Dancing Dead by Deborah Woodworth Page A

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?
    â€œNow, 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?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œYou’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.
    â€œI’ve also noticed—”
    â€œWhy 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.
    â€œThis Depression has been so hard on so many,” Horace said.
    â€œWell, yes,” Saul said, “I suppose it has.” He edged away.
    â€œI’d assume that most women can’t afford fancy underwear.”
    â€œOh, 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