Dancing Dead (3 page)

“They're fair to me,” she said.

“Yes, they certainly have that reputation, but . . .” Horace cocked his head at her. He had messy, uneven hair, as if he hacked at it himself and then never combed it. His clothes looked secondhand and stretched tight across his round body, as if they'd been made for someone thinner. And, mercy, those eyes—they could scare the bejabbers out of a person. Small, round, and black, like clumps of dirt.

Beatrice plunked a serving platter on the table a little too hard. She wasn't going to say another word, and that was that. Horace could hint till he shriveled up and died; she wasn't going to fall for it. If he wanted to know about the Shakers, he could go and ask them.

“You'd best get to the dining room,” she said. She figured he wouldn't budge, and he didn't. She leaned over to read the next item on the recipe that the Kitchen Deaconess, Sister Gertrude, had given her to try out—another potato soup, the third since the hostel had opened. Each time it was different. Gertrude was trying out various combinations of herbs and vegetables. Beatrice had been instructed to follow each recipe exactly and to save a portion for Gertrude, Rose, and Andrew to taste. Beatrice didn't like being told how to cook. Sometimes she would add a little something extra and have a good laugh to herself. She probably shouldn't tonight, though, what with the eldress coming to supper.

Beatrice heard Horace take a breath like he was going to open his fool mouth again, so she turned her back on him and pretended to be searching the kitchen for an ingredient. The kitchen was small; she couldn't go very far.

“What do you think of this story we've been hearing about a ghost in North Homage?”

“What ghost?” Beatrice asked, turning around in spite of herself.

“Oh, you haven't heard,” Horace said, with that irritating grin. “There was an article in the paper about it, just this morning. Someone is supposed to be roaming around the empty buildings at night, someone who died unjustly.”

Beatrice felt a sudden chill as if ectoplasm had passed right through her. Some people were afraid of snakes or mice or of catching influenza, but not Beatrice. Nothing scared her—nothing except ghosts. Ghosts terrified her. If there was a ghost around here, she'd have to skedaddle. She'd wait and see, though. This was the best place for her to be, all things considered. Safe and out of the way. She'd have to find out more about this ghost, but not now. If she didn't get this food on the table lickety-split, she wouldn't be worrying about no ghost. She'd be out on her ear.

Ignoring Horace, Beatrice lifted the heavy pot of potato soup from the old wood-burning stove. One of the reasons she'd gotten this job was that she'd grown up cooking on one of these old things, and the Shakers couldn't afford to buy new kitchen equipment. They'd raided the old stuff from kitchens they no longer used.

“You'd best find yourself a place,” Beatrice said to Horace. “Get the victuals while they're hot.” She sloshed some soup into a tureen and put the pot back on the stove to keep warm. When she turned around, Horace was gone. The kitchen felt safe and cozy again, as if Horace himself had been the unquiet shade seeking vengeance. Maybe he was. Maybe he'd been sent right to her, which meant there was no place for her to hide, not on this earth. Beatrice clucked impatiently at herself as she lifted the heavy tureen and headed for the dining room. No ghost could do anything to her, she told herself, except maybe scare the bejabbers out of her, and that was only if she let it. From now on, she'd keep an eye out.

Three

R
OSE ARRIVED A FEW MINUTES BEFORE THE OTHERS AND
took a seat at one end of the old trestle table Andrew had moved into the Shaker Hostel dining room. She wanted a clear view of everyone present, while keeping her distance from the men. She suspected the hostel guests would skip saying grace before eating, so she bowed her head and gave silent thanks for the coming meal. If the smells wafting from the kitchen in the next room were any indication, supper would be well worth her gratitude.

