Death of a Winter Shaker by Deborah Woodworth

get the car unstuck. We’ll have to make arrangements inLanguor for repairs.” She stepped out of the car, sweeping her skirts behind her. For Gennie’s sake she tried to appear fearless.
    â€œNothing to be frightened of, they’ve gone,” she reported cheerfully, as Gennie rolled down her window. “Not a soul around. But you’d better stay inside, just in case.” She reached over and patted the girl’s arm, then straightened. She stood on dry and weedy grass which served as lawn for a ramshackle cottage. Three chairs, all empty, faced the road from the middle of the yard. The windows were shaded against the daylight with tattered brown curtains. One of the curtains twitched as if it had just been dropped into place.
    Rose’s unease grew with each moment outside the car. She hurried to the trunk and pulled out two rag rugs. She could hear the light tinkle of shattered glass as she closed the trunk lid. Bending quickly, she spread the rugs in front of the Plymouth’s back tires.
    With her heart thudding heavily, Rose took one last look around. Where the boys had played baseball, there was only an empty, dusty street. No children laughed and chased one another from house to house. The man with the whiskey bottle had disappeared. A basket still heaped with laundry sat on the ground next to a clothesline that held a white blanket neatly hung with clothespins for half its length. The other half grazed the dirt below.
    Gennie scrambled out of the car to huddle beside Rose. The girl’s shoulders were hunched in fear as she wrapped herself tightly in her cloak. Her eyes were wide and dark, like those of a wary cat.
    â€œDon’t you notice it, Rose?”
    Rose’s breath caught in her throat. She listened now to the silence. Circling slowly, she peered down the empty street and abandoned yards. She caught a sudden movement by the corner of a nearby house. Just a hint of sleeve, the flash of sun on a stone surface.
    â€œGennie, get in the car. Now!” The girl obeyed instantly.
    Her heart lurching, Rose dragged open her own heavy door and jumped inside, barely pulling her skirts off the narrow running board in time to avoid catching them as she slammed the door. She hit the starter button. Through clenched teeth, she mumbled an urgent prayer of supplication.
    As the Plymouth sputtered to life, another rock whipped through the shattered back window with force enough to slam the back of Gennie’s seat and thud to the floor behind her. Gennie instinctively slipped down in her seat and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head.
    â€œGood,” Rose said. “Stay down, we’ll be out of this neighborhood soon.”
    The car lurched and the tires skidded briefly, then slipped onto the rugs. At once the Plymouth shot back onto the road, spitting the rugs out from under it. Rose pushed the sturdy automobile to speeds it had not yet experienced in its short life. It bounced wildly over the ruts in the old dirt road.
    They reached a quiet residential street, lined with elm trees that touched in graceful arches over the center of the road. Rose pulled the car over to one side, and folded a trembling Gennie into her arms. At that moment, Gennie had to be a child again.
    In a few moments, the girl pushed away and sniffled.
    â€œI’m okay,” she said as she pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and swiped impatiently at her nose. Her lapse into childhood was over.
    â€œDo you feel up to talking to the police?”
    Gennie nodded bleakly. “Why did they do that to us?”
    Rose sighed and leaned back against the black leather. “Because we Shakers are being blamed for Johann’s death, and for other problems, as well. This has happened to us before, though you’ve never had towitness it. We are different. We dress oddly, we worship strangely, we create our families differently. We often have better crops and more food than our