moments. When he reopened it, the outer waiting area was empty.

“Come on,” he said to Rose. He led her to a small room that reminded her of the furniture storage rooms back at the South Family Dwelling House, so crammed was it with everything from hunting rifles to clothing. He pulled a string attached to a single bulb, covered with grime, and gray light flickered over their heads.

“This is our evidence room,” Grady said with a snort. “The Lexington police would call it a junk closet.” He routed around the dusty items until he came to a file cabinet splotched with rust. “We store paper evidence in here. The suicide note is probably just tossed in somewhere, since Harry didn't think there was a crime involved.”

He pulled out a stack of papers of all different shapes, sizes, and ages, and he handed half the pile to Rose. “I know what you're thinking, Rose; you don't need to say it. If you Shakers could just get hold of this mess, you'd clean it right up.”

“Just give us a couple of hours,” Rose said.

“Be careful what you offer,” Grady warned. “If I ever become sheriff, I might just take you up on it.”

They both found relatively clear surfaces to work on and began their painstaking examination of each item. Since neither had seen the note, they were careful not to toss anything aside too quickly. The minutes crept by, interrupted only by an occasional sneeze from Grady or Rose.

“Ray will be gone for a while, won't he?” Rose asked.

“Yeah, he'll be lucky to get back by suppertime. That feud has survived generations; poor Ray won't be able to make a difference, that's why we usually don't send anyone. At some point, he'll just decide he's had enough and probably go straight home for a couple shots of . . . whiskey.” His voice trailed off, and Rose looked over at him.

“What is it?”

“I'll be damned,” Grady said. When he didn't automatically apologize for his language, Rose's curiosity doubled. She dropped the paper she was squinting at and went toward him.

“Look at this,” he said, some of the old eagerness back in his voice.

She read it aloud: “I'm ashamed and I can't take it anymore. This is the only way.” She frowned at Grady. ‘This can't be it, can it?”

“Yep, sure can. See that little mark in the top right-hand corner? That's Harry's mark, and he wrote the date next to it.”

Rose held the paper under the light. “It's dated last Wednesday, the day after Hugh's death. That's when Gilbert said he'd found the note and delivered it to the Sheriff's Office. But I don't understand. This note is printed, and rather sloppily, too. Hugh was an educated man. Why would he have printed his own suicide note?”

“I suppose he might have had unreadable handwriting,” Grady said.

“I could certainly check on that,” Rose said, “but still, it's written so messily. If he was being careful to make the note
readable, wouldn't he have been neater? This is very puzzling.”