Dancing Dead (8 page)

Mairin nestled the kitten in her bed of wool.
An angel might or might not be responsible for bringing these two together, but this kitten might prove to be a godsend.
Mairin now had something to care for—a creature, weaker than herself, who needed her. If the kitten did not survive, though . . . Rose sped a silent prayer to Mother Ann, who had lost all four of her children and knew how it felt.

Rose offered Mairin the utility basket's one good handle and grabbed the other side, so they could transport the kitten together. Awkwardness was less important than encouraging Mairin's protective feelings. Rather than negotiate the heavy cellar door, Rose guided them through the abandoned dwelling house kitchen. Gray light from a grimy window, forgotten during the building's final cleaning, barely lit the empty room. A few worn items still hung from pegs—a broom with a cracked handle, a tattered cloak, a pan with a charred bottom. The old stove and sink were missing, pressed into service in the Shaker Hostel kitchen.

They moved through the bare dining room and into the hallway. One cracked bench; empty pegs lining the wall; dust motes swirling in sunbeams, like bits of colored glass in a kaleidoscope . . . Had the shade of a long-dead Shaker sister twirled her way though these sad corridors?
Why?
And if not a shade, then what? Who?

Dread stabbed Rose like a hunger pang. She stopped and put down her end of the basket. “Mairin, why did you say the angel
gave
you the kitten?”

“Because I found her the night the angel danced here. She was dancing to get my attention. I could see her from the window of my room. She kept bowing to me, and I knew she wanted me to come closer, so I sneaked out to watch. The angel was in the window, looking right at the mama kitty and her babies. She wanted me to see them. She wanted me to find them and take care of them.” Mairin knelt beside the basket. Her hand hovered over the sleeping kitten. “I couldn't save them all,” she whispered. “I tried really hard.”

She's talking to the angel,
Rose thought.
Seeking forgiveness? Is she frightened?

Rose knelt across from Mairin, with the basket between them. “Have you seen the angel close up?”

Mairin's eyes flitted sideways.

“It's okay, you can tell me. I won't be angry.”

“I just wanted to thank her.” Mairin twirled a soft brown curl around her finger. “For sending me the kitten. So I sneaked out again, even though I knew I wasn't supposed to.”

“You went out the next night?”

Mairin shook her head. “The same night. I got some milk from the kitchen and fed the kitties, and then I moved them one at a time into the root cellar. I didn't think about making them a bed until the next night.” Regret lowered her voice. “After I moved them the first night, I went to find the angel, to thank her. I went all through this building looking for her. I was getting really tired.”

“But you kept going till you found her?”

Mairin nodded. “I went all the way up to the attic, and that's where I found her. It was really dark up there, I could hardly see. She was moving a little bit, bending over—bowing, I think. She bows a lot. I didn't know what to say right off, so I made a sound to tell her I was there.”

Rose held her breath, her excitement growing. “Did she turn around? Did you see her face?”

“She didn't have a face.”

Mairin had whispered so faintly that Rose wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. “The angel had no face?”

Mairin's lips parted, giving her the look of a much younger child. “I don't think so,” she said. “She stood up when I made a noise. She was facing away from me, and her hood was down on her shoulders, but . . . I think she had a head maybe. I'm not sure, it was so dark. But she had a black lump like . . . like maybe she'd been dead for a really long time, and . . .”

The unemotional Mairin had returned, which indicated to Rose that the experience had been terrifying. She hated to press, but she had to. “Did you see the angel's face at all? Did she turn around?”

“Nay.” There was a hint of relief in Mairin's voice. “She pulled up her hood. So she must have had a head, right? Because the hood stayed up.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“Yea. I just said, ‘Thank you, Angel, for the kitty family. I'll take care of them.' She just stood there for a really long time, so I said I was leaving to check on them again. Then she bowed again, but not toward me, toward the wall. I was a little bit scared, so I left.”

“She sounds scary.”

“But she's really good. She wouldn't have given me the kitties if she wasn't good.”

“Okay,” Rose said, as she lifted the basket and walked toward the sisters' entrance, “but we might want to leave her off the guest list for your birthday party. I suspect she might frighten the other children.”

“I guess so. Anyway, she's
my
angel. I don't want to share her.”

