Death of a Winter Shaker

Death of a Winter Shaker Read Free

Book: Death of a Winter Shaker Read Free
Author: Deborah Woodworth
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Trustees’ Office. Their refusal to fight in war, even to defend their country, infuriated many. So the discovery of a murdered man in North Homage’s Herb House stirred both anger and glee in many of their neighbors’ hearts.
    â€œWe haven’t had a murder round here in five years,” the county sheriff, Harry Brock, said when he arrived at the Trustees’ Office steps at midmorning. “Funny it happened here, ain’t it?”
    Sheriff Brock’s thin, wiry form seemed to shift constantly. His suspicious eyes darted between Wilhelm and Rose, who stood a respectable distance apart. Running a distracted hand through his thick white hair, Wilhelm fastened his fierce eyes on the horizon. A still-shaken Gennie huddled beside Rose. The sky was splotched with black, and a growing wind whipped at Rose’s cloak. She drew the thick wool closer.
    â€œSheriff Brock,” Rose said, raising her voice tocommand his attention. “We Shakers do not murder. To kill another human being goes against our most sacred beliefs. It is abhorrent and certainly not funny.”
    To her discomfort, Brock grinned at her. “Yeah,” he drawled, “but here we are. Funny.”
    Curious Believers had begun to cluster nearby. A plump, middle-aged sister, Elsa Pike, elbowed through a group of whispering women. She ignored Rose and barged toward Wilhelm. Elsa’s behavior no longer surprised Rose, but she had grown increasingly concerned that Elsa seemed to respect only Wilhelm.
    â€œElder, we gotta do something,” Elsa said, anger pinching her plain, flat features. “Word’s out that we killed somebody. That’s hogwash, pure and simple, everybody knows we Shakers don’t kill, but there’s horses and wagons comin’ in already, just to see for themselves. Couple folks even stopped at the kitchen and asked the way to the body, of all the nerve. And if they think I’m going to cook for them and make it a party, well, they got another—”
    â€œElsa!” Wilhelm rarely used a sharp tone with Elsa. It silenced her. “Yea, a young man has died, but of course we did not cause it. Go back to thy work now. There will be no extra cooking. The gawkers will have nothing to feed their disgusting curiosity.”
    Elsa hesitated. “This young man, was he one of us? One of the brethren?”
    â€œNay, only a Winter Shaker, and not a promising one.”
    â€œI knew it,” Elsa crowed. “It’s that Johann, ain’t it? He was askin’ to get killed, the way he carried on. And with sisters and young girls, too.” Her smirk was more self-righteous than shocked.
    â€œHush,” Wilhelm urged. He glanced at the sheriff, who had hurried off toward a tall young man just emerging from a dusty black Buick used by the Languor County Sheriff’s Office. Wilhelm almost pushed Elsa away, but stopped himself before he actuallytouched her. “Be careful about statements like that if the police question thee. Now get back to the kitchen.”
    Looking pleased with herself, Elsa trotted away on strong, hill-country legs.
    Molly Ferguson, Gennie’s roommate, stood apart from the crowd. She balanced a laundry basket on one hip, and her dark eyes fixed on Gennie. With a flick of her index finger, Molly signaled for Gennie to approach her. Molly’s eyes were wide and murky, her cheeks paled to a ghostly white against the black rim of hair edging her bonnet.
    Behind her, a group of men, mostly brethren, milled at the base of the Trustees’ Office steps. Elder Wilhelm murmured with Brothers Albert and Hugo and a tall, weathered man Gennie did not recognize. His head tilted toward Wilhelm, but he watched Rose. Rose’s attention was on Brock. She wouldn’t miss Gennie for a moment or two.
    â€œHurry,” Molly whispered. She clutched Gennie’s wrist in a painful grip. “The sisters in the Laundry said you found a dead

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