A Simple Shaker Murder by Deborah Woodworth Page A

early with his meeting.” She knew he wouldn’t, of course.
    â€œYeah, sure thing.”
    â€œBefore you go, would you be kind enough to see if Deputy O’Neal is available?”
    â€œNah, Grady’s off on family business or something for a few days.”
    â€œHe’s at home with his family?”
    â€œLexington, I think. Or Louisville. Can’t remember right offhand.” After a pause, he added, “I’ll be sure and mention you called, when he’s back.”
    â€œThank you,” Rose said, as the receiver clicked.
    She hadn’t really expected help from the world, of course, and she loved being a Shaker, but sometimes she wished Wilhelm didn’t toil ceaselessly to remind the world of their differences. At his insistence, they had reverted to nineteenth century dress and the old forms of dancing worship, all toavoid being absorbed by a world which viewed them as those strange people who lived all together but never married, who went into trances and worshiped a woman.
    Rose had no time for dejection. She needed to clear her head. She untied her thin white indoor cap, shook out her tangled mass of red curls, and stuffed them back into the cap. As she tied it snugly at the nape of her neck, the table in the corner caught her eye again. She walked over to it.
    Of course , she thought, as she lifted up a stack of books, it’s one of the old oval candle stands—like the one Archibald had been sanding in the Carpenters’ Shop . She ran her fingertips across the smooth surface. Recently restored.
    Rose circled the room, touching the pieces hanging from wall pegs. All were very old, but beautiful, carefully repaired and refinished. The room was filled with such treasures. Matthew and Archibald must have been working on them steadily ever since the New-Owenites first arrived.
    A small, round side table held an oval box, freshly painted in forest green. Rose picked it up. Of the oval boxes made by Shakers decades earlier, many had become cracked or warped through extensive use. This one was still lovely, its seams tight and the swallowtail joints smooth. She held it upside down. The lid stayed on—a snug fit, as it should be.
    Rose set the box back on the table; with a spark of guilt, she grabbed it again and slid off the lid. There was nothing inside. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Believers used oval boxes for storing small items—buttons, sewing implements, herbs—but never just for decoration. This box is not empty , Rose thought, as she replaced the lid and arranged the box on the table. It holds the vast distance between us and the world . Wilhelm was blind if he thought he could ever turn these people into true Shakers.
    A creaking in the floor above her head reminded Rose that she’d stayed alone in the parlor far too long for easy explanation. She retied her cloak and slipped out the door.
    The schoolhouse door burst open to lively children like a dandelion releasing its seeds to the wind. The Languor children raced to their waiting parents, while the Shaker children, only slightly more restrained, twirled and skipped in the grass in playful imitation of Shaker dancing. They slowed down as Charlotte emerged, followed by a somber Mairin.
    Rose watched the girl move through the grass, her hair puffed around her expressionless face. What memories hid behind those striking eyes? Were they buried so deep they could never come to the surface?
    Mairin looked across the lawn and saw Rose. She gave a faint smile and changed course, now walking toward Rose at the same deliberate pace.
    â€œLet’s go for a walk, shall we?” Rose suggested, as the girl approached. Mairin placed her hand in Rose’s outstretched one.
    â€œYou aren’t cold, are you? Good, then we needn’t go back for our cloaks and miss any sunlight. I want to show you some of the herbs we have planted around the village. Do