They walked out of the gloomy building into a late afternoon that was nearly as gray. Bright spring sunshine was rapidly giving way to charcoal thunderclouds. It would surely be an inhospitable night for ghost watching, and Rose had never been so grateful for a coming storm.

Seven

“Y
OU SEEM TO HAVE AN INORDINATE DISDAIN FOR THE
Shakers, Mrs. Dunmore. One wonders why you wish to remain in their hostel.” With his black eyes fixed in a wide-open stare, Horace von Oswald looked like an owl about to swoop down on its prey.

Lightning slashed across the thinly curtained window, followed by a blast of thunder that rattled the panes. All the Shaker Hostel guests, trapped by the violent storm, had gathered in the parlor after dinner. Mina and Horace had appropriated the wing chairs nearest the fireplace, leaving the others to make do with rockers or the small settee.

Gennie had positioned a rocker so she could watch both the fire and the other guests. Learning from Rose about how Mairin had found her kitten had whetted her curiosity about the folks who had chosen to stay in the Shaker's new hostel. Could one of them be this ghost-angel that so fascinated Mairin?

“Now, now, let's not bicker,” said Saul Halvardson, flashing a dazzling smile at Mina Dunmore. He managed to include the other women, as well. He was dressed in a black wool evening suit with fashionably wide lapels. His black silk bow tie accentuated the blinding white of his crisp cotton shirt. Gennie had been sampling her future father-in-law's library, and Saul looked exactly like Jay Gatsby, as she had imagined him.

Mighty fancy for a salesman,
she thought.

Saul had provided two bottles of port; one was now nearly empty. On such an evening, port had sounded good to everyone, including Gennie. With a flourish, Saul refilled Mina's glass, then Horace's. He opened the second bottle and made the rounds, topping off each glass with boyish eagerness.

Horace von Oswald was not to be distracted. He leaned toward Mina as if about to divulge a secret. His paunch bulged out, causing one button of his brown cardigan to pop its buttonhole. Mina drew back and held her glass in front of her chest, like a talisman. “Tell me, Mrs. Dunmore,” he said, “why
are
you staying here?”

“I don't see why that's any concern of yours.”

Horace leaned back, and his fleshy lips curved into a faint smile. “Call it curiosity,” he said. “I've always been interested in people—why they do what they do.”

“You're just naturally nosy, you mean.”

Horace's shoulders mounded in a shrug. “I prefer to think of myself as interested in others. When I observe that what someone says differs from what she does, I can't help but wonder why.” He drained his glass. “For instance,” he said, “I notice that, while you claim to have no interest whatsoever in the Shakers, you spend quite a lot of time exploring their private buildings.”

Mina's cheeks reddened, but she did not respond. Gennie studied her haughty profile. Something about the grim set of her jaw and her heavy features reminded Gennie of someone, but she couldn't think who it might be.

“I've also noticed—”

“Why don't you bother someone else for a while,” Mina snapped. She gulped her drink, and Saul appeared to give her a refill so fast he must have been hovering nearby, listening to the conversation. When he refilled Horace's glass, the two men locked eyes. Saul's hand shook, and he spilled several drops on Horace's sweater. Horace's gaze never left the younger man's face.

“This Depression has been so hard on so many,” Horace said.

“Well, yes,” Saul said, “I suppose it has.” He edged away.

“I'd assume that most women can't afford fancy underwear.”

“Oh, you'd be surprised,” Saul said. “Lifts the spirits and all that.” He glanced around the room, seeking another glass to fill. “Drink up, everyone,” he said. “I can always bring down more from my room.” He veered toward Daisy Prescott, who sat alone, leafing through a copy of
American Home
.

Gennie heard an odd choking sound and realized that Horace was chuckling. “That boy sells more than underwear,” he said, so softly that Gennie couldn't be sure she'd heard him right.

Hail sputtered against the windows like machine-gun fire, and Gennie shivered. Small quilts hung over the backs of each rocker. She pulled hers around her shoulders like a shawl. She wished she were closer to the fire. Horace was unlikely to relinquish his chair, and Mrs. Dunmore seemed to take perverse pleasure in sparring with him. Now, though, the storm had silenced even those two.

