by Alice Duncan
"Thanks, Doc."
"Probably do her some good," said Pa with a wink for me. "All this pampering has spoiled her."
"Has not!" But I winked back at him.
So the days drizzled by—we got a surprise that March when some rain came. Generally we get our rain during the winter, when we get rain at all, which isn't often. Anyhow, the second Sunday since I became so ill crept up on us, and I rose to take breakfast with the family.
"Should you be up and around?" asked Ma, eyeing me critically.
"You still look peaky," said Aunt Vi, also eyeing me critically.
"Dr. Benjamin said she could go to church if she didn't overdo," said Pa, who'd been there and was reporting the truth as he knew it.
"I feel better," I said. My voice was still on vacation, but that was all right. At least Mr. Hostetter couldn't accuse me of malingering. "A little weak."
A lot weak would have been more like it, but I didn't want to admit to same. The word pneumonia clanged in my brain, however, and I vowed to take it easy. I still hadn't telephoned Mrs. Pinkerton. That counted as taking it easy, didn't it? I decided I'd take a nap after church and then, if I felt up to it, I'll give her a ring. She'd want me to zip over to her house instantly, but I'd make an appointment for some day later on in the week. I'd cite Dr. Benjamin's fear about my contracting pneumonia if she whined.
Sam came for breakfast, and when he saw me all dressed up and ready for church, he said, "Where do you think you're going?"
"To church," said I.
He glanced at my parents and my aunt. "Is she well enough to go to church today? She still looks sick."
"How kind," I muttered.
"Doc Benjamin said it was all right for her to go to church, as long as she doesn't overdo," said Pa.
"Huh," said Sam, and he handed me a box of chocolates. "Here," he said in his most gracious tone of voice. I'm being sardonic.
"Thank you, Sam! I won't flush these down the—"
Whoops. I hadn't meant to say that. Nobody knew I'd flushed Betsy Powell's chocolates down the toilet, except Spike, and he wasn't talking.
"Flush them?" my mother asked, looking at me strangely. "Why would you flush them?"
"Probably because they're from me," said Sam, sounding disgruntled.
"No! No, I wouldn't flush them for any reason at all. Thank you very much for bringing them to me." And right there, in front of my mother, father, and aunt, I lifted myself on my tippy toes and kissed Sam on the cheek.
His olive-toned skin turned sort of mauve. The family beamed upon us. Oh, let them beam. One of these days, I'd have to tell them Sam and I were engaged.
We had waffles with bacon and maple syrup for breakfast. Vi had a lovely chicken soup ready to heat over the stove burners when we came home from church. Vi was, I presume, still worried about my health and trusted Sam's Jewish friend in New York City regarding the healing properties of chicken soup. I'd already seen the pile of sandwiches she'd prepared for us to eat with the soup, covered with a dampish cloth and residing in the Frigidaire. She was awfully good to us, Vi was.
Because I didn't have to leave my family to put on my choir robe, the whole lot of us marched to the front door of the sanctuary, where members of the congregation who were designated as greeters smiled at us and welcomed us to the church.
"It's good to see you again, Mrs. Majesty. I understand you've been quite ill," said Mr. Jankowski, a little, bent, white-haired man with a sweet smile. "I hope you're not coming back to us too soon."
Golly. Was everyone going to tell me not to overdo? I'd been sleeping for two solid weeks, for Pete's sake.
"I'm feeling much better, Mr. Jankowski. Thank you."
His smile tipped upside down when he heard my whispery voice. "You don't sound well."
I shrugged and decided not to try to explain my health situation. I'd just try not to talk to anyone.
Naturally, that turned out to be impossible.
The first two people to meet our eyes when we entered the church were Mr. and Mrs. Albert Zollinger, newly returned, I suspected, from their honeymoon in San Francisco.
"Daisy!" cried Lucy a little too loudly. She glanced around with her gloved hand to her mouth as if in dismay at having made such a noise in church. Her beloved merely smiled gently at her, for which I appreciated him.
"Hey, Lucy. How was the honeymoon?"
"Gosh, you sound terrible," she said, gazing upon me with concern.
"I'm really sounding much better than I did a week or so ago. I'm pretty much well again now, but I had the 'flu."
"Well, you'd better not let Mr. Hostetter hear you," warned Lucy. "He'll be livid. Albert and I just got home yesterday, so I'm not singing today, and you've been sick so you're not singing today. He must be pulling his hair out."
"He'll be bald as an egg if he does too much of that," I said. "He doesn't have a lot of hair to begin with."
