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

asked Helen.
    â€œOh, no, dear, just arrived myself, though not from so far away as you, I suppose.” Helen sipped her sherry and sighed with appreciation. With disconcerting suddenness, she turned her bright gaze back to Gennie. “Tell me, do you have family back—where did you say you were from? The South? Tennessee, perhaps?” She raised her eyebrows and paused. Gennie chose to taste her own sherry again, and said not a word.
    â€œYour family must be quite worried about you, traveling all alone like this. You must let me look after you while you’re settling in.”
    â€œThat’s most kind of you,” Gennie said, “but I’m sure I’ll be fine. This isn’t Boston, after all.”
    â€œI should say not!” said Mrs. Alexander. “A young lady is quite safe here in Pittsfield. Why, we have Shakers nearby, after all.”
    A snore from the snoozing Mr. Bing distracted them long enough for Gennie to decide that now was as good a chance as any to begin her questioning, despite the intrusive presence of Mrs. Helen Butterfield.
    â€œOh, I’ve heard of the Shakers,” Gennie said. “I’ve heard they are very generous and kind. Do you suppose I might get a job with the Shakers here? Do they need any extra hands, do you know?”
    In the awkward silence that followed, Gennie turned her innocent gaze on each person in turn. Mr. Bing had opened his eyes partway and watched her with drowsy curiosity. Helen Butterfield’s eyes were a shade too bright, and Mrs. Alexander was trying to hide her obvious excitement with a veneer of sadness.
    â€œOh dear,” said Mrs. Alexander, “I suppose you’ll hear about it sooner or later, so I might as well tell you.” She slid to the edge of her seat and leaned forward. “Hancock Village is what our Shakers call their home, and I’ve been there many a time, buying eggs and butter. Never had the least trouble with them, not since I’ve been living here, which is my whole sixty years. Well, no trouble until recently, that is.”
    Mr. Bing’s head lolled back against his chair again, but the women all leaned in toward one another. Mrs. Alexander took a large gulp of sherry. “You see,” she said, “there’s been a murder in Hancock Village. A pretty young girl it was, no older than you,” she said, nodding to Gennie, “though not so ladylike, of course.”
    Gennie feigned shock. “Do they know who did it?” she asked.
    â€œWell, as I said, a lady, she wasn’t,” Mrs. Alexander said, raising her eyebrows.
    â€œCelibates!” said Mr. Bing. He unfolded his long body from his seat, poured himself another sherry, and downed it in one gulp.
    â€œI beg your pardon, Mr. Bing?” asked Gennie.
    â€œCelibates,” he repeated, “pure and simple. In more ways than one.” He guffawed and poured another sherry. “It’s unnatural, that’s what it is. Leads to all kinds of evil doings.” He drained his glass. “My father was celibate. See what it got him.” He slid back into his chair and closed his eyes.
    Gennie’s mouth twitched. She tried to maintain her composure, but she lost the struggle when Helen caught her eye. Mrs. Alexander looked on in confusion as they laughed themselves to tears. Luckily, the sherry had sent Mr. Bing to sleep, and the unladylike behavior failed to rouse him.
    â€œHe was, you know,” Mrs. Alexander said. The drawn skin of her cheeks had turned a dull red, but she poured herself another glass of sherry.
    â€œWho was what?” asked Helen.
    â€œMr. Bing’s father. He was a Shaker. An orphan, he was, brought to the Shakers when he was just a baby.” Mrs. Alexander sipped twice. “He left at twenty-one or so. Word around town was he’d had a . . . well, you know, something going with one of the young sisters. He never would say, though. He was a