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Overview
The curious are flocking to a quaint Kentucky village, where the North Homage Shakers have opened a hostel rumored to be inhabited by a nineteenth-century spirit. Business is booming even in the throes of the Great Depression—until a hostel guest is found murdered and Sister Rose Callahan is compelled to investigate. An orphan girl claims to have seen a hooded specter dancing through the village. And now Sister Rose fears there is more than one ghost involved in this dark shadow play—as the secrets haunting visiting strangers and the local devout alike threaten to turn Shaker against Shaker and shatter their peaceful society forever.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780062385307 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 11/04/2014 |
| Sold by: | HARPERCOLLINS |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 336 |
| Sales rank: | 992,407 |
| File size: | 542 KB |
About the Author
Deborah Woodworth spent her childhood in southern Ohio near the abandoned sites of several Shaker villages. Before turning to writing, she earned her Ph.D. in Sociology of Religion and spent a decade conducting research and teaching. She lives in New Brighton, Minnesota, near the Twin Cities.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
Mina Dunmore wondered if it might be time to give up her widow's black. She had long ago ceased to mourn, if indeed she ever had, and her outfit made her look too much like a Shaker sister. Someone might notice the resemblance before it was time. The hat was especially troubling. It was an old, black, bonnet-shaped thing her mother had worn after her husband, Mina's father, had packed his bags and abandoned them. Her mother had worn widow's weeds until her death.
Mina, who was only seven at the time, had been forbidden to tell anyone that her father had left. She was to say he had died in a train wreck. Being a quick andimaginative child, Mina embellished the story each time she told it, filling in details she picked up from peeking in the lending library's more lurid novels, until she nearly believed it herself. The accident, she would tell her entrancedschoolmates, had happened on an icy winter night in the mountains of Pennsylvania. Snow clogged the tracks and ferocious winds buffeted the cars. Her father was on his way to a very important meeting with the governor, that's why he had to travel during such dreadful weather. Sometimes she'd say he was racing to an emergency meeting with the President of the United States, or perhaps His Holiness the Pope, depending on the gullibility of her audience. Just at the stroke of midnight, the train derailed and tumbled down the mountainside, killing everyone on board. if you found the right mountain and were foolhardy enough to be there at midnight, you could still hear the screams and the crack of metal against rock.
By the age ofeight, Mina had become an accomplished liar.
She sighed with exasperation as she tried to get a view of herself in the small, cloudy mirror hanging from some pegs in her room. These Shakers might have given more thought to appropriate furnishings before they'd opened up their hostel. Maybe the sisters didn't want to see themselves, but Mina did. And she couldn't afford to just go out and buy a mirror. Not yet, anyway. The reminder of her lifelong poverty fired the smoldering resentment in Mina's heart. She took several moments to compose herself. It was essential, for now, that she not draw attention to herself, and losing her temper would set her apart.
The hat must go, she decided. Though she had just turned forty, her hair was still a thick, rich brown, and she had cut it herself to just below her ears. If she waved it, she'd look more like a modern woman of the world. She was still fairly slim -- just a shade thick around the waist, but the black dress helped hide that, so perhaps she could pretend to be younger. She glanced at the small clock the Shakers had placed on her bedside table. There was just enough time to dampen her hair and crimp it with some pins before dinner.
Mina smiled into the mirror. She now felt almost peaceful. Soon it would be her turn. Very soon.
What a stroke of luck! Saul Halvardson straightened his bow tie so that it was perfectly centered between the lapels of his dinner jacket. He leaned toward his shaving mirror and straightened the part in his dark hair, noting with approval the silver streaks. He'd always been successful at his job, even throughout this pesky Depression, but business had improved markedly since he started going gray. He believed it made him look boyish and distinguished at the same time. Ladies were far more inclined to buy silk stockings and toiletries from a handsome man than from a plain one.
He'd had especially good luck with the ladies recently. There were two staying at the hostel now; he might just give them a try. They were old enough to be flattered. They didn't look particularly wealthy, but in Saul's experience, a woman could usually be induced to retrieve a dollar or two from the flour canister for a pair of stockings or a small vial of eau de toilette. Besides, it was a diversion. Then there was that young thing with the red-brown curls, Gennie something or other. She'd been quiet at meals. Saul had noticed her engagement ring, and he had the impression she was a friend of the Shakers. He'd keep his distance from her, pretty though she was.
The real luck had been finding out about the Shakers opening this hostel in one of their old buildings. He'd been staying here since it opened, just a couple days earlier. He saw an opportunity, and he jumped on it. Just in time, too; the place had filled up fast. He considered this his smartest move in a lifetime of smart moves -- starting at age twelve, when he had run off to live with his colorful grandfather, rather than stay with his Bible-thumping, belt-wielding father. It was his grandfather who'd taught Saul to use flattering words and a smile to sell anything to anybody. Granddad was something -- he could sell snake oil to a quack, and he'd taught Saul all his tricks. Granddad had warned him he was too cocksure, and, yeah, he'd had a few troubles lately. Nothing that couldn't be cured with a bit of clever effort. No better place to do it than here, either.
He'd even managed to get the room that most perfectly suited his needs. That quiet woman, Miss Prescott, had wanted a more secluded view and asked to trade her room at the top of the stairs for his at the west end of the building. Just another example of his incredible luck.
It was still a while till dinner, so he relaxed in his rocking chair and gazed with appreciation around his room. The North Homage...
Dancing Dead. Copyright © by Deborah Woodworth. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.