Dancing Dead (25 page)

She listened at her door and heard nothing. The intruder must be well into the drying room. That was good. She eased open her door. Still quiet. She opened the door enough to look out into the landing. It was empty. Dark spots on the normally clean floor marked where the intruder had tracked in mud. Rose felt a surge of resentment. She slid out the door. The wooden chair was right next to her. She lifted it and limped to the drying room entrance.

It was too early in the season for bunches of herbs to be hanging from every possible hook and rack, so much of the room was visible. Rose paused, put the chair down for a moment as she scanned the room from just outside the doorway. She didn't hear any sounds of searching, no furniture scraping or drawers sliding open and shut. What if the intruder had decided to stop searching and had already escaped? Well, then it wouldn't hurt to barricade the door anyway. She stretched out her arms toward the chair.

Like the strike of a poisonous snake, an arm shot out from just inside the doorway. A strong hand grabbed Rose's outstretched arm and yanked her into the drying room. She flew forward and sprawled on the floor. The door slammed shut behind her. As she tried to sit, she caught sight of her feet. Too late she realized what those dark spots on the landing had really been. The bottom of her left stocking was bloodstained. She must have left a trail of fresh blood all the way up the stairs and toward the closet.

She wasn't much use for the chase anymore. Besides, the intruder had turned her plan against her and trapped her inside the drying room. At least the room had its own phone. She could alert the village to be on the lookout for a very dangerous cloaked figure. She dragged herself to her feet and limped toward the phone. Before she could reach it, the sound of running feet reached her. Someone was flying up the stairs, someone who didn't care about being quiet. Her whole body wilted with relief. Grady had finally arrived.

As the door opened, she spun toward it. Her words of gratitude died before they reached the air. Someone in a long Shaker cloak, the hood pulled far forward, rushed through the door and closed it softly. One hand held a flashlight aimed at Rose's eyes.

“I'd hoped to be long gone,” came a muffled voice from deep inside the hood of the cloak, “but there are far too many people outside. So you are going to help me.”

Rose swerved to avoid the glare of the flashlight. She saw another hand appear from under the cloak. It held something long, thin, and sharp. Rose had seen it before, most recently in her own Ministry House workroom—it was a pair of tailor's shears.

 

Gennie stood on the top step, just outside the Trustees' Office, and frantically scanned the village. She'd been too late. Mairin, clad only in her nightgown, had disappeared. Gennie's worst fear was that the thieving so-called ghost had swooped up the little girl, probably to keep her quiet—at worst, to use her as a hostage. Standing around wouldn't do any good. Gennie thought about ringing the old fire bell next to the Meetinghouse to arouse the village. That might backfire, though. If the ghost felt threatened, Mairin would be in even worse danger.

Gennie ran down the Trustees' Office steps and into the road. She craned her neck to see if anything was coming from the west, like a nice, dusty, brown Buick, driven by Grady. She didn't see so much as a farm wagon full of ghost seekers. There was no point in trying to find Andrew; he had his hands full. She hopped back onto the grass north of the unpaved central road. She'd be less visible. She'd last seen both the cloaked figure and Mairin walking toward the path. Now she saw neither, so they must have crossed to the north side of the village. Her best bet was to see if Rose might still be in the Medicinal Herb Shop. Together they could comb the area. She ran the rest of the way to the shop and burst in the door.

“Rose? Are you here?” She didn't dare turn on the light. She didn't need to. The building was small and decidedly empty. She'd just have to think of some other way.

Gennie hurried back into the night. If the cloaked figure was holding Mairin somewhere, it was probably in one of three nearby buildings—the Laundry, the barn, or the Herb House. The Laundry was closest. As soon as she slipped inside, Gennie sensed the building was empty. She wasn't willing to trust her senses with Mairin's life at stake, so she methodically searched the first floor. She inspected the huge washing machines, only one of which was used anymore; they could easily hold a body. Both were empty. She peeked inside the gigantic basket attached to a pulley that lifted it, filled with clean, wet clothing, up to the second-floor ironing room. The basket could accommodate at least two people. It gave off a faint lavender fragrance but held nothing. Finally she did a quick and fruitless search of the upstairs ironing room, which had fewer places to hide.