Andrew had done a good job with the room. He had struck a subtle balance between traditional Shaker simplicity and the more elaborate decoration of the world. Blue cords with silky tassels gathered sheer white curtains into graceful curves. Instead of wooden pegs, hooks encircled the pale blue walls, and framed photos and small bookshelves hung from some of them. Another hook held an old Shaker candleholder on which Andrew had placed a red glass vase, which a grateful visitor had once given the community. Since Wilhelm wanted them to follow the old rules, the village grew no tulips or daffodils for spring bouquets. Flowers, he reminded them, should be useful, not decorative. Andrew had bent the rules, as he often did, and a basket of dried calendula and sage served as a centerpiece.

The table itself had been used decades earlier in this very building, previously named the West Dwelling House. The building had once housed the outside family—folks who weren't quite ready to make the commitment to sign the Covenant and live the Shaker life. Hence, the former dwelling house had only one entrance and one stairway, instead of the two normally provided so brothers and sisters would not accidentally brush against one another. Rose thought the building a perfect choice for worldly visitors, and she was glad to see it in use again.

A large man with an unhealthy pallor entered the dining room from the kitchen. He stared at Rose a moment longer than was polite, then dragged a ladder-back chair from the side of the table over to the end opposite Rose, so that he faced her. The action felt like a challenge, perhaps to her authority, yet his perpetual smile seemed friendly enough. Andrew had briefly described the guests to her, and she was certain this man must be Horace von Oswald. Horace had been vague about his profession, but he had paid for his room two weeks in advance, so he clearly had funds.

“So,” said the man, “you must be Sister Rose. You are eldress, are you not?”

“Yea, I am.”

“How long?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How long have you been eldress?”

The bluntness of his question startled her, and she hesitated. Never before had a stranger from the world expressed any curiosity about her tenure as eldress. Horace's black eyes never left her face. She was saved from answering when a middle-aged woman dressed in black entered from the hallway.

“Well, aren't we honored. The eldress has come to have supper with us.” The words might be construed as welcoming; the tone could not. Rose felt her stomach clench.

Horace's attention diverted to the woman. “Mina, you're here,” was all he said. So this was Mina Dunmore, Rose thought. A widow living on a small inheritance, Andrew had told her. Not the cheeriest of women, but she was, after all, a widow.

“Can't think where else I'd be,” Mina said. She took a seat to Rose's left and as far from Horace as she could get.

“I haven't seen you all day,” Horace said. “What have you been doing?”

“Don't see it's any of your business,” Mina said. She spread her white linen napkin on her lap and smoothed out wrinkles that weren't there. “I went shopping in Languor,” she said finally. North Homage used a roomy 1936 Plymouth for its own needs, but they still owned its predecessor, an old black Buick. Brother Linus had gotten it cleaned up and running smoothly, so the hostel residents could borrow it for trips into Languor. “It's certainly a poor excuse for a town,” Mina said, “but I did find a place to have my hair done.” She patted her crimped curls. “Not that there's any reason to dress up around here. There's no place to go. When my husband was alive, we were always off somewhere—dinner parties, dances, the theater.”

“Ah,” said Horace. He turned again to Rose with the smile she felt sure she would come to dread.

A boisterous male voice, coming from the hallway, provided a welcome distraction. A man and woman walked together through the wide doorway into the dining room. Since Beatrice must be in the kitchen, Rose assumed these two were Saul Halvardson and Daisy Prescott. Saul wore a dark blue, double-breasted jacket and matching pants with a crisp, straight crease down the front of each leg—the latest of worldly styles, as far as Rose could remember. Andrew had said he was a traveling salesman who sold ladies' lingerie. If it had been Wilhelm telling her, rather than Andrew, Rose never would have known about the ladies' lingerie. Andrew and Wilhelm had both lived to adulthood in the world, but Wilhelm was repulsed by it. Andrew, though he preferred life as a Shaker, accepted the world as it was, sometimes with pity.

