Dancing Dead (18 page)

Rose settled herself back in Gennie's car and pulled her notes from her well-used apron pocket. She realized immediately that Beatrice Berg had lied to Andrew about her past—if Andrew was remembering correctly, and Rose trusted him to do so. Beatrice claimed to have lived her married life in a house near the center of Languor, yet it was clear from the newspaper articles about her husband that they had lived in a small town, probably near the hollow where she'd grown up. Clearly, Beatrice wanted to hide her past, but her lies were stupid. Did she assume the Shakers were so unworldly that they wouldn't know how to check the veracity of her answers? Everything Rose had uncovered so far placed Mrs. Berg firmly on the suspect list. Her lies, the possibility she had murdered her husband, the apparent use of poison in two cases—all pointed to Beatrice Berg.

Rose skimmed the rest of her notes, searching for another avenue of investigation. She paused at Horace von Oswald's name. He'd given Birdhill, Ohio, as his most recent address, but he had responded to the first advertisement for the Shaker Hostel—the one that appeared only in Kentucky papers. Granted, he could have gotten the news through friends or relatives or any number of other sources. Yet he had phoned Andrew the very first day the advertisement appeared.

Daisy Prescott—no one knew much at all about Daisy. She seemed to fade into the walls when anyone else was in the room. Rose closed her eyes and searched her mind for memories of Daisy. The images emerged in shades of gray and brown. No wonder she seemed invisible. Yet Rose recalled her stance as she walked into the dining room, how she slid onto her chair as if her body were made of silk. Her tall, slender figure and heart-shaped face promised great beauty, yet somehow the promise was never fulfilled. Why? Was she a woman who cared nothing for outer beauty and so ignored her own? Yet Gennie had mentioned that Daisy spent an entire evening reading women's magazines. Did she wish for beauty and not realize that she already possessed it?

Was Daisy Prescott playing a role? Why?

Rose moved on to Mina Dunmore. Investigating the victim might shed some light on why she died. According to Andrew's notes, Mrs. Dunmore had asked some questions about North Homage that made more sense in retrospect. She'd wanted to know who were elder and eldress, probably to make sure she'd found her father. Her question about how many buildings the village had might have been a crude attempt to assess how much money she thought she could extort from Wilhelm.

Otherwise, they had no information about Mina Dunmore except a phone number. Rose had scribbled the number too quickly, and now she couldn't make it out. A shadow blocked the light from entering the car's small side window. The number looked like a Languor exchange, but she couldn't be sure. She held the paper close to the window to catch what light she could, and the shadow moved. It was a person. Several people, in fact. A small crowd had gathered next to her car. It moved closer, and a dirt-streaked face appeared at the window. Two other faces materialized behind the first. All three were boys around fifteen or sixteen years old. What Rose could see of their clothing looked stained and tattered. Ordinarily, Rose would greet such an audience with kindness and generosity, but something told her to stay safe inside the car. She crammed her notes back in her pocket, rammed her foot on the starter button, and drove off before the crowd could move around in front of the car. She looked back and saw the boys standing in the street, watching her speed away.

Sixteen

B
Y THE TIME SHE HAD DRIVEN FROM
L
ANGUOR BACK TO
North Homage, Rose's heart had settled back to a normal rhythm, and she was a bit ashamed of herself. The boys who'd frightened her probably meant no harm. It occurred to her that in Gennie's roadster she might have seemed an unusually prosperous—and ostentatious—Shaker. Perhaps the boys had only wanted food or a little money to buy some bread. She could at least have given them the dollar she always carried with her in case of emergency. When everything was back to normal, she would take some food and clothing—in North Homage's conservative black Plymouth—and seek out those boys.

She had about half an hour before the bell for the evening meal, so she parked Gennie's car next to the hostel and went directly to the Trustees' Office. She plucked the page from her notes that listed all the hostel guests' former telephone numbers. She began with Daisy Prescott. The operator put through her Indianapolis call, which was answered after two rings with the precise and unmistakable tones of a butler, probably hailing from Boston. Rose was taken aback and stumbled over her words. The butler waited politely until she managed to ask if Miss Daisy Prescott was at home.

