Death of a Winter Shaker by Deborah Woodworth Page B

tapped the top to loosen one cigarette. With a lopsided grin, he leaned forward and held out the pack.
    â€œHave a smoke?”
    â€œNay, but thank you,” Rose said evenly. “We gave them up long ago.”
    Gennie beamed at Rose, delighted. But she wondered, too, why the officer wouldn’t believe them and even tried to embarrass them. She had made many trips to town with Rose before. Sometimes children stared at their clothing or pointed and laughed, but an adult usually shushed them. No one had ever tried to hurt her. And this policeman, why wouldn’t he help them? If only Grady were here. He would believe them.
    â€œPerhaps you would be good enough to bring me some paper and a pen,” Rose said, “and I’ll write a note for Sheriff Brock or Deputy O’Neal.”
    Sighing loudly, the officer shuffled papers in search of a blank sheet. As he did so, a young woman glided into the office. She closed the door behind her and stood framed against the frosted glass, as though waiting for all eyes to turn toward her. North Homage still nurtured a small silkworm industry, so Gennie recognized the fluid softness of fine silk in the bright red dress that clung to her slender form. Smooth blond hair capped her heart-shaped face. Red lipstick, brilliant against her fair skin, matched her dress. The scent of roses drifted behind as she pushed forward with her hips and swayed across the room.
    â€œHiya, Miss Emily,” the officer said, his face lighting at the sight of her. “Grady said you was stopping by. He said to wait in his office.”
    Emily bestowed a closed-mouth smile on the group, lingering on Gennie’s plain, dark clothing and bonnet. Without a word, she swung her hips toward a closed door behind the reception desk.
    They all watched her slide through the door, the officer visibly savoring every movement. Gennie felt a pain that was new to her, like a cramping of the heart. Grady’s girlfriend. That had to be who she was; she looked like a girlfriend. She hadn’t worn a ring, so maybe she wasn’t his wife, not yet anyway. Emily was the name the sheriff had mentioned as they’dexamined Johann’s body, and Grady had looked so angry. Had Johann tried to take Emily away from him?
    Soft hair and swaying hips and a red silk dress, not yards and yards of dark blue wool and a stiff bonnet. Gennie glanced at Rose, who was handing her completed note to the inattentive officer. Had Rose ever wanted to float in red silk? Her eyes wandered back to the closed door of Grady’s office and back to Rose. The trustee was watching her intently, her head tilted to one side and a worried furrow between her brows.
    â€œCome along, then,” Rose said firmly, “we’ve done all we can here, and it’s growing late. We’ve some tasks to do in town before evening meal. There is no time now to have the car’s window fixed. I’ll ask one of the brethren to arrange for its repair.”
    A few moments later they descended the worn stone steps of the courthouse. Two blocks brought them to Languor’s open-air marketplace, which showed the Depression’s effects on the rural town. A cafe and rows of old shops, some slanting and all badly in need of paint, lined three boundaries of a dirty, cobblestoned square, converted each Friday to a farmers’ market. The western border of the square opened onto a park, or what would be a park if it were cared for. Benches, spotted with bird droppings, scattered in no particular pattern on the crushed, brown grass. Near the park’s center stood a large kiosk, still showing patches of bright blue paint, where the small Languor band had played bravely through the 1929 stock market crash and the first few years of the Depression. Now the instruments were silent, sold long ago for spare parts to repair farm machinery bought on credit.
    Rose and Gennie wove through the open town square, among stalls filled with