Gennie closed her eyes, feeling cozy and sleepy. Drifting into a nap sounded pleasant, but another burst of lightning and thunder startled her. She opened her eyes to find Beatrice Berg standing near her, fists on hips, scowling at Horace. She must have finished up in the kitchen and decided to join them, though she seemed the last person who'd want more of their company. She still wore her work clothes, a shapeless dress of faded brown cotton with irregular dark patches where food stains hadn't washed out. A narrow black belt barely indented the middle of her square figure. Gray pincurls had turned to frizz from bending over steaming dishwater, and she hadn't bothered to smooth them back into place.

“Took the best seat for yourself, I see,” Beatrice said to Horace. “I reckon you'd've took both of them, if you could've figured out how.”

“Mrs. Berg, how charming to see you again,” Horace murmured.

“Ah, Mrs. Berg, you've joined us,” said Saul Halvardson, with every appearance of delight. “Come sit on the settee. I'll be right back, just going to fetch another bottle.” He relinquished his seat with a bow, and left the room. Through the open parlor door, Gennie saw him bound up the stairs two at a time.

Daisy Prescott hugged one end of the settee, bent over her magazine. As Beatrice sat, Daisy stood and mumbled something involving the word “sweater.” Only Gennie and Beatrice paid any attention to her. She seemed to fade from the room, but her back was straight as she glided up the stairs.

“That's an odd one,” Beatrice said to no one in particular.

“What do you mean?” Horace asked. He twisted in his seat to look at her.

“Didn't mean anything by it, so you can keep your nose to yourself, mister.”

“You don't have much use for us poor menfolk, do you, Mrs. Berg?” Horace's voice—smooth and faintly menacing—never seemed to vary, no matter what the provocation.

Beatrice's hands fluttered as if seeking something to hold on to, then folded across her stomach.

“Why should she?” Mina Dunmore's question came out with such venom that all heads turned toward her. Mina didn't seem to notice. She didn't sound drunk, but red splotches had spread across her cheeks and down her neck. She stared into the fire, her shoulders hunched. A crack of thunder and a ferocious blast of wind failed to startle her.

“We're supposed to be the weaker sex,” Mina said. “What a laugh. Men are nothing but children playing grown-up. When the rest of the world doesn't want to play, men just up and leave, and it's womenfolk who have to carry on.”

“It is my understanding, Mrs. Dunmore, that your husband passed on,” Horace said. “Surely you can't believe that doing so was a childish abdication of responsibility?”

Mina didn't answer, didn't even glance at him.

“Or perhaps you are speaking of someone else?” Horace asked.

The rattling of glass on glass announced the return of Saul Halvardson, holding two bottles of port in one hand and a box of cigars in the other. “Here we are,” he said. “All set for a long, rainy evening.”

Daisy Prescott slipped into the room soon after Saul. She had changed into a thin wool suit with a jacket, and she carried several magazines. After a glance at Beatrice Berg's uninviting presence on the settee, she chose a chair across the room, near the windows.

“You ain't smoking them things in here,” Beatrice said.

“Nonsense,” Horace said. “A gentleman needs his smoke in the evening. I'll take one, Mr. Halvardson, if you please.”

“Rules of the house,” Beatrice said. “Shakers don't like smoking, and that's that.”

“I understand they don't care for drinking, either,” Horace said, “yet there you are, sipping port.”

Saul hesitated, his exuberance wilting. “I'll just leave the box over here on the table,” he said.

“We are not here to join the Shaker order,” Horace said. “We are paying guests, and I for one intend to smoke.” He gave himself a push out of his chair. By the time he'd lumbered over to the table near the windows, Beatrice had claimed his chair.

Horace didn't so much as glance at Beatrice. He bit off the end of his cigar and lit it. Thick, acrid smoke puffed out his mouth. “I don't suppose our ghost will make an appearance on a night like this,” he said.

“Would a ghost care about the weather?” Saul hovered near the box of cigars. “I mean, maybe she's out there right now, floating through some building, looking for her lover, but no one is there to watch her.”

“How romantic,” Daisy said, glancing up from her magazine.

“How do you know it's a lover she's looking for?” Horace asked.

“Well, isn't that what the newspaper account said—that she'd been killed by her lover?”

“That's one story, anyways.” Beatrice scooted her wing chair sideways, so she could have a better view of the room and still enjoy the fire. “I heard others.” She leaned her head back and half closed her eyes. Only Gennie and Mina were in a position to see her smirk.