“I'm afraid madam must have the wrong number,” he said. “This is the Carswell Houghton residence. Miss Prescott does not live here.”

“Oh, I must have been misinformed,” Rose said. “Perhaps Miss Prescott has been a visitor at the Houghton home at some time? I was told I could reach her at this number.”

“Ah. Madam is surely referring to Mr. Houghton's secretary. She has worked here on occasion, but she does not make her home with the Houghton family. I believe she has several such appointments. She has not been here for several weeks.”

“Do you know the names of any of her other employers?” Rose asked.

“No, I'm sorry, madam, I do not. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Rose almost said, “Nay,” but stopped herself just in time. “I'm sorry to have bothered you,” she said.

“Not at all.”

Rose jotted down the results of her call, then selected Mina Dunmore's number to try next. The call went unanswered, and Rose made a note to try again later. She might have just enough time between dinner and the evening worship service.

She skimmed her list again. Saul Halvardson she would leave to Andrew. Next came Horace von Oswald, who both repulsed and intrigued her. She connected with the operator and prepared to wait. Within seconds, the operator came back on the line.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, this number isn't in use. Are you sure you got it right?” She repeated the number Rose had given her.

“Perhaps I was given the wrong number,” Rose said. Interesting. Horace might have invented the number. Maybe he thought Birdhill, Ohio, was such a tiny dot on the map that no one would care to check it out. What he couldn't know was that Rose had a friend in Birdhill, Terrence Smythe, rector of St. James Episcopal Church. Terrence had spent a summer in North Homage several years earlier, while Rose was serving as trustee. He thought he might be called to become a Shaker, but in the end he decided the life was too restrictive for him. He and Rose still corresponded, though. It was time for a chat.

“Horace von Oswald? The name sounds familiar, but I can't place him,” Terrence said, after expressing his surprised pleasure at hearing from her. Rose tried to keep her friendly greetings brief but sincere. “Funny, too—Birdhill is still quite small,” Terrence continued. “I know most everybody, even the Southern Baptists. Let me ask around and call you back tomorrow. Why do you want to know about him?”

“Could I explain that tomorrow, as well?” The last thing she wanted to do was tell anyone, even a friend, that Wilhelm was sitting in jail accused of murdering two people. She doubted even Terrence could keep such a juicy story to himself. “You and I will catch up then, too,” she said.

“I look forward to it,” Terrence said, a hint of concern in his voice.

Just as she hung up, the bell rang for the evening meal. And rang and rang. It was the alarm bell, and it hadn't rung like that since the Water House burned down. Rose sprinted down the Trustees' Office steps and across the lawn, praying fervently, “Oh please don't let there be another killing. This really is too much.”

Believers were coming from all directions and converging on the Meetinghouse lawn, where the alarm bell stood. Sister Isabel, tiny and frantic, was yanking the bell with all her strength.

“Isabel, what on earth—” Rose was panting so hard she couldn't force out another word.

“Thank heavens,” Isabel said. “I didn't know where you were, and I had to find you fast. Come on.” She grabbed Rose's hand and nearly jerked her arm out of her socket. “Elsa is at it again.”

 

“Holy Father, Holy Mother Wisdom, we pray you, reveal the killer to us. Send us a sign, we beg you.” Sister Elsa Pike flung out her arms and began to spin, faster and faster. Her normal walk could shake a room, but when she danced, her feet seemed to hover above the floor. She had removed her apron so her loose, brown dress billowed out around her like a chestnut. She had claimed the middle of the Shaker Hostel parlor for her performance. The hostel guests had pulled the furniture out of her way and sunk into their seats looking dazed and a little dizzy.

