Free Dancing Dead by Deborah Woodworth Page A

working alongside the sisters.
    â€œOh, no need to do that, Rose,” Gertrude said, waving a dripping hand toward the clean dishes. “Unless you want to, of course. I mean, you’ve got your hands full with that hostel, don’t you?” Gertrude clearly hoped for a serving of gossip.
    â€œAndrew handles most of that,” Rose said. She gave a final wipe to a shiny copper-bottomed pan and hung it on a peg next to its comrades.
    â€œOh, of course it’s Brother Andrew’s project, I know, but what with this latest excitement and all, I reckon you’re up to your ears keeping everyone calm over there.”
    â€œCalm?”
    â€œWell, a ghost, after all. Even if those folks are from the world, they can’t be used to sharing a house with a ghost.”
    Rose reached for another pan. “I wasn’t aware that this apparition had been seen in the hostel, let alone that it lived there,” she said.
    â€œYea, it most certainly has been seen there.” In her excitement, Gertrude scrubbed a little too vigorously, and the pan she was holding slipped out of her hands, sloshing foamy water on her apron as it hit the sink. Gertrude scooped up the pan and renewed her scrubbing. “Why, I had it straight from the housekeeper, Mrs. Berg. She’s a bit of a gossip, you know.”
    â€œNay, I didn’t know.” Rose tried mightily not to smile. Amusement would surely hurt Gertrude’s feelings—and it might stem the flow of information.
    â€œOh goodness, she does go on. But this time she saw it herself—the ghost, I mean—wandering the halls of the hostel.”
    â€œWhen was this?”
    â€œWell, it was just this morning I spoke with her—she came to talk over my new recipes. I reckon she felt like having a chat. I thought that dill potato soup was right tasty, didn’t you? Anyway, she said she’d been up and about the night before. Couldn’t sleep, she said. Thought she’d warm up a cup of milk. Goodness, I better remember to drop her by some extra milk tomorrow.
    â€œAnyway, she went down the back stairs to the kitchen, and she swore she saw a shade in a Dorothy cloak—she didn’t know it was a Dorothy cloak, of course, just thought it was an old-fashioned cloak, but I knew what she was describing when she said it was real long and had a short cape over the shoulders. Where was I?” Gertrude stopped scrubbing and stared at the dirty bubbles in front of her.
    â€œMrs. Berg saw the ghost.”
    â€œYea,” Gertrude said, nodding vigorously. “It was in the kitchen, she said, or at least it was just leaving. She said it glided through the door without opening it and disappeared.”
    Rose was beginning to suspect that Beatrice Berg had been imbibing something far stronger than warm milk. “Had she any idea what the apparition was doing in the kitchen?”
    â€œNay, but she did say it was a mighty plump ghost, so maybe it was eating.” Gertrude cackled, then stopped suddenly. “Do ghosts eat real food?” she asked.
    â€œTo be honest,” Rose said, “this is my first experience with ghosts, so I don’t know.”
    â€œMy, there’s certainly been some odd doings in the village since that ghost appeared. Mrs. Berg complained that a new wooden spatula just up and disappeared from the hostel kitchen, and Sister Isabel said some of the best wool went missing from the Sisters’ Shop. Then Sister Gretchen said a big old basket disappeared from the Laundry—you know, the kind they use to take out the wash when they hang it on the lines? Why, it’s almost like that ghost is setting up housekeeping.” Two young girls arrived to help her prepare for the evening meal, and Gertrude quieted down. She obviously wanted more gossip fodder, but she knew better than to dig for rumors in the hearing of impressionable young ears.
    Rose hung the last clean pan and made her