Discouraged, Gennie checked the ironing room windows. The village had come alive. Several folks, dressed in clothes of the world, had gathered on the Meetinghouse lawn, and a wagon holding more visitors trotted down the central path toward them.
Now what?
Gennie checked the barn and the Herb House through the east and west windows. Nothing suspicious going on in the barn, as far as she could see. But the Herb House . . . She thought she had seen a sliver of faint light waving around the ground floor. It disappeared almost instantly. She waited nearly a minute, but it didn't reappear. Yet she was certain someone was there. It made sense. Rose had told her to be sure to mention the Herb House in her story about Sarina. She must have wanted the ghost to go there. Which meant Rose was probably in there, too. She might have no idea that Mairin was in any danger.

With a half-formed plan in her mind, Gennie left the Laundry and ran toward the strangers now clustered on the Meetinghouse lawn. She recognized one of the women as the intrepid Betty. The others must be her husband and their friends. She might have known a little damp and mud wouldn't keep these folks away from their favorite entertainment.

“Hey there, ain't seen you in a while,” Betty called as Gennie approached. “Anything worth seein' around here?”

“Nothing at this end,” Gennie said. “She must be on the other side of the village. I thought I saw something in the Carpenters' Shop. You go ahead, I'll be along when I catch my breath.” The Carpenters' Shop was far enough away. It should keep them out from under foot for a while.

Betty waved her group toward the southwest, and they took off eagerly. Gennie waited until they'd begun to fade into the darkness, then she made straight for the Infirmary. The light she'd seen earlier must mean Sister Josie was up and about, probably seeing to a patient. There was a time to call in backup, as Grady always said, and this was it.

Sister Josie sat at her desk measuring powders together when Gennie burst in the front door. Josie stood at once and bustled toward her cloak, hanging on a wall peg. “Is someone ill at the hostel?” she asked. “Tell me quickly so I'll know what to bring. It isn't another murder, is it?”

“No, Josie, no one is ill. Yet, anyway. But I need your help, and I don't have time to explain. Grady and his officers might be in the village, maybe on the west side of the holy hill. Andrew, too. Or they might be on their way back to Languor. I want you to call both the Sheriff's Office and the brethren. Somehow we've got to find Grady and send him to the Herb House. Thanks. Gotta go.” She knew Josie would try to keep her safe indoors, but she had no intention of missing the action.

 

“You might as well keep still. I can see now that I never gave you enough credit. However, I know you're hurt, and I suspect you're alone. The faster you help me, the sooner we part company.” The voice was low and gruff. Rose sensed a lie when she heard one. Her death would be necessary. She now knew the ghost's identity. Her only hope was to stretch out the search until Andrew finished and came looking for her.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

“You are familiar with this building. Where are the secret hiding places? I want those jewels.”

“We Shakers have no need for secret hiding places.”

“Nonsense. Everyone has secrets. Shakers are no better than anyone else. You just want those jewels for yourself. Now, I can see this is the room where Sister Sarina would have worked, so this must be where she hid her fortune. If you don't help me, I'll simply kill you now and look for myself.”

“The cupboards in the walls,” Rose said, stalling for time. “She might have pulled out a loose board in one of them.”

“Go try it. Go on.” The flashlight waved Rose toward a cupboard. She limped over to it, opened the door and peered around inside. Anything to delay the process.

“Try the boards.”

Rose clawed at the insides of the cupboard, but of course nothing loosened. Shaker buildings were solid and strong. “There's nothing,” she said. “I'll have to try the others.”

“Fast.”

The room held two other cupboards and some built-in drawers. Rose examined them all, as slowly as possible. Not a single board had even the slightest crack.

“It's got to be here. I've looked everywhere.” The voice was sounding desperate, angry. “You're no help. I might as well get rid of you now.”

“You've been duped.” Rose spoke quickly. Now her only hope was distraction.

