A Simple Shaker Murder (32 page)

“Gilbert made drawings of his dreams?”

“Well, sort of. Hugh said he was always dreaming about towns, perfect towns, and he had lots of drawings of them that he carried with him everywhere he went.”

“So that was all,” Rose said. “His precious plans for the future of North Homage.”

“Never to be realized, thank goodness,” Andrew said. “Now, Rose, will you rest?”

Rose was asleep before the smile had left her lips.

With a public auction scheduled for the next day, and the threat of snow rolling in from Cincinnati, Rose and Andrew decided the time was right to fulfill one of Rose's dreams. Because of the New-Owenites, North Homage now had rooms full of restored Shaker furniture. Though Rose accepted the need to auction off much of it to restore their financial stability, she wanted to share some of it—along with the salvageable food from the South Family Dwelling House kitchen—with the poor families living in the barren outskirts of Languor.

Early Christmas, they'd all been calling it. Nora was thrilled beyond words, and even Mairin sparkled, though she had little concept of Christmas. However, she did understand that her
life had taken a happy turn, for the first time. With luck and care, perhaps she was still young enough to learn to hope.

Archibald had volunteered to help them. After Matthew announced he was leaving the Society, Archibald had asked for forgiveness and received it. He'd already begun his special lessons, along with Mairin.

Rose took Mairin with her to the South Family Dwelling House. “Now
this
is a Shaker kitchen,” Rose said with satisfaction. The sisters had spent days picking up and scrubbing down until the kitchen was spotless. They hadn't known what to do with the bits of cheese and half-eaten hunks of bread, so, not wanting to waste anything, they'd just wrapped everything up and stored it in the pantry.

Rose carried a large basket, filled with wooden boxes, round and oval, that she'd collected from other rooms in the dwelling house. She opened the boxes and laid them along the work-table.

“Help me pack these, will you? My shoulder still hurts.” Rose and Mairin put all the left-over food in the boxes, then fit the boxes back in the basket. Mairin did an admirable job of controlling her still-troublesome hunger. It was easier, now that she was well fed.

Andrew and Archibald had already left with the horse-drawn cart, filled with a selection of ladder-back chairs, candle stands, and anything else useful that Rose could rescue as the brethren prepared for the public auction. Mairin and Rose stashed their basket of food in the back of the Chrysler, where Nora was waiting, and the trio headed for the outskirts of Languor. After a few miles, they caught up to the wagon and followed slowly behind.

“You're very quiet today, Mairin,” Rose said. “Is anything troubling you?”

Mairin started by shaking her head, then changed her mind. “It's just . . . lots of times people don't like me and call me names. Will these people, die ones we're going to visit?”

“I'll get really mad if they do!” Nora said from the back.
She quieted down as Rose turned briefly and raised an eyebrow at her.

“Mairin, sometimes people laugh at me because I'm a Shaker and I dress differently.”

“Does it make you mad?”

“I'm afraid it does. But then I remember that sometimes people come along who don't care that I'm different from them, and they like me anyway.”

“Like me.”

“Like you.”

Mairin nodded solemnly and gazed out the window for several minutes.

“Rose?”

“Hm?” With a silent prayer for guidance, Rose prepared herself for the next difficult question.

“I miss my doll. Can I have her back?”

“Of course!”

Mairin is becoming the child she was meant to be
, Rose thought, as she sent a prayer of thanks to Mother Ann, Holy Mother Wisdom, and anyone else who might have been listening all along.

We hope you have enjoyed this Avon Twilight mystery. Mysteries fascinate and intrigue with the worlds they create. And what better way to capture your interest than this glimpse into the world of a select group of Avon Twilight authors.

Tamar Myers reveals the deadly side of the antique business. The bed-and-breakfast industry becomes lethal in the hands of Mary Daheim. A walk along San Antonio's famed River Walk with Carolyn Hart reveals a fascinating and mysterious place. Nevada Barr encounters danger on Ellis Island. Deborah Woodworth's Sister Rose Callahan discovers something sinister is afoot in her Kentucky Shaker village. Jill Churchill steps back in time to the 1930's along the Hudson River and creates a weekend of intrigue. And Anne Georges Southern Sisters find that making money is a motive for murder.

