A Simple Shaker Murder (9 page)

The steamy Laundry air smelled of soap and lavender rinse. Rose found Gretchen upstairs, ironing a blue Sabbathday surcoat. The weather was still warm enough for the other laundry sisters to hang clothes to dry outdoors, a job preferable to ironing, so Gretchen was alone. She held the heavy iron poised over a sleeve as she saw Rose top the stairs.

“Has there been a problem with the laundry?” Gretchen asked. Her normally cheerful face was pinched with worry.

“Nay, the laundry is fine, as always,” Rose said. “Stop a moment and talk with me.” She lifted down two chairs. Gretchen watched, her iron still hovering in the air. “It's all right, Gretchen. I just want to chat with you.” Rose had never felt so aware before of Gretchen's youth; she couldn't be more than twenty-five or twenty-six. She was so competent and devoted, she seemed much older. But now she looked young and frightened.

“Elsa saw us, didn't she.” Gretchen up-ended the iron and slid into the chair next to Rose. “She was hinting like crazy this morning before we went in to breakfast, so I'm not surprised you found out. Does Wilhelm know?”

“Not yet, though I'm sure he will soon. Let me help you, Gretchen. Tell me what there is to know, and I'll see what I can do to shield you.”

“I'd like this to be my confession,” Gretchen said, sitting straight in her chair.

Rose nodded her assent, and Gretchen took a few moments to compose herself. No matter what was coming, Rose was grateful it would be revealed without too much fuss. Now that she was eldress, she was learning to handle torrents of tears, but she surely did not regret their absence.

“I do not make a habit of speaking to men alone at night, I want you to understand that,” Gretchen began. “But I confess that I did so yesterday. I had no idea Elsa would be out spying on me, instead of in her own bed.” Her voice hardened.

“Leave Elsa to me.”

“Of course, I'm sorry. This is my confession, and my own behavior deserves reproach. I met with a man from the world, alone, after dark. But that is all I did, Rose, truly.”

“Who is the man, Gretchen?”

Gretchen's right hand began kneading the fingers of her left hand, as if in soothing reminder of rubbing a stain out of cloth. “It's not what you think, Rose.”

Gretchen bit her lower lip, increasing Rose's fear that “it” was even worse than she'd thought.

“He . . . the man I was talking to . . . Gretchen closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “It was Earl Weston. We grew up together. We were the best of friends. Over time our friendship . . . well, we were engaged to be married.” A pleading note slipped into her voice. “You were engaged once, weren't you, Rose? During your time in the world? You understand. We broke the engagement years and years ago, but he was a special part of my life, and I can't just forget that. I know I should, but I can't. When I saw him again . . .” Gretchen frowned at the floor as if it were responsible for her misery.

“Seeing him again stirred old feelings?” Rose asked.

“Nay, I promise, those feelings are gone. My heart belongs to Mother Ann and the Society, yet . . . I suppose there is a little
piece of it that still belongs to him. Can you understand that?”

“Yea, I do understand,” Rose said. And she did. “Is that why you met with him? Because that little piece of your heart called to him?”

“Because I thought I could do some good.”

Rose raised her eyebrows in a question.

“Earl was a good man,” Gretchen said. “I hated to see him so involved with those Godless people. He wasn't like that when I knew him. He refused to become a Shaker, but he was still a believer. Now it hurts my heart to listen to him talk. He thinks God is a lie, and faith is just ignorant superstition.”

“So you hoped to convince him otherwise?”

Gretchen nodded.

“And was he receptive?”

“Nay.” Gretchen grimaced. “He tried very hard to convince me that
I
was wrong to believe as I do.”

“Did he attempt to convert you to his way of thinking?”

“Well, a little, maybe. But there's no need for you to worry on my account, Rose. I would never leave. You know that, don't you?”

Rose was silent for a moment. She was fairly certain that Gretchen was devoted; that wasn't what worried her. Gretchen was indeed unlikely to leave. But would Earl Weston know that?

“You mustn't see him again,” Rose said.

Gretchen looked stricken. “But he was such a good friend, and I want so to help him.”

“Just as he wants to help you. Don't you see it is pointless? You won't change your mind, nor will he change his, but neither of you will give up, so you'll argue until even the good memories of your friendship are gone. And you will be setting a bad example for the other sisters. What good could possibly come from seeing him again, even in broad daylight?”

“He trusts me,” Gretchen said.

“But what does that—”

“He tells me things.”

“What things?” Rose felt her hopes stir.

“About his people, those New-Owenites. I know you are
worried about Hugh Griffiths' suicide—whether it really was a suicide. After hearing Earl talk, I think you are right to worry. Those folks aren't the close friends they pretend to be, and Hugh wasn't as liked as everyone says.”

Rose leaned forward. “Tell me exactly what Earl told you.”

Gretchen leaned, also, her misery blotted out by eagerness to share a good story. “He said that Celia didn't really love Hugh. She only married him to be near Gilbert, who only cares about his ideas. Hugh was besotted with her, though, and he was terribly jealous because he was convinced that Celia and Gilbert were . . . together.” Gretchen paused in her enthusiasm to look embarrassed, but it didn't last. “Earl was trying to prove to me that men and women should be able to just change around and divorce and remarry all they want, and then there wouldn't be this sort of jealousy. Of course, I told him it only proved that men and women are much better off not marrying at all!”

Rose was torn between pride in Gretchen and alarm that the conversation had become so intimate. She was also, she had to admit, grateful for the information. So she swallowed her reprimand and asked, “Did he mention anything else?”

“Nay, nothing in particular,” Gretchen said with obvious regret. “But I could find more out.”

“Gretchen!”

