Free Killing Gifts by Deborah Woodworth

closemouthed sort of man.” She drowned her regret in more sherry. “Not like the young ones nowadays.”
    â€œHas anyone left the Shakers recently?” Gennie asked.
    Mrs. Alexander cackled, and a few drops of amber liquid sloshed on her hand. She seemed not to notice. “There’s hardly anyone left to leave,” she said. “and most of them older than me. I like the old sisters, though. It’s those new ones . . . I s’pose the Shakers know what they’re doing, and beggars can’t be . . .” Her eyes blinked lazily and she frowned, apparently searching for her lost train of thought. “When I was a little tyke,” she said, “my mother used to take me along to visit the sisters for tea. Ooh, what a big, lovely place it was in those days.”
    â€œThese ‘new ones,’ ” Gennie prodded. “Do you think they’re just bread-and-butter Shakers?” When Mrs. Alexander squinted at her, Gennie realized she’d revealed more inside knowledge of the Shakers than she’d wanted to. “I mean, do you think they’re just using the Shakers to get a bed and meals?”
    â€œOh, I wouldn’t put it past that lot,” Mrs. Alexander said. “Poor Honora.” She shook her head sadly.
    â€œI beg your pardon?” Gennie asked.
    â€œOh, you wouldn’t know her, dear. Poor Honora had such a wonderful life once. She did love being a clergyman’s wife, and she was very good at it, even though sometimes she had to look the other way when her husband’s eyes started roving.”
    Gennie had no idea what to say, or even if Poor Honora had anything to do with Hancock Shaker Village.
    â€œIs Honora a Shaker now?” Helen Butterfield asked.
    â€œOh, dear me, no. It’s that husband of hers, Aldon. He’s the one went to the Shakers. Poor Honora never got over it. The shame, you know. I mean, it’s one thing if your husband chooses to keep company with other women, that happens, but when he chooses—well, you know, celibacy. ” Mrs. Alexander looked at her empty glass.
    â€œHere, let me get you some more sherry,” Gennie said. She grabbed the glass from Mrs. Alexander’s shaky hand, but she made no move toward the decanter. She wanted all the information she could get before Mrs. Alexander drifted off to the same land as Mr. Bing. Gennie was vaguely aware that Helen had settled back and was listening quietly.
    â€œDo you know them well—the new lot?” Gennie asked.
    â€œI most certainly do. My late husband, bless his soul, used to own the greengrocer’s in town, and those children were such a nuisance.” She frowned at her own empty glass in Gennie’s hand, then snuggled back in her armchair, apparently content to gossip.
    â€œWhat children do you mean?” Gennie was losing hope that she’d get anything sensible from Mrs. Alexander, but it was worth a try.
    â€œOh, I don’t remember all their names, it was so long ago. I can tell you, those children were nothing but little thieves, and they should be ashamed to set foot on Shaker land. Of course, they didn’t come from good families, so I suppose they couldn’t help themselves.”
    â€œAre you talking about the novitiates?” Gennie could hear the frustration in her own voice. What good was a gossip if she couldn’t follow her own storyline?
    Mrs. Alexander squinted again; the term “novitiate” clearly meant nothing to her.
    â€œAre these the same folks . . . ?” But Gennie could see it was no use. Mrs. Alexander had slipped sideways against the side of her wing-backed chair. Her face had softened into blissful peace. She and Mr. Bing snored in harmony.
    â€œPerhaps we should let them rest, my dear,” Helen Butterfield said. “I’m sure you can find out more in the morning.”
    â€œI wasn’t trying to find out