Killing Gifts by Deborah Woodworth Page B

basement kitchen. “Why don’t you tell them I’d like to help out for a while, and I’ll take it from there. Then you can get back to your duties, which must be nagging at you.”
    â€œHave I mentioned,” Fannie asked, “how glad I am that you are here?”

SEVEN
    G ENNIE WAS UP EARLY, NEARLY AS EARLY AS WHEN SHE’D lived with the Shakers, but her motive for doing so was less than noble. She hoped to avoid Helen Butterfield’s too-curious interest in her comings and goings. Mrs. Alexander was still sleeping off her countless glasses of sherry, so Gennie was able to tiptoe into the kitchen, break off hunks of bread and cheese for herself, and be out the door before hearing a sound from any of the other rooms in the boardinghouse.
    She eased the heavy front door shut behind her and stood on the large, covered porch, nibbling her bread and cheese and wondering what on earth to do next. She had to get to Hancock Village, which she knew to be just a few miles down the road from Pittsfield. How to get there was the question.
    The boardinghouse was located on a wide street lined with large Victorian houses—palaces, they seemed to Gennie—which showed no signs of life. The predawn light gave a grayish cast to the snow that covered everything in sight. Her breath froze into puffs of white smoke, and her stylish but thin wool coat, plenty warm enough for a Kentucky winter, felt no thicker than cotton flannel. She longed for a nice, heavy Shaker Dorothy cloak with a deep hood.
    I’m not doing any good just standing here , Gennie lectured herself. Hanging on to the railing, she navigated the icy steps and skidded toward the sidewalk. Her smooth-soled boots had been made for Kentucky, too. With a guilty lilt of pleasure, she decided that a shopping trip was called for. Grady had made sure she had plenty of money, so the only problem would be finding the time. Perhaps she could buy what she needed from the Shakers. The Fancy Goods Store must have cloaks, at least.
    Heartened by these thoughts, Gennie pulled her coat tighter around her small body and headed in the direction of the railway station. When she and Rose had arrived the day before, Rose had somehow arranged for transportation to take Gennie to the boardinghouse, so the station must be where taxis and so forth gathered. It had seemed like a short trip. Surely she could get there by foot. It did occur to her to wonder how safe she was, walking all alone before dawn on strange city streets. Was Massachusetts as safe and friendly as Languor, Kentucky?
    After six blocks, Gennie decided that either she’d gone off in the wrong direction, or she’d miscalculated the distance to the railway station. Her boots were soaked through, her hands and cheeks felt raw, and she thought she’d never be warm again. However, the sun had appeared on the horizon, and the snow had begun to sparkle. She’d reached a street with small shops, in which lights were flicking on. Her spirits lifted. Surely she’d soon be able to ask directions. Maybe she wouldn’t even have to go as far as the station; maybe someone kind would offer her a ride.
    As if in answer to her unspoken prayer, she heard the honk of a car horn, and a dirt-streaked, gray-and-black Model A coupe sloshed to a halt beside her. Behind the wheel sat Helen Butterfield. She wore a jaunty, brown-lacquered straw hat, which contrasted sharply with her thick fur coat. She waved and leaned over to open the passenger door. Unable to think of a reason not to, Gennie slid in beside her.
    â€œWell, here you are, my dear. I knocked on your door this morning, thinking we might breakfast together, but when there was no answer, well, I must admit I got worried and peeked inside. Yes, I know, it was rude of me to do so, but I couldn’t bear to think of you ill and unable to answer, so I went ahead and did the rude thing.” Helen glanced sideways at her. “What on earth