“Oh dear,” Rose said, under her breath. She considered her choices. If she stopped Elsa and dragged her off, it would announce to the world that she believed the sister to be a charlatan. Elsa certainly had a checkered history when it came to dancing worship, but it was unfair to assume the worst of her. Was it out of the question that Mother Ann might communicate with Elsa? As eldress, Rose could not let herself believe that Mother would find Elsa forever unworthy. On the other hand, Elsa was inclined to misinterpret messages, at times believing them to come from angels when in fact they came from her own hopes and ambitions. She might easily create havoc.

Rose decided to let Elsa dance but keep a close watch on her. If the situation got dangerous, she would step in. Meanwhile, perhaps she could learn something by observing the guests' reactions. The guilty party might just give himself or herself away. She motioned Isabel to take a chair facing the hostel guests, while Rose positioned herself so she could watch the audience's faces yet step in quickly to subdue Elsa, if necessary.

Elsa's lips were moving, and Rose guessed she'd begun to speak in tongues. The hostel guests all appeared fascinated. No one betrayed any hint of guilt. Elsa stopped twirling and stood motionless, her arms straight out from her sides. Rose's immediate and less than kind thought was that she was trying to regain her balance. Elsa's arms dropped to her sides and stiffened, as did her whole body. She began to hop up and down like a wooden doll with springs for legs. Every few jumps, she lurched toward the hostel guests. After a minute or two, Rose realized she was pointing at the guests, one by one, with her entire body. Was she asking the heavens about each individual? Perhaps she was offering her body as an instrument, hoping to feel a surge of certainty when she pointed to the guilty one? She included Gennie in her ritual. Surely she couldn't believe that Gennie had anything to do with these murders, could she? Rose took a step forward, ready to call a halt, trance or no trance.

Elsa stopped of her own accord. She stood still, her eyes closed. She leaned her head one way, then another. Her face twitched, as if she might be listening to the voice of an invisible messenger. Her white indoor cap had come loose at the nape of her neck; one side hung down from her ear, revealing thin, gray hair pulled back from her face in a tight bun. Rose scanned the guests' faces and saw Horace von Oswald smile. For the first time in her memory, Rose felt protective of Elsa. She wanted to retie Elsa's cap and replace her apron. Most of all, she wanted to protect Elsa from Horace's mockery.

Elsa opened her eyes and announced, “I have heard the angels speak, and I know the truth. It was all of thee!” She swept her arm before them in a gesture that included all the guests, even Gennie. “Thy guilt is known to the Holy Father, and not even the intervention of Mother Ann can save thee from thy fate.” Whenever Elsa fell into a trance, her speech lost its coarseness and became cultured, even faintly British. This was one reason Rose often hesitated to declare her trances to be false.

Horace chuckled, then threw his head back and shook with laughter. Smiles broke out among the audience. Even Gennie cracked a grin before raising her hand to cover it. Horace shook his head and took a deep breath to quiet his gasps of mirth. “I must hand it to you, Sister, that was a masterful performance,” he said. “Everything looked so authentic, just like the old days. You had us all gripping the edges of our seats. My goodness.” He again dissolved into laughter. He drew a handkerchief from his pants pocket to wipe beads of sweat from his forehead.

The tension in the room had broken. Guests began chatting with one another and moving about. Elsa seemed oblivious to the loss of her audience. Once again, she closed her eyes and began spinning, this time slowly. The guests turned their backs to her but kept their distance. Only Gennie kept watching Elsa, as if she knew the show wasn't over.

Elsa raised her arms above her head, reaching for the heavens, and let out a cry like a wounded wolf. The effect was instantaneous. Conversation ceased. Heads swiveled back toward her. Elsa clenched her fists and pulled them downward. Her muscles strained and her jaw clenched; she seemed to be hauling a wild and struggling creature down to earth. She lowered her fists all the way to the floor, opened them as if releasing an invisible demon. With another cry, this time more like the bark of a dog, she leaped into the air and stomped the spot where she'd placed the unseen creature. Rose felt confused—she was familiar with the stomping movement, had done it herself a few times to symbolize stomping out sin. But what was this horrible thing Elsa had dragged down to earth? What was her dancing supposed to show?