So turn the page for a sneak peek into worlds filled with mystery and murder. And if you like what you read, head to your nearest bookstore. It's the only way to figure out whodunit
. . .

December

Abigail Timberlake, the heroine of Tamar Myers' delightful Den of Antiquity series, is smart, quirky, and strong-minded. She has to be—running your own antique business is a struggle, even on the cultured streets of Charlotte, North Carolina, and her mean-spirited divorce lawyer of an ex-husband's caused her a lot of trouble over the years. She also has a “delicate” relationship with her proper Southern mama.

The difficulties in Abby's personal life are nothing, though, to the trouble that erupts when she buys a “faux” Van Gogh at auction
. . .

ESTATE OF MIND

by Tamar Myers

Y
OU ALREADY KNOW THAT MY NAME IS
A
BIGAIL
T
IMBERLAKE
, but you might not know that I was married to a beast of a man for just over twenty years. Buford Timberlake—or Timbersnake, as I call him—is one of Charlotte, North Carolina's most prominent divorce lawyers. Therefore, he knew exactly what he was doing when he traded me in for his secretary. Of course, Tweetie Bird is half my age—although parts of her are even much younger than that. The woman is 20 percent silicone, for crying out loud, although admittedly it balances
rather nicely with the 20 percent that was sucked away from her hips.

In retrospect, however, there are worse things than having your husband dump you for a man-made woman. It hurt like the dickens at the time, but it would have hurt even more had he traded me in for a brainier model. I can buy most of what Tweetie has (her height excepted), but she will forever be afraid to flush the toilet lest she drown the Ty-D-Bol man.

And as for Buford, he got what he deserved. Our daughter, Susan, was nineteen at the time and in college, but our son, Charlie, was seventeen, and a high school junior. In the penultimate miscarriage of justice, Buford got custody of Charlie, our house, and even the dog Scruffles. I must point out that Buford got custody of our friends as well. Sure, they didn't legally belong to him, but where would you rather stake your loyalty? To a good old boy with more connections than the White House switchboard, or to a housewife whose biggest accomplishment, besides giving birth, was a pie crust that didn't shatter when you touched it with your fork? But like I said, Buford got what he deserved and today—it actually pains me to say this—neither of our children will speak to their father.

Now I own a four-bedroom, three-bath home not far from my shop. My antique shop is the Den of Antiquity. I paid for this house, mind you—not one farthing came from Buford. At any rate, I share this peaceful, if somewhat lonely, abode with a very hairy male who is young enough to be my son.

When I got home from the auction, I was in need of a little comfort, so I fixed myself a cup of tea with milk and sugar—never mind that it was summer—and curled up on the white cotton couch in the den. My other hand held a copy of Anne Grant's
Smoke Screen
, a mystery novel set in Charlotte and surrounding environs. I hadn't finished more than a page of this exciting read when my roommate rudely pushed it aside and climbed into my lap.

“Dmitri,” I said, stroking his large orange head, “that ‘Starry
Night' painting is so ugly, if Van Gogh saw it, he'd cut off his other ear.”

Some folks think that just because I'm in business for myself, I can set my own hours. That's true as long as I keep my shop open forty hours a week during prime business hours and spend another eight or ten hours attending sales. Not to mention the hours spent cleaning and organizing any subsequent purchases. I know what they mean, though. If I'm late to the shop, I may lose a valued customer, but I won't lose my job—at least not in one fell swoop.

I didn't think I'd ever get to sleep Wednesday night, and I didn't. It was well into the wee hours of Thursday morning when I stopped counting green thistles and drifted off. When my alarm beeped, I managed to turn it off in my sleep. Either that or in my excitement, I had forgotten to set it. At any rate, the telephone woke me up at 9:30, a half hour later than the time I usually open my shop.

“
Muoyo webe
” Mama said cheerily.

“What?” I pushed Dmitri off my chest and sat up.

“Life to you, Abby. That's how they say ‘good morning' in Tshiluba.”

I glanced at the clock. “Oh, shoot! Mama, I've got to run.”

