Killing Gifts by Deborah Woodworth Page A

excitement. “All I need is one good gossip to start with, and I’ll be able to name all of Julia’s gentlemen friends in no time.”
    Again the waiter appeared, as if he had dropped from the ceiling. He held two cups of steaming liquid. He placed one cup near Gennie’s right hand and moved the milk and sugar next to it.
    â€œBut I didn’t order anything,” Rose said, as he placed the other cup before her.
    â€œIt’s a sweet, warm lemonade, Sister. It’ll help ward off the chill.” He bowed slightly and returned to his impassive stance in front of their table.
    Rose could now see that her beverage was pale in color. She raised it to her lips and breathed in the citrus fragrance. It triggered a stab of homesickness for her village, where some of her most peaceful hours had been spent sipping rose hip and lemon balm tea as she noted the day’s activities in her journal. She prayed silently and fervently that the terrible event in Hancock would prove to be the tragic result of a lovers’ quarrel and nothing to do with the Shakers, so she could return home in short order, maybe even by Mother Ann’s Birthday—and with an easy mind.
    Rose emerged from her reverie to find Gennie, her curly head at a speculative tilt, watching the waiter, who seemed not to notice. It was then that Rose realized—not only had he called her “Sister,” but he knew that Shakers were not supposed to drink stimulants.
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    â€œGennie, I wish you’d give up the idea that I’m a sheltered fuddy-duddy, rapidly approaching old age. I work from before sunup to well after sundown; I can easily climb a short ladder to the upper berth. Besides, this is your first rail journey—you should have the window.” Rose was in the lead as she and Gennie made their way back to their Pullman car, which was being transformed into a sleeping car. They had walked the length of the train, up to the baggage car, to tire themselves out and work off the heavy dinner. They were more than ready for bed. When the Society paid her travel expenses, Rose always sat up in a coach car, so even a windowless upper berth was a luxury that embarrassed her.
    â€œWell, all right,” Gennie said. “I’ll admit, I want to see what the world looks like, speeding by at night. I’m so excited, I’ll never be able to sleep.”
    Conversation stopped as they pushed open the heavy door leading to the linkage connecting with the next car. The world whizzed past them as they crossed the unsteady metal flooring that covered the couplings between the coaches. The train noise seemed deafening to Rose, who was more used to the gentler sounds of hungry livestock and dancing feet on a smooth pine floor.
    She pulled open the tight-fitting door to their Pullman sleeping car and held it for Gennie. The sudden quiet, as the door slammed shut, was a relief. They turned sideways to pass other passengers returning from the washrooms. Rose felt uncomfortable, being forced to walk so close to several men, but she was grateful that she could spend the night in a bed, instead of sleeping in a seat and awakening stiff and achy.
    Gennie headed for the women’s washroom, as Rose surveyed their accommodations. Their berths were located about halfway through the coach. Curtains hung across both upper and lower berths, and a short ladder lay ready for Rose to clamber up into her bed. As she hooked her foot on the first rung, Rose glanced toward the end of the car and noticed a porter still hanging curtains at the last set of seats. She recognized the impassive face and broad shoulders. It was their waiter. Times were tough for railroads, too. They cut their crews wherever possible, and whoever was lucky enough to remain would do the work of two.
    The porter looked across at her and gave her a slight nod. He finished hanging the curtain and walked toward her. Curious, she waited. With a quick glance up and down