“I only meant . . . Rose, you must know I wouldn't break my vows. I'll keep my ears open, and I'll let you know immediately if I hear anything more about our visitors.”

Rose still felt uneasy, but she decided to leave Gretchen's behavior to her conscience. Surely she had learned her lesson.

Rose trusted Gretchen's intentions, but not Earl Weston's understanding of the need for distance between them. She lost no time in tracking Earl down. One of the brethren had seen him enter the West Dwelling House, another of North Homage's unoccupied buildings.
It must be pleasant to have the leisure to wander around aimlessly
, she thought, as she climbed the wooden steps to the single front door. She was not in the most tolerant of moods.

The unused dwelling house was cold and dim inside, and Rose entered carefully, not sure what condition it might be in. Eight or nine years earlier, the brethren had begun renovations, hoping to turn the house into a shop for Shaker goods, but times had gotten too bad, both for the Shakers and for their customers.

Rose left the door ajar to admit fresh air and some light. She'd hoped to find Earl near the front of the house, but sounds from just overhead told her he was on the second floor. Reluctantly, she left the circle of light and climbed the stairs, holding fast to the railing, just in case. But the brethren must have been keeping an eye on the building, because the staircase was sound.

The old pine steps were creaky enough that she was sure Earl would be at the top to greet her, but the hallway was empty when she reached it. She went directly to the room she'd heard footsteps in, a retiring room on the east side. The door hung open. Earl stood at the window, which gave him a panoramic view of most of the village of North Homage, as well as the acres and acres of land beyond.

“It's a breathtaking sight, isn't it?” Rose said.

Earl whirled around so fast that he stumbled back against the deep window frame. Unable to steady himself in time, he sat with a plunk on the wide sill.

Earl stared at Rose as if he couldn't place her. He couldn't be much older than Gretchen, if they'd been childhood pals, but he looked closer to forty. Unlike the Griffiths cousins, he was taller than average. Rose supposed he might be considered handsome, but the telltale signs of a dissolute life had already added extra inches to his girth and dark pockets under his eyes, which were deep brown and hard to read. Rose must have given him a severe shock, because his breathing was rapid and red splotches formed on his already florid face.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you so. I've no idea what shape those sills are in.”

Earl stood up and rearranged his expression into one of affability. “I'm fine, just fine. Rose, is it? You just startled me, is all. I, uh, was having a look-see around the house, just out
of curiosity. If I may ask, why aren't you using this place?” He scanned the large, empty room as if he could already see it filled with elegant, and probably expensive, furniture.

“You may have noticed when you entered that this dwelling house has only one door,” Rose said. “Decades ago, when we were a much larger community, this was where our gathering order lived—people who had not signed the covenant. Since they were still outside the faith, they lived apart from the Shaker families, and took care of their own affairs. Some of them decided to sign the covenant, but others never did. Such folks just don't show up much anymore. It's wasteful to keep this dwelling habitable for one or two people.”

Rose didn't go on to tell him about their various other plans for the house. After asking his question, he'd seemed to lose interest, inspecting the woodwork instead of looking at her as she spoke.

“I came to find you for a purpose, Mr. Weston,” she said.

His attention snapped back to her face. “Oh? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yea,” Rose said, “you can stay away from my sisters.”

“Your sisters? I don't think I . . .” The splotching reappeared, and he gazed down at the dusty floor. “I see,” he said. “You're talking about Gretchen. I meant no harm, I assure you.”

“I'll accept your assurances, Mr. Weston, but I must insist that it never happen again. Will you promise me that?”

“I wouldn't dream of causing problems for Gretchen, I was only . . . well, she's an old friend, you see.”

“I know all about that.”

“Ah. Well, I'm glad you brought this to my attention.” He was edging toward the door. “I certainly understand. If you'll excuse me, I promised to meet with Gilbert.” He was out the door and thudding down the stairs so fast Rose had no chance to respond. From the window, she saw him trudge through the dormant Kentucky bluegrass toward the South Family Dwelling House. He was halfway there before she realized that he had not actually promised to stay away from Gretchen.

D
URING THE SILENCE OF THE NOON MEAL,
R
OSE HAD TIME TO
gather her thoughts. Gretchen's tidbits about the Griffiths sparked her curiosity. She wanted to find out more, as fast as possible. However, she did not dare say so to Gretchen, who would surely conclude she had permission to talk again with Earl Weston. The Griffiths themselves would probably be secretive, if she were to ask them her questions directly. She could talk to Matthew and Archibald, but no doubt Wilhelm would consider her questioning the brethren an invasion of his responsibility. Still, it might be worth a rebuke.

The gentle slurping of soup and an occasional sniffle were the only sounds in the Center Family dining room. Across the room at the brethren's table, two heads were not bobbing over their soup bowls—Matthew and Archibald leaned slightly toward each other as if whispering a message. Rose noted that the chairs on either side of them were occupied by Earl Weston and Gilbert Griffiths.

Archibald nodded. As his wide, round face turned forward, he caught Rose staring at him. His gaze dropped to his plate. Matthew seemed not to have noticed. Rose made her decision—she would question them.

The brethren were first to finish their meal, and they left silently. Rose squirmed with impatience. As soon as the last morsel at the sisters' table had been eaten—by Elsa, as usual—Rose placed her napkin over her empty plate and
stood. All the sisters—and, more slowly, the New-Owenite women—followed her lead.

As Rose lifted her chair and swung it upside down onto its wall pegs, she noticed that one of the front rungs was cracked. She remembered that the stool in the kitchen, the one she had plunked Mairin on top of, had been in need of repair, too. Why shouldn't she bring them to the attention of the brethren at the Carpenters' Shop? Surely that would not irritate Wilhelm.