My mother said, "Daisy." But Lucy laughed, so that was all right.
"But how was your honeymoon, Lucy? It sounded perfect when you told me about it."
Folding her hands across her bosom and looking dreamy, Lucy said, "It was wonderful, Daisy. Just wonderful."
"I'm so happy for you both."
I felt a tug on my arm and realized Sam was bored and wanted us to head to our seats. So I said, "See you after church," to Lucy, and followed my family to their customary pew.
Mind you, pews weren't assigned to certain people or anything, but people tended to sit in the same places week after week. Folks could get downright argumentative if they found other folks sitting in what they considered "their" pews.
Fortunately for us, there were no such quarrels that day. Mr. Hostetter did, however, spot me. He gave me a hideous frown and stomped down the chancel steps, his choir-director's robe billowing around him.
"Mrs. Majesty. I see you're here today. When do you think you'll be able to join us in the choir?"
"Maybe I can come to rehearsal this coming Thursday," I said, smiling sweetly. I knew I sounded like a dying cat. As soon as Mr. Hostetter heard me, he said, still frowning, "Well, don't come back too soon. We don't want you damaging your vocal chords. Gargle with hot salt water. Put some lemon in it." He transferred his frown to the rest of my family. "See that she rests and takes care of her voice. We need her."
"So do we," said Ma a trifle huffily. "And we've been taking excellent care of her."
"Hmph," said Mr. Hostetter, and he whirled around and tramped back up the chancel steps.
"Of all the nerve," said Aunt Vi.
Pa chuckled.
Sam said, "He sounds as if he thinks you got sick on purpose."
"Stupid man," said Ma, which was most unlike her.
I just sighed and said, "It's nice to know they missed me."
Sam said, "Huh."
And the church service commenced. It might have been my imagination, but the choir didn't sound particularly robust that morning without Lucy and me singing. That was all right with me. I wanted Mr. Hostetter to know what a gem he had in me. Well, two gems, if you count Lucy.
Chapter 29
Singing in the choir makes a church service pass by more quickly than if you're just sitting in the congregation listening. Well, and standing when you have to sing a hymn. But that morning, I couldn't even sing the hymns because my voice didn't work, and the service seemed to drag by unmercifully. I almost wished I'd stayed home and napped with Spike for one more Sunday.
But I hadn't, and the service ended eventually. Most of the choir members, including the organist, Mrs. Fleming, rushed to greet me as soon as the final amen sounded from his people again, as the old hymn has it. They were glad to see me, although they weren't delighted to hear me. I assured one and all that I was well on the road to recovery, and my family and I were finally allowed to go to Fellowship Hall for tea and cookies.
"Are you sure you're up to this, Daisy," asked Sam, being delightfully solicitous.
I gave him my warmest smi
le. "I'm a little weary, but I'll go to Fellowship Hall for a few minutes. It's fun seeing people again."
"As long as you don't wear yourself out. You don't need to suffer a relapse."
"True. I promise I won't make everyone late for Aunt Vi's soup."
"That's not what I'm worried about," he growled.
I patted his arm with true love and affection. "I know it, Sam. Thank you. I'm just going to take a teensy side trip to the ladies' room to powder my nose, and I'll join you in a minute or two."
"Your nose doesn't need powder," he told me, staring at said protrusion critically.
He sounded as if he meant it, and I sighed. "That's a polite way of saying I need to use the toilet," I whispered in his ear, to do which, I had to stand on my tiptoes.
"Oh. Well, don't be long." He gave my waist a squeeze and allowed me to leave his side. I opted to go to the ladies' room at the rear of the church, since I knew it wouldn't be crowded. My family—including Sam, who was becoming more and more a part of it—had stayed longer in the church sanctuary than usual because of all the people welcoming me back. Therefore, the corridor leading to the back ladies' room was deserted, and my shoes made a sort of echo-ey click-click as I walked. The sound and the lack of people might have been eerie had I not known every inch of that church.
I was about halfway to the ladies' room when I heard my name being called softly from a room on my left. I turned to behold Mr. Gerald Kingston smiling at me. Hmm. I smiled back, deeming it only polite to do so.
"Mrs. Majesty, could you come here for a moment? Miss Powell isn't feeling well and asked for you."
"Betsy? What's the matter with her?"
"I'm not sure, but she asked for you. I hope you don't mind. She insisted only you will do."
This seemed quite odd to me. On the other hand, most of my interactions with Miss Betsy Powell of late had been odd to one degree or another. Mr. Kingston, in his mild, meek way, appeared pleasant enough, and he showed, I thought, fitting concern that his special lady friend wasn't feeling well.