With a flourish, Saul pulled out Daisy's chair for her and eased it forward as she sat down. Daisy settled at the table without acknowledging Saul's gesture. She spread her napkin on her lap, then entwined her fingers in a prayerful position on the edge of the table. She fixed her gaze on the dried flowers in front of her, and her eyes did not waver when Saul appropriated the seat next to her, placing him at Rose's right. Rose was fairly certain Daisy was not actually praying; her silence had a calculated air to it. Rose was intrigued. Daisy was slender and fine-boned, a bit taller than average. Her dress was a dowdy brown, with a waist down around her narrow hips. Rose was woefully behind on women's fashions, but the style seemed out-of-date; she'd never seen Gennie wear anything like it.

As if on cue, Gennie entered the dining room. Saul leaped up and helped her with her chair. She rewarded him with a wan smile. Rose noticed that Gennie, despite her withdrawn mood, had taken the time to dress for dinner. Grady's family had been training her, and she had become very much a woman of the world. Still, Rose told herself, miracles do occur. Maybe Gennie would come back someday, and if she did, she would bring so much to the Society.

A clattering from the kitchen attracted everyone's attention. The door swung open, and the fragrance of dill and onion wafted into the room, along with the solid figure of Beatrice Berg. She thumped a tureen on the table and gave Horace a hard stare. He had taken the cook's place at the end of the table, nearest the kitchen. He appeared not to notice her irritation.

“Eat it while it's hot,” Beatrice said, and she disappeared back into the kitchen. Horace began serving himself at once, without offering to serve the women first. He filled his bowl to the top and picked up his soupspoon, as Beatrice reentered with two plates of bread. She took one look at Horace and carried the bread down to Rose.

“Somethin' wrong with your eyes?” she asked Horace. He stared at her, his spoon hovering just beyond his lips. “There's other folks at this table. Maybe they want to eat, too.” She reached over for Daisy's soup bowl, which she filled with soup and returned. “See?” she said, again to Horace. “Don't take no strength at all.”

Gennie was struggling mightily to suppress a giggle. It emerged as a little chirp.

“Why don't we pass our plates down?” Rose suggested. “We can eat when we've all been served.” She felt a bit like a sister in charge of the Children's Dwelling House, teaching manners to orphans who'd had no chance to learn them before. Horace didn't change expression, but his eyes seemed to grow smaller and darker.

Beatrice returned bearing plates of butter. Saul half rose from his chair, but Beatrice didn't wait for him. She scraped her chair away from the table, plunked down, and scooted it close again. Though she was seated just in front of the soup tureen, she held her bowl out to Horace. He hesitated a moment, then deposited one ladleful in her bowl. Beatrice didn't move. With clear reluctance, Horace added another ladleful.

The diners ate their soup and bread in silence. Beatrice cleared away the empty bowls and brought in a baked ham and tender buttered asparagus. Rose's jittery stomach began to relax. The Believers in the Center Family dining room would be eating plainer food, but these were people of the world, and Andrew knew they expected more. She felt only the slightest guilt since, after all, Andrew had engineered her attendance here. She was working.

Horace finished his portion well before the others and made the mistake of reaching across Beatrice's plate for the platter of ham. Beatrice whacked him with the flat of her fork.

“We ain't eatin' slop in a pigsty,” she said. “Did your mama teach you to reach like that? I swear, you do this every meal. Next meal comes around, and danged if you don't do the same thing all over again.”

Horace lowered his head, but Rose was certain she saw him smiling. Daisy and Mina continued their meals, looking straight ahead as if nothing had happened. Gennie poked at her food.

Before the drama could reach its next scene, Rose turned to Mina and asked, “Are you enjoying your stay here? Is your room comfortable?”

Mina hesitated as if she had to translate the questions into another language, or perhaps she was looking for some hidden meaning behind the words. “It's okay, I guess,” she said finally. “Room's a little barren, not quite what I'm used to, but it'll do for now.”

“What are you used to, Mina?” Horace asked her.

