by Alice Duncan
Sam stood and said clearly in his order-giving voice, "Everyone, please take your seats. Dr. Benjamin and I will assist..." His voice trailed off. Guess he didn't know what Mr. Underhill's name was. He continued. "We will assist this man out of the sanctuary, and then communion can recommence."
Pastor Smith stood back, holding the communion wafers and staring down at the now-unmoving Mr. Grover Underhill, his mouth agape.
Miss Betsy Powell, holding a tray of communion juice vials, again dropped same and started screeching. Oh, boy. She was such a help in an emergency. Mr. Gerald Kingston put a hand on her shoulder as if to calm her, but she continued to make dreadful howling noises.
"Good Lord, is that Miss Powell again?" asked Lucy.
"Yup," I said. Then, bravely daring, I slithered out of the choir's cubbyhole and boldly walked up to our choir director, Mr. Floy Hostetter. "Mr. Hostetter?"
He jumped a trifle and swirled around. "Mrs. Majesty!" He'd put his hand to his throat, and for only a second I worried that he, too, might have partaken of whatever had killed Mr. Underhill.
But no. He was merely alarmed and startled. As were we all.
"I'll be happy to help with communion if Pastor Smith needs to take care of Miss Powell again."
As Betsy Powell still screeched, this seemed like an apt suggestion. I stood there, angelically holding my hands clasped in front of me, and waited.
"Er... Ah... Oh, yes! Yes, that would be a grand idea." He peered out into the sanctuary, and sure enough, Pastor Smith was once again guiding Betsy Powell out a side door of the church. "Um... Can Miss Spinks assist you? I think we need more than one person."
I turned and gestured to Lucy, who squinted at me for a couple of moments, but then caught on. She slid out of the choir enclosure and rushed up to Mr. Hostetter and me.
"We need to help with communion again," I told her.
"Of course," said she, good girl that she was.
So Lucy and I descended the chancel steps and headed over to the communion tableau. Grape juice had stained the carpeting once more. I swear, if Miss Betsy Powell didn't owe the church a new carpet, I didn't know who did.
One of the people on the Communion Committee rushed out the other side of the sanctuary, probably to get more grape juice poured into more little glass vials, and Mr. Hostetter, Lucy Spinks and I renewed the communion service as Sam and Doc Benjamin once more carried a dead person out of the sanctuary headed, unless I was much mistaken, for Pastor Smith's office, where a sofa stood ready to accept another corpse.
What the heck was going on in my church? Whatever it was, I didn't approve.
However, we managed to get through the communion service, sans members of the Underhill clan, Detective Sam Rotondo, Dr. Benjamin, and Pastor Merle Negley Smith. And Miss Betsy Powell.
Naturally, as soon as the service ended, I practically raced to the choir room, tore off my robe and, not being as careful as usual, flung it on its hanger and stuffed it into the closet. I was sure I'd pay for my neglect later, when I had to iron out all of the wrinkles, but I wanted to get to Fellowship Hall and find out if anyone knew what had happened to Mr. Underhill. I also wanted to know if I'd imagined the pinkish tint to his complexion as he lay there, dead—I was sure he was dead—on the church carpet, splashed yet again by many vials of fallen grape juice. Betsy Powell must have nerves made of dandelion fluff.
My parents and Aunt Vi stood at the door of the hall as I rushed to the room. Ma held out a hand to me, and I skidded to a halt.
"Daisy, Sam asked if you could go to Pastor Smith's office. I guess they're having a terrible time trying to calm Miss Powell down."
Merciful heavens! Sam had asked for my help. Would wonders never cease?
"Thanks, Ma. You go ahead and have some cookies and tea and stuff, and I'll see what's going on in the pastor's office."
I turned and headed down the hall a few paces where the pastor's office door was. I heard my mother say in a tone that sounded like distaste, "I wish she didn't enjoy things like this so much."
Then I heard my father and Aunt Vi laugh, so I didn't despair.
When I got to the pastor's office door and tried the handle, I discovered some rat had locked the door. I suspected Sam, who might, in a fit of befuddlement, have asked for my help, but really didn't want it.
But as soon as I was about to thump on the door, it opened, and there stood Sam, scowling down at me.
