Death of a Winter Shaker by Deborah Woodworth Page A

neighbors. So some people say that we must be evil, maybe we’re able to cast spells or some such ignorant nonsense. If something goes wrong, it seems easy and convenient to blame the odd ones. The parents talk about it, and the children act.” Rose glanced back at the shattered rear window.
    Gennie sat up straight and pushed her handkerchief into the pocket of her cape. “My eighteenth birthday is coming up in February, you know.”
    Rose watched her in silence.
    â€œWell, I don’t know if I really want to be different,” Gennie said, without meeting Rose’s eyes. “I just don’t know.”
    â€œPerhaps we could talk about it later, when all this has settled down?” Rose eased the car back onto the street. Gennie stared at her hands as they drove the two remaining blocks to the Languor County Courthouse, which housed the sheriff’s office.

SEVEN
    E VEN IN SUCH A POOR AREA, THE COUNTY COURT-HOUSE dominated the town center. A broad flight of stone steps, worn in the middle, led to story-high, wooden double doors, ornately carved with motifs of tobacco leaves. The building itself, of large limestone blocks, looked more impressive from a distance. Up close, the doors needed sanding and painting, and years of grime stained the limestone. Shaker buildings were simpler but far cleaner.
    Rose and Gennie clattered across the large rotunda, over a huge map of Kentucky formed with colored stones and painted slate tiles. The gold outline of Languor County had nearly worn away. They climbed a scuffed marble staircase and pushed open a frosted glass door with COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE painted in large, black letters. A broad, oak bar, once varnished but now dull and gouged with cigarette burns, stretched the length of the room, separating the sheriff’s office from the public.
    The officer on duty sprawled at a desk behind the wooden barrier. A hefty, broad-faced man, he made the cluttered desk look a size too small. A coffee-stained copy of the Cincinnati Enquirer shared the desktop with a cracked coffee cup and an ashtray spilling over with cigarette stubs.
    â€œYou’re sure someone attacked your car, MissCallahan?” the officer asked without leaving his chair. “But you didn’t see who did it?”
    â€œBecause the rocks were thrown from behind, as we told you.” Rose spoke each word with the weary patience of one who has said the same thing three times over.
    â€œYes’m,” he said, with a longing glance toward the newspaper. “You think you were attacked by a young boy. Look, I can see how you two ladies might of been spooked by a rock flying up and hittin’ the car.” He glanced at Rose’s thin shoulders and smirked. “Those roads are tough driving, even for a man.”
    â€œIf you’d care to examine our car,” Rose said, barely controlled anger seeping into her voice, “you’ll find one rock is resting on the backseat and another on the floor. Believe me, they are far too large to have flown up, as you suggest, and hit the window on their own.”
    The officer remained seated, an inert lump.
    â€œPerhaps we should just wait for Sheriff Brock or Deputy O’Neal to return,” Rose said.
    â€œI don’t reckon they’ll be back for hours. They’re both out at the Pike farm, tryin’ to calm down old man Pike and that younger son of his. Some feud goin’ on with their neighbor, Peleg Webster. Say, don’t Peleg’s farm border on your land?” A local feud aroused more interest in the man than an alleged attack on Shakers, that was clear.
    â€œThe Pikes are saying that Peleg’s hogs is gettin’ into their corn. So they’re doin’ their own butchering.” He laughed hoarsely at his own joke and ended on a cough. He pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket. After selecting one, he started to put the pack away. He paused, narrowed his eyes, and