Mina slowly sliced her ham into square bites and didn't so much as glance at Horace. Rose was beginning to understand the discomfort Andrew had struggled to describe. It seemed that both Mina and Horace were suffering from simmering resentment, and Beatrice was none too cheery, either. Rose turned her attention to Saul Halvardson, seated on her right. He chewed with apparent pleasure as his quick eyes settled on one person, then another. He seemed unaware of the tension at the table—or else intrigued by it.

“Tell me, Mr. Halvardson,” Rose said, “how did you hear about our new hostel?”

Saul turned to her with a surprised expression. “Saul,” he said. “Please call me Saul, Sister.”

“And do call me Rose.”

“With pleasure.” He inclined his head in a slight nod, as if bowing. He took a bite of ham and gazed across the table at Mina. Rose realized he had not answered her question, and she felt certain his omission had been intentional. If he hoped to hide from Rose, however, he had taken the wrong course. His behavior piqued her interest. She sat still and watched him expectantly, waiting for his answer. He gave in and turned back to her. As if no time had elapsed since her question, Saul said, “I saw an advertisement for it. I'm sorry, I don't remember where. I travel so much.”

“Of course,” Rose said. “Tell me, what is your sales territory?” She wasn't ready to let him off the hook. Anyway, she'd grown impatient with the secretive undercurrents at the table.

“Are you interested in sales?” Saul asked.

“Yea, of course,” Rose said. “I used to be North Homage's trustee, before I became eldress. As trustee, I oversaw the community's businesses and had the pleasure of working with businessmen from the world. I used to send our own brothers on sales trips, so naturally I'm curious about your route.”

Saul nodded and smiled, but his eyes flitted around the room. Again he delayed answering, busying himself with passing platters in case someone wanted seconds. Rose studied his profile. She was not so unworldly that she didn't notice his striking looks. His wavy dark hair was streaked with silver, and his face, though thin, had a bit of softness that made him seem ingenuous at first glance. He offered the platter of ham to Daisy, who thanked him with a shy glance up through her lashes. Out of the corner of her eye, Rose saw Mina's body tense as she watched the interchange.

With a suddenness that startled Rose, Saul turned back to her and said, “My sales route is usually north of here. Up as far as Cleveland, that area. I suspect your salesmen normally go south—southern Kentucky, Tennessee, and so forth?”

Rose nodded. “So you must have seen our advertisement in the Cleveland paper?”

“Of course, now I remember,” Saul said, smiling brightly and revealing well-tended teeth. “That was where I saw it.”

Rose chewed on a bite of bread, allowing Saul to return his attention to the worldly women, who clearly interested him. She intended to keep an eye on Saul Halvardson. Thinking it was too far north, Andrew had not placed an advertisement in any Cleveland paper. He had focused his attention on southern Ohio and farther south, since their inhabitants might be more accepting of the summer heat in Kentucky.

Rose turned to Daisy Prescott. “Tell me, Miss Prescott, what brings you to our hostel?”

Daisy placed her utensils neatly across the upper edge of her plate and looked directly at Rose. Behind her spectacles, her eyes were a luminous blue-green. “I was in need of a vacation,” she said. She spoke barely above a whisper, giving the impression of terrible shyness.

“From what?” Horace asked.

“Oh.” Daisy's hands fluttered, landing on her knife and fork. “Well, work has been quite demanding lately, and I'm so tired.” She took a bite of ham and chewed slowly.

The other guests had lost interest in Daisy, except for Mina Dunmore, who studied the younger woman's face as if critiquing her makeup. “Nothing like a quiet vacation,” Mina said. “That's what Mr. Dunmore used to say.”

Daisy did not look up from her plate.

The platters emptied rapidly, and Beatrice cleared them off, along with the soiled dinner plates. She returned from the kitchen carrying a pie with a golden crust and sugary bubbles sneaking out the edges. Pecan pie. Gertrude's recipe used orange rind to cut the sweetness, and Rose's mouth watered in anticipation. Even Gennie perked up. Beatrice nestled the pie plate beside the basket of herb flowers, close to Rose and as far as possible from Horace.