I scowled back up at him. "You're the one who asked for me."
"Yeah," said he. "Come here. Thanks for coming. That woman is driving us nerts again."
Sam had actually thanked me! What a shock.
He stepped aside, and I entered the room. Sure enough, Miss Betsy Powell was having hysterics on the chair she'd occupied the last time she'd had hysterics in this office.
"Can you please do something to shut her up?" muttered Sam, hooking a thumb at Miss Powell.
"I guess so," I said. Then I sighed and looked at the sofa, hoping to discern if Mr. Underhill's skin had turned red. I was foiled in my effort by a positive hedge of uniformed officers, not to mention Dr. Benjamin and Pastor Smith. I cursed inwardly and moseyed over to Betsy. There I once more knelt beside her. "Miss Powell? Betsy? You need to stop this nonsense right now!" Sternness had worked before; I hoped it would work again.
It didn't.
Betsy surged around on the overstuffed chair and grabbed me by the shoulders. Darn it, she had grip like iron, and it hurt. "But it's a judgment!" she shrieked. "It's a judgment! It's all my fault!"
Very well, that was it for me. I smacked Betsy's hands away from my shoulders, held both of her hands in my own tight grasp and said in a voice that reminded me of my recent role as Katisha in Gilbert and Sullivan's operetta, The Mikado, "Stop wailing this instant, Betsy Powell!" I'd loved playing Katisha, who is mean, nasty, evil-tempered and cruel. I made my living being nice, so the part had been fun for me. It was fun now, too, although I'm probably a wicked sinner to admit it. "Everyone has too much to do already, and they've heard quite enough out of you! You're making a pest of yourself and interrupting people who are needed elsewhere. So shut your mouth right this second and be quiet!"
By golly, she shut her mouth, stared at me with wide, goggling eyes, and slumped into the chair. She didn't faint this time, more's the pity, but at least she stopped making a scene. She did commence to sob, but did so quietly. I waited until I was pretty sure she wouldn't kick up another fuss, then rose to my feet and tiptoed to the crowd gathered around the sofa.
A whole bunch of tall men stood in my way but I managed, by discreet insertion of my short self under men's arms, to sidle up to the sofa. By gum, Mr. Underhill's face was pink as a cherry pudding!
"Cyanide," I whispered, forgetting in whose company I stood. Or crouched. I didn't quite dare stand up straight.
Didn't matter. All the male heads swiveled, and all the male gazes settled on me.
Dr. Benjamin spoke first. "We can't be sure of that yet. Not until we get tests done, but yes, it looks like cyanide poisoning."
A scream from Betsy Powell made me wince.
Sam said, "Damnation, get back to that idiot, will you? You're supposed to be calming her down."
"Don't swear in church," I grumbled, but I ducked under some more arms and marched to Betsy's chair. She'd begun uttering short, sharp yips of dismay, and I decided I—and everyone else in her vicinity—had taken enough of her nonsense. So I smacked her cheek, not too hard, but hard enough to jolt her.
"Mrs. Majesty!" she cried.
"Stop making that awful noise right this instant!" I replied. "People in this room are busy taking care of a sick man. They don't need you to shriek at them. Make another noise, and I'll smack you again." Was I mean, or was I not mean?
"But... But..."
"But nothing. You're not helping. In fact, you're interfering with the police and the medical people who are trying to figure out what happened to Mr. Underhill."
After uttering one lon
g, soft, "Ooooooh," Miss Betsy Powell did the right thing and fainted.
And thank God for it, I say. Actually, so did Pastor Smith.
Chapter 11
Because we'd stayed overlong at the church, Aunt Vi's roasted chicken was a little dry, but nobody minded. We just poured gravy over the chicken and potatoes, and gobbled it up.
"So Dr. Benjamin thinks this was cyanide poisoning?" I dared ask Sam after Mr. Underhill's collapse in church had been talked about as Vi served our plates. I figured it would be safe to ask, since I didn't start the conversation about Mr. Underhill's untimely demise.
After frowning at me for a moment, Sam gave up his grump and said, "Yes. He's fairly certain Mr. Underhill died of cyanide poisoning. It was quick after the initial convulsions, and he turned that distinctive pinkish color."