Elsa stomped over and over with such force that a vase on the fireplace mantel teetered and crashed to the floor. Elsa didn't flinch. She kept stamping the ground, even though shards of glass punctured the soles of her soft summer shoes.

“That's enough, Elsa,” Rose cried, running toward her. “Stop this instant. You are hurting yourself.”

Elsa ignored her. She hurtled herself at the offending but invisible creature as if she must destroy it even if it killed her. Saul Halvardson hurried over and reached toward Elsa.

“Don't touch her,” Rose said. “I'm sorry, I know you mean to help, but you must leave this to me. The rest of you,” she said, raising her voice, “please leave the room at once.” Her only hope of controlling Elsa was to deprive her of an audience. Isabel herded the guests toward the parlor door, and everyone was more than happy to comply. Within moments, only Rose and Gennie remained. Gennie closed the door. It didn't make any difference. Elsa just kept right on stomping. Sweat rolled down the sides of her face, her indoor cap had fallen off, and blood dotted the floor.

“Stop it, now!” Rose grabbed Elsa's shoulder and bore down. Rose was strong and also tall, which gave her a small advantage. Gennie tried to help by clasping Elsa around the waist. But Elsa was in a spell that gave her unnatural power. She easily threw off Rose's grasp and continued to stamp the floor, dragging Gennie behind her like a weightless doll. Rose could think of nothing to do but wait her out. Surely she couldn't last much longer. Gennie let go of her just in time to avoid getting slammed down on top of broken glass. The two women collapsed on the settee.

While they waited, Rose pondered why Elsa might have come to the Shaker Hostel, trapped everyone in the parlor, and gone into an apparent trance. She suspected she knew the answer. Elsa was deeply committed to Elder Wilhelm—she believed as he did, followed his instructions over Rose's, and always went to him for guidance. This episode was, more than likely, Elsa's way of saving Wilhelm. In the past, Elsa's so-called trances always seemed to benefit Elsa herself—in particular, they enhanced her importance in Wilhelm's eyes. Perhaps that explained the unusual intensity of her trance; this time it was life or death—Wilhelm's. For the same reasons, Rose had to admit that the trance might be real. Perhaps angelic visits were more likely when the recipient was acting for the welfare of another.

Elsa leaped and barked for another five minutes or so, until Rose felt ready to drop from the exhaustion of watching. Then the strength seemed to leave Elsa's legs, and she slipped to the floor. She lay still, breathing rapidly, her face flushed and damp with sweat. Rose knelt beside her.

“Elsa? Are you back among us?”

Elsa groaned and pulled her knees up against her chest. She opened eyes brimming with tears. “My feet,” she whispered. “What's wrong with my feet?”

“You stepped on broken glass. Don't try to stand up. We'll get Josie over here to wrap your feet, and we'll use the hostel car to take you back to the dwelling house.” Rose scanned the walls and saw no broom to sweep away the glass. Plenty of empty hooks, but no broom. “Gennie, could you find something to clean up this mess with?”

Gennie reappeared with a broom and dustpan and soon had cleared an area so Elsa could sit up.

“Elsa, try to remember—what were you told in your trance?” Rose knew she'd learn nothing if she expressed doubt about the truth of Elsa's experience. Indeed, it seemed a truer trance than Elsa had ever displayed before.

“What're you talkin' about?
What happened to my feet?
” She pulled off her shoes.

“Please, Elsa, I know your feet hurt, but try to concentrate. You were in a trance. You listened to angels, you said, who told you that all the hostel guests were responsible for the killings we've had here. Then you pulled something down from the sky and stomped on it. What did all that mean? It's important. You could help a great deal.” She looked into Elsa's confused eyes. “You might help Wilhelm greatly if you could just remember.”