“I know, dear. I tried the shop first and got the machine. Abby, you really should consider getting a professional to record your message. Someone who sounds . . . well, more cultured.”

“Like Rob?” I remembered the painting. “Mama, sorry, but I really can't talk now.”

“Fine,” Mama said, her cheeriness deserting her. “I guess, like they say, bad news can wait.”

I sighed. Mama baits her hooks with an expertise to be envied by the best fly fishermen.

“Sock it to me, Mama. But make it quick.”

“Are you sitting down, Abby?”

“Mama, I'm still in bed!”

“Abby, I'm afraid I have some horrible news to tell you about one of your former boyfriends.”

“Greg?” I managed to gasp after a few seconds. “Did something happen to Greg?”

“No, dear, it's Gilbert Sweeny. He's dead.”

I wanted to reach through the phone line and shake Mama until her pearls rattled. “Gilbert Sweeny was never my boyfriend!”

January

From nationally bestselling author Mary Daheim, who creates a world inside a Seattle bed-and-breakfast that is impossible to resist, comes
Creeps Suzette,
the newest addition to this delightful series . . .

Judith McMonigle Flynn, the consummate hostess of Hillside Manor, fairly flies out the door in the dead of winter when her cousin Renie requests her company. As long as Judith's ornery mother, her ferocious feline, and her newly retired husband aren't joining them, Judith couldn't care less where they're going. That is until they arrive at the spooky vine-covered mansion, Creepers, in which an elderly woman lives in fear that someone is trying to kill her. And it's up to the cousins to determine which dark drafty corner houses a cold-blooded killer before a permanent hush falls over them all
. . .

CREEPS SUZETTE

by Mary Daheim

“A
S YOU WISH, MA
'
AM,
”
SAID
K
ENYON, AND CREAKED OUT OF
the parlor.

“Food,” Renie sighed. “I'm glad I'm back.”

“With a vengeance,” Judith murmured. “You know,” she went on, “when I saw those stuffed animal heads in the game room, I had to wonder if Kenneth wasn't reacting to them.
His grandfather or great-grandfather must have hunted. Maybe he grew up feeling sorry for the lions and tigers and bears, oh, my!”

“I could eat a bear,” Renie said.

Climbing the tower staircase, the cousins could feel the wind. “Not well-insulated in this part of the house,” Judith noted as they entered Kenneth's room.

“It's a tower,” Renie said. “What would you expect?”

Judith really hadn't expected to see Roscoe the raccoon, but there he was, standing on his hind legs in a commodious cage. The bandit eyes gazed soulfully at the cousins.

“Hey,” Renie said, kneeling down, “from the looks of that food dish, you've eaten more than we have this evening. You'll have to wait for dessert.”

Judith, meanwhile, was studying the small fireplace, peeking into drawers, looking under the bed. “Nothing,” she said, opening the door to the nursery. “Just the kind of things you'd expect Kenneth to keep on hand for his frequent visits to Creepers.”

Renie said good-bye to Roscoe and followed Judith into the nursery. “How long,” Renie mused, “do you suppose it's been since any kids played in here?”

Judith calculated. “Fifteen years, maybe more?”

“Do you think they're keeping it for grandchildren?” Renie asked in a wistful tone.

Judith gave her cousin a sympathetic glance. So far, none of the three grown Jones offspring had acquired mates or produced children. “That's possible,” Judith said. “You shouldn't give up hope, especially these days when kids marry so late.”

Renie didn't respond. Instead, she contemplated the train set. “This is the same vintage as the one I had. It's a Marx, like mine. I don't think they make them any more.”

“Some of these dolls are much older,” Judith said. “They're porcelain and bisque. These toys run the gamut. “From hand-carved wooden soldiers to plastic Barbies. And look at this dollhouse. The furniture is all the same style as many of the pieces in this house.”

“Hey,” Renie said, joining Judith at the shelf where the dollhouse was displayed, “this looks like a cutaway replica of Creepers itself. There's even a tower room on this one side and it's . . .” Renie blanched and let out a little gasp.

“What's wrong, coz? Are you okay?” Judith asked in alarm.