"I thought so," said I in a soft voice. "But how'd he manage to take poison during communion?"
"We don't know, and don't you begin speculating, Daisy. We'll have enough to deal with without you interfering."
"I hadn't planned on interfering!" I said, hurt.
"Huh."
"It's awful that these things keep happening at church," said Ma, who didn't appreciate disruptions in the orderly flow of life. Not that I could fault her for her lack of an adventurous spirit, given the circumstances.
"It is awful," I concurred, mainly to divert Sam from scolding me. Then I dared say, "I don't recall Mrs. Franbold turning red after she died."
"That's because she didn't," said Sam.
"Oh. Do you know how she died then?" I asked, knowing as I did so that I was risking Sam's temper.
Sam said, "No," in an uncompromising and extremely testy voice.
"Daisy," said my mother. "Don't pester Sam. Just eat this delicious meal and be grateful our family is safe."
"Good idea," said Pa.
"Very good idea," said Sam.
Vi smiled at me, so I knew she didn't mind my curiosity, but I also knew I'd better curb my tongue for the sake of peace.
Drat.
* * *
The remainder of the week passed uneventfully. Mrs. Wright asked me to visit her again to consult with Rolly about her missing butler. Rolly didn't have any idea where Mr. Evans was, although he did assure Mrs. Wright that Mr. Evans' soul hadn't been spotted in the Great Beyond yet. I always hedged a bit about this sort of thing, mainly because I had no idea what had happened to a whole lot of people folks wanted me to chat with.
Perhaps that sounds odd, but it isn't. The Great War had killed thousands of young men, but often bodies were never identified, and some were never even found. I'd read articles about farmers trying to get their families' lives back to normal, only to uncover corpses, old weapons, and bones as they plowed fields. The souls attached to those corpses and bones were completely unknown unless some identification was plowed up with them, and that didn't often happen. It's pitiful to think about, but there you go. I expect thousands of mothers, fathers, lovers and spouses will never know what happened to their nearest and dearest, which is really a shame. It's bad enough to know your loved one was killed in a war, but not ever knowing for sure what happened to him must be worse even than that. Kaiser Bill has a lot to answer for. But that's not the point here.
The point is I told my clients who had missing, but not yet discovered and identified, kin that it often took a spirit some time to settle comfortably into the afterlife. Therefore, no one expected me to get in touch with the newly departed. Or the imprecisely or perhaps not-quite-yet departed, which was what Evans was at that point in time.
Mrs. Wright was unhappy with my indifferent results, but she coped and said she understood. That was a lot more than I did, but I didn't let on.
On a happier note, I was looking forward to Mrs. Pinkerton's charity ball, which was to take place the Saturday following Mr. Underhill's death. His funeral, by the way, took place on the Thursday after his demise. I didn't attend, since I hadn't known him and what I did know, I didn't like. Besides, I feared Betsy Powell might be there and screaming. Evidently my absence wasn't noticed, because I heard from no one regarding the funeral service or burial.
For the charity function, I made a charming Gypsy costume, not based on anything I knew about Gypsies—because I knew nothing except what little I'd read in issues of the National Geographic—but based on what people thought Gypsies wore. I gleaned my information, in other words, from books and the flickers.
I made myself a white peasant-style blouse and a multi-colored skirt. I sewed together different colored strips of cloth that had ended up in my bits-and-pieces drawer, drew the skirt together at my waist with elastic stripping I found at Nelson's Five and Dime, and wore it and the blouse with a bright red sash that dangled. For my head covering, I chose a blue, red, and yellow striped material. And, because I figured why not? I also wore the juju Mrs. Jackson had given me. I thought about tying Sam's ring to a tassel, but didn't quite dare, for fear I'd lose it.
I wore lots of cheap necklaces I found in various junk shops, mostly made of colorful fake beads. Well, the beads weren't fake precisely, but they weren't gemstones. I actually had a bracelet full of rubies, diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires, that had been given to me by a Russian count—at least he claimed to be a Russian count. You couldn't tell in those days. There were fake Russians running around all over the place. However, that bracelet was in a safe-deposit box at the bank and I'd no more wear it to a costume party than appear at the ball as Lady Godiva.
