A Simple Shaker Murder by Deborah Woodworth

it well.
    â€œWhen did Gilbert leaver?”
    â€œOh, I’d say about an hour ago, but he won’t be back until sometime tomorrow, probably late. He had some errands or something.”
    â€œDid he show you the note?”
    â€œNope.” Celia arched her foot and examined the toe of her red leather shoe.
    â€œI suppose he thought it might be too upsetting for you,” Rose said.
    â€œWell, yes, as a matter of fact,” Celia said, squaring her shoulders. “I certainly didn’t want to see the thing. It’s bad enough that Hugh would do such a thing to me. I don’t need to read his feeble excuses.” Celia glided to her feet and shook her trouser legs straight. “I’m feeling bushed. I’m going to lie down for a time.”
    As Celia reached for the parlor door, Rose said, “Mairinseems to be doing tolerably well. I thought you’d want to know.”
    Celia spun around. A faint flush on her cheeks was the first sign she’d shown of emotion. Likely it was guilt, Rose guessed. Surely Celia regretted her callousness toward the child.
    â€œYeah, thanks,” Celia said.
    â€œShe seems to be eating well,” Rose said.
    â€œI can imagine.” One of Celia’s perfectly shaped eyebrows arched above a crystalline blue eye.
    â€œI suppose you’ve had to work with her quite a bit—to help with her eating, I mean.” Rose chose her words with great care. In the long run, information would help her more than the brief satisfaction she might get from taking Celia to task for her apparent neglect of Mairin.
    â€œHah! As if it helped. I saw right away how hopeless that child was, but I tried my best. There was no point in subjecting others to her at meal time; she was such a pig, we’d all have lost our appetites.”
    â€œSo you took your meals alone with her?”
    Celia’s other eyebrow joined the first. “I have to eat, too, you know. I had someone bring her some food—when she was even there. Most of the time, she was out running around who knows where, and we had to throw the food away.” Celia yawned and stretched. She made for the parlor door, then stopped and turned back to Rose. Both eyebrows were back in place.
    â€œIs Mairin . . . has she said anything yet about—you know, whether she saw what happened to Hugh?”
    â€œNay, she has said nothing.”
    â€œSo maybe she really didn’t see anything?”
    â€œPerhaps.” So Celia’s real concern was not for Mairin, Rose thought, as she watched the slender figure sway from the room. Celia had figured out that Mairin might be a witness. She’d used the phrase “what happened to Hugh.” That didn’t sound quite like a reference to suicide. Did she have reason to fear what Mairin might have seen?
    â€œThe Sheriff? Lemme check, Miss Callahan.” The telephone receiver clanked as the officer dropped it to go look for Sheriff Brock.
    Rose scanned the room while she waited. She was alone in the South Family parlor and had been surprised to find the phone hooked up, as if the residents were expected to stay and conduct business from home. Moreover, the parlor was well furnished. At least half of the wall pegs encircling the room had been put to use holding ladder-back chairs, a flat broom, small bookshelves, and a moveable cabinet. A long wool coat, clearly a design from the world, hung crookedly from a peg as if tossed from a distance. Her gaze paused at a table in the corner. It was littered with books and magazines, so she couldn’t be sure, but it looked oval in shape.
    Clattering over the phone line was followed by throat clearing. “Uh, Miss Callahan? The Sheriff ain’t able to talk right now. Important meeting. Take all afternoon, more’n likely. You might try back tomorrow.”
    Rose wasn’t surprised. “Fine,” she said. “And perhaps you could ask him to call me if he gets done