Read Online Killing Gifts by Deborah Woodworth - Free Book Online Page A

hurried through the station house door and slammed it behind him. Gennie held her breath. The train shivered, then started forward, but the man did not reappear. Gennie released her breath in a deep sigh. He would not be disturbing her again. She was asleep before the caboose had cleared the station.

SIX
    â€œC OME ON IN AND JOIN US , G ENNIE . W E’RE JUST HAVING A glass of sherry together by the fire.” Mrs. Alexander, proprietor of Mrs. Alexander’s Boardinghouse for Young Women, where Rose had insisted that Gennie stay, gestured her into her parlor to join the other boarders. “I have some nice tea ready, if you’d rather not imbibe, though I must admit I never saw the harm in a tiny glass of sherry, and I’m so glad that silly law is gone, so I can have a little sip in the evening again.” Mrs. Alexander looked as if she might often indulge in more than the occasional tiny glass, and as if this wasn’t her first sip of the evening.
    After the long train journey to Pittsfield, Massachusetts, Gennie was more than ready for something stronger than tea. She glanced at the small circle around the fireplace and noted that she was the only young woman in the Boardinghouse for Young Women. She wasn’t surprised. Times were hard, and any paying boarder must be a godsend. Besides herself, there were only two. An elderly man appeared to be snoozing in an overstuffed chair, one hand holding his sherry glass balanced on his thin thigh. He opened a sleepy eye when Mrs. Alexander introduced him as Mr. Bing, a long-term resident, then he resumed his nap. The other boarder—a plump, bright-eyed, middle-aged woman—scooted to one side of a worn velvet loveseat to make room for Gennie. The woman smiled warmly, and Gennie found herself settling on the frayed, lumpy cushion and accepting a glass of sherry, neglecting to mention her age. It suited her purposes to be thought of as older. She introduced herself, thankful that she could use her real name; a false name would be sure to confuse her at some point.
    â€œI’m Mrs. Butterfield,” the woman next to her said, “but do call me Helen. Everyone does. Have a sip of your sherry, it’ll warm your bones.”
    Gennie did as she was told. The sweet liquid burned her throat all the way down, but she suppressed a cough and pretended sherry was an everyday indulgence for her.
    â€œNow, tell me all about yourself,” Helen Butterfield said. “You have a sweet accent, rather Southern, I’d say. Where did you come from, and what is such a lovely young girl doing here all alone?”
    Gennie put her glass on the table in front of her. She’d spent hours concocting her story, and it wouldn’t do to let her mind get muddled. She reminded herself to keep it brief. It was more important to get information than to give it.
    â€œTimes are so hard back where I come from,” she said. “I just thought I’d come East to see if I could find a job.” She gave Helen her most ingenuous smile, then relaxed against the back of the loveseat and gazed around the room. She felt as if she’d been thrust decades back in time, the room was so littered with Victorian knickknacks. Next to her, a brocade-covered lampshade with a long fringe gave a rosy glow to her sherry glass. It brought back vague memories of her long-dead mother, who had loved pretty things. The light touch of a hand on her forearm brought her back to the present.
    â€œYou must be exhausted, poor dear,” Helen said.
    â€œShe just came in today, you know,” said Mrs. Alexander. “Probably had to sit up all night on the train, with heaven knows what sort of person snoring next to her.”
    Gennie smiled and didn’t offer the information that she’d slept peacefully in a berth, with Rose just above her. It would sound as if she had more resources than she’d led them to believe.
    â€œHave you been here long?” Gennie