People always donated used clothing and so forth to the Salvation Army, and Flossie Buckingham helped me create my Gypsy costume. She also made up my face right before I motored over to Mrs. Pinkerton's house. She was a whiz at makeup due to her former life.
When Flossie was through with me, I'd never looked so exotic, ever. Whereas I generally cultivated the pale-and-interesting image, that night, I looked like a Gypsy queen in a motion picture, only in color. Vivid makeup, vivid clothing, vivid jewelry; I wouldn't have recognized me if I'd encountered myself walking down a street.
"You're a genius, Flossie," I said, admiring my Gypsy self. She'd used dark makeup on me and, except for my blue eyes and dark red hair, I could have passed for any Romany wench, providing no one cared about authenticity.
"I've had lots of practice," she said, laughing. It always amazed and gratified me that Flossie wasn't ashamed of her past. In fact, I do believe her own early years of poverty and unhappiness helped her understand and assist Johnny's Salvation Army flock.
"Thanks, Flossie." I sighed happily. "I'd better get going. Mrs. Pinkerton wanted me there early to approve the tent she had Harold set up for my fortune-telling job."
Another laugh from Flossie, this one joined by one from Johnny. I glanced up and saw him standing in the doorway, holding baby Billy and grinning from ear to ear.
"I've never seen you look more ravishing," said Johnny.
"Right," I said. "Ravishing. That's me."
Both Johnny and Flossie laughed. After a second, little Billy joined them. I darned near cried, which shows what a sap I am. However, that's nothing to the point.
After thanking Flossie another seventy or eighty times, I drove to Mrs. Pinkerton's place. Joseph Jackson, who had been keeping tabs on the Pinkerton family's gate for as long as I could remember, greeted me cheerfully and opened the black wrought-iron gate for me. I waved at him as I drove up the deodar-lined way to the roundabout in front of the mansion. I do believe I was more colorful than Jackson's mother that evening, and she was the most colorful woman I'd ever met in my life, what with her being a Voodoo mambo and all.
The family Chevrolet looked a lot better in Mrs. P's circular drive than my old horse-and-buggy used to, although it was nowhere near as grand as Harold's Stutz Bearcat. But I didn't care. I hopped from the Chevrolet's front seat, grabbed my spiritualist's bag—containing my crystal ball, my Ouija board and planchette, and my tattered deck of tarot cards—from the seat next to me, and walked up the massive front steps, a
cross the massive front porch, whacked the brass lion's brass ring against the brass knocking plate, and smiled when Featherstone opened the door as if he'd been waiting just for me.
For the first time since I'd met him, more than half my lifetime ago, Featherstone actually did something uncharacteristic for him. He blinked at me. I gave him a finger wiggle. "It's just me," I trilled happily. "Desdemona Majesty, spiritualist-medium extraordinaire."
"Ah," said Featherstone, back in his role as the world's best butler. "Come this way, Mrs. Majesty."
So I went that way. This time Featherstone and I bypassed the drawing room, which was generally where Mrs. Pinkerton plagued me with her problems, and continued on to the back of the house, where a ballroom awaited us. Harold and his pals had outdone themselves! Colorful garlands hung everywhere, pictures of dogs and cats and even an elephant, a hippo, a rhino, several species of antelope, and a giraffe hung on the walls, having been painted by Harold, I assumed. He was an artistic gent, was Harold.
The room buzzed with staff setting up tables and chairs around the sides of the room. The center of the room was reserved for dancing. A balcony held a small band, the musicians of which were at the moment tuning their instruments. I beheld Jackson's son with his cornet. I remember having been shocked to see this same son playing in a jazz band in a speakeasy once, but he looked right elegant that evening. So did his band mates.
As luck would have it, Harold spotted me before his mother did. This was a break for me, since Mrs. Pinkerton had a habit of knocking me down whenever we met. Not that she meant to, but she was a large woman, I wasn't, and she was generally in thrall to some overwhelming emotion when she called on my services. So she'd run at me, and I'd try my hardest to brace myself against some piece of furniture, and so far she hadn't succeeded in toppling me over, but it had been a close-run thing a time or two.
"Daisy!" cried Harold. "You look utterly spectacular!"