“What do you mean?”

“There is no fortune. Those stories were just fantasy. There was no Sister Sarina, no tragic death.”

“You're lying. You just want me to go away so you can find it.” The voice was a shade less gruff.

“Nay, we have no wish to profit from anyone's death. The stories are false. They were planted by someone who wanted to embarrass us. Someone you have lived in the same house with, eaten meals with for many days.”

Keeping close enough to stop Rose from bolting, the cloaked figure crossed the room and glanced out the large south-facing window. “You know who I am, don't you?” This time, the voice no longer strained to sound foggy. It was clearer and tougher than Rose remembered it sounding during her evening meals at the Shaker Hostel, but it was the same.

“Is your real name Clarissa Carruthers, or is that just a stage name, like Daisy Prescott?”

The cloaked figure rested her flashlight on the worktable in front of the window. With her free hand, she reached up and pulled back her hood. Her face and head were covered with a knit mask, leaving only her blue-green eyes showing. “It really is Clarissa,” she said. “I've had many others in the past few years, but I've always been partial to Clarissa.” She peeled off her mask. Her hair had been pulled back in a tight bun; now fine tendrils, pulled free by the removal of her mask, framed her face.

Clarissa retrieved her flashlight but didn't bother to shine it in Rose's eyes. “I should have guessed those stories weren't true,” she said. “Horace had something to do with them, didn't he? It was right in front of me; I should have known.” There was no hint of anger in her voice, as if all she'd done was make a minor mistake in arithmetic, and she'd know better next time.

“How long have you known?” she asked.

“I suspected ever since I learned you were an actress—that you'd been engaged to a wealthy man and had disappeared from the stage shortly after your fiancé broke your engagement. I suspected Saul Halvardson, too, of course. You two were the only ones with the physical agility to carry off the hoax.”

“Saul?” Clarissa laughed, one short bark. “He hasn't the brains to accomplish something like this. I caught on to him fast. I got suspicious when he kept plying us all with liquor, but he never seemed to drink much himself. I figured he wanted us to sleep soundly. He's a petty thief, no more.”

“And you are a highly successful jewel thief,” Rose said. In part, she was pandering to Clarissa's obvious pride, a ploy to keep her talking. She didn't admit that she hadn't been completely sure until she'd heard Clarissa's voice. Saul was no actor. He wouldn't even have tried to alter his voice. He was a copycat, using the appearance of the ghost to steal items from the Shaker buildings. He was the “pregnant” ghost. With all the curious folks around, he simply stole from buildings farthest away from wherever the ghost was appearing that night, then hid his booty under a cape. Where he'd found the cape didn't matter. He might easily have unearthed it in an attic during one of his nighttime adventures. He probably kept it in the woods somewhere and only used it when he was transporting stolen items. Rose suddenly remembered the tattered cloak she'd seen hanging in the South Family Dwelling House kitchen. Clarissa was wearing such a cloak right now. Hiding in plain sight—such bold cleverness was more Clarissa's style than Saul's.

Clarissa glanced out the south window again. A small smile played around her lips. Rose took it as a warning that she was busy developing a new plan—one that Rose was not intended to survive.

“Wealth is very important to you, isn't it?” Rose asked.

Clarissa shrugged. “Wealth, of course, and respect. I'm no different from anyone else.” Her eyes slid up and down Rose's body. “I suspect that, underneath that costume, you're just the same as me.”

Rose refused the bait. “So the failure of your engagement must have hurt.”

“It made me angry,” Clarissa said. She lifted her chin. “The first house I ever burglarized belonged to his father, the one who ruined my engagement. It was easy, and so much more lucrative than acting. In fact, I used all my talents more fully than ever before. This is the perfect job for me.”

“You met the real Daisy Prescott at that house, didn't you?”

“Of course,” said Clarissa. “It was rather bright of you to find out about that. I thought using a real person would be much safer than making everything up, and Daisy is such a frump, she was practically invisible. I'd run into her shortly before deciding to come here; I knew she'd been called home suddenly to care for her ill mother. It was ideal.”