“Well?” Mina asked. “What else have you heard? You might as well blab, we've got nothing else to do in this hole.”

Beatrice opened her eyelids just enough to glare at Mina.

“We would like to hear, you know,” Saul said. While attention had been on Beatrice, he had lit a cigar. Smoke clustered above the men's heads as if the storm had invaded the room.

Beatrice shifted her chair so she could see everyone. She hesitated, scanning her audience. Only Daisy seemed to have lost interest, her head bent over a magazine so only the smooth top of her hair showed. Beatrice waited. In time, Daisy must have felt the silence. Her head jerked up, lips parted.

“What
I
heard,” Beatrice said, holding Daisy's gaze as if afraid it would drift downward again, “is that it ain't no lover that ghost's looking for. No sirree, she's looking for something a lot more valuable. What I heard is there was this pretty young thing the Shakers had raised from a babe, and when she'd growed up, she turned Shaker 'cause she didn't know nothin' else. She never knowed who her people was, couldn't remember her ma or pa. Then one day this lawyer come to the village and said she was a long-lost rich girl that'd been stole away as a babe. Her folks was dead, and before they died, they hired this lawyer to find her and make sure she got her money.”

“That hardly seems like a reason to kill oneself,” Horace said.

“Just keep your britches on,” Beatrice said. “I never said she killed herself.”

“Ah,” said Horace. “This is getting interesting.” He squeezed his bulk into a rocker and flicked his cigar ashes on the floor. Beatrice pursed her lips but didn't object.

“Like I said, this girl was rich, real rich, but she was a Shaker, too. Them Shakers, they don't hold with private property, you know. So they figured the money belonged to them. They told the fancy lawyer to give them everything because this girl—this Sarina, her name was—she warn't allowed to have nothin' of her own. Sarina put up a fuss, said she wanted out. Wanted all that money for herself, and wouldn't you if you was in her shoes? Specially . . .” Beatrice took a slow sip of her port. “Specially when the lawyer brought out her ma's jewels. There was diamonds and sapphires and rubies, not a one of 'em paste, and all in these fancy necklaces and rings and such like. There was one crown sort of thing—”

“A tiara,” Horace said.

“Yeah. I heard it had fifty perfect diamonds in it. What normal young girl wouldn't want to dance all night wearin' somethin' like that?”

“Very few, I'd imagine,” Horace said.

“You wanna tell this story?”

“No, no, do go on. You're embellishing nicely.”

“You bet I am. And it gets better, too—but not for poor little Sarina. Them Shakers had other ideas. They told Sarina she could leave anytime she wanted, but the money and jewels stayed here 'cause she was a Shaker when everything come to her, so she had to give it all up.”

Gennie squirmed and fidgeted, wanting to interrupt and object to such a crass view of the Shakers, yet longing to hear the end of the story—even if it was pure fiction, as she suspected.

“So Sarina, she begs the lawyer to help her keep the money. He knows he'll get paid a bundle, so he says, sure, he'll help out. He does some lawyer thing or other to keep the Shakers from getting their hands on the money and jewels right away. He tells Sarina to leave, so she can say she ain't a Shaker, and then the judge will give everything to her.

“It was a night like tonight, with thunder and lightning and rain coming down in buckets. Sarina was packing her bags. The Shakers had locked her in her room, and a brother was standing guard so she couldn't get out. But the lawyer, he said he'd come on horseback, just after dark, and sneak her out the window. She waited and waited and waited. That lawyer never showed. The road had turned to mud, and his horse slipped off into the gully, and the lawyer broke his neck.”

Nature railed at the unfairness of such a death by loosing a double crack of thunder.

“Good heavens,” Saul said. “How awful.”

“It isn't awful at all,” Mina said. “You're making it all up. None of this happened.”

Beatrice shrugged. “Have it your way,” she said.

“Oh, do go on, Mrs. Berg,” Horace said. “I'm sure we all want to know what happened to poor Sarina.”

Beatrice nodded. “I figured you would. Well, Sarina cried her eyes out. But she was a spunky girl, and after waitin' a spell, locked in her room, she decided to run away by herself. She didn't know the lawyer was dead, she just thought he changed his mind on account of the storm. She couldn't stand to stay with the Shakers for even one more night, so she made herself a long rope with her sheets and blankets, and then she tied her little bundle of clothes around her waist and pried open her window.