"I hope she's not getting what I had. The influenza can really knock one for a loop."
"I hope she isn't," said he, opening the door wider and gesturing for me to enter.
So I entered. The room was one used as a Sunday-school room for second-and-third-graders. I remembered it well from my childhood. We'd learn Bible verses and recite them to our teacher, and we'd get a little colored paper with the chapter and verse number printed on it as a reward. My mother and I had glued my brightly colored papers to a ribbon, which still hung in my bedroom at home, although I barely noticed any longer.
I also didn't notice Betsy Powell in the room. I turned around in time to see Mr. Gerald Kingston shut and lock the door and turn to face me, still smiling his meek-and-mild smile.
Whatever did this mean?
"Where's Miss Powell?" I asked, beginning to feel a little nervous.
"I don't know," said Gerald Kingston, reaching into his jacket pocket and revealing a syringe wrapped in cloth. He carefully unwrapped it.
Eyeing that syringe with grave misgiving, I said, "What are you doing? What's that, and why did you bring me here?"
"My dear Mrs. Majesty, you have a terrible habit of getting in my way, did you know that?"
"I what?"
"It was bad enough when you sent those sheriff's deputies into the foothills to discover my brother's still. You have no idea how difficult it was to set that thing up. Naturally, I didn't do the manual labor, being the brains in the family, but I worked out the formula for the whiskey, and that still produced a truly high-quality product. None of your bathtub gin for us. We went for quality, and we were well on our way to becoming quite wealthy, thanks to Prohibition."
My mouth fell open and my eyes goggled. That is to say, I'm pretty sure about my eyes. I couldn't see them for myself, but I was definitely stunned. "But... I don't know what you're talking about."
Oh, boy, how I wished my voice worked. I'd have screamed the entire church down if it did.
"Don't be ridiculous, young woman. You're a meddling busybody. And then, when Miss Powell told me she'd confessed everything to you, including her tawdry affair with that blackguard, Mr. Underhill, the most unworthy specimen of mankind ever to bide upon this earth, and her failed attempt to poison him during communion, I knew I had to do something about you. Your close friendship with that detective fellow makes you too dangerous for me to leave you be. You see that, don't you?"
"Wh-what?" I wish I could say I couldn't believe my ears, but I could and did. What's more, Mr. Kingston started walking toward me with that blasted syringe in his hand, tapping it with his finger and squirting a little bit of whatever was in it out, I presume to make sure it worked.
"Mind you, I realize you might already have blabbed Miss Powell's secrets to the fellow, but if you had, I'm sure the police would have picked her up for questioning by this time."
"But I wasn't even going to tell Sam about her trying to poison Mr. Underhill! And I'd never reveal so private a secret about their affair to anyone!" There I went, lying again.
Evidently Mr. Kingston didn't believe me, drat the man.
"Don't be silly, Mrs. Majesty. Women can never keep secrets. Now, don't worry. This won't hurt much at all, and after a second or two, you won't feel a single thing."
"Is that what you did to Mr. Underhill?"
"Of course. Only I used a different poison." He frowned. "This one is better."
"But... Does Miss Powell know?"
"About what?"
"About you killing Mr. Underhill!" It would have come out as a holler, if my voice had allowed it to. Darn and heck.
"Certainly not. She's a sweet, innocent woman."
"She tried to kill a man!" Again I tried for a scream, but all that emerged was a sort of whispery rasp. Drat it! "And she had an illicit affair with him, too!"
"That only proves her innocence. No woman with an ounce of worldliness would have fallen for the lies told to her by a fellow like that."
As he approached, syringe extended, I sidled around a desk, wishing the room was equipped with weapons. As with most Sunday-school rooms, it wasn't. But surely there must be something I could find that might stop Mr. Kingston in his murderous pursuit of me. Glancing around wildly, I didn't see much in the way of villain repellents.
"You might as well not try to run away or fight me, Mrs. Majesty. One little prick with this needle, and it will be all over for you. I'm sure your family will mourn your loss, but you've been so ill, I'm sure they'll chalk up your demise to natural causes."
"Is that cyanide?" I asked, thinking maybe if I could keep him talking, he'd delay his lunge, if lunge he planned.
"No, my dear. This is something else entirely. I made a mistake with Underhill. Didn't think the matter through. This will leave no telltale pink stains upon your lovely, if pallid, cheeks. You really have been ill, haven't you? If you were diabetic, this might even help you. However, insulin injected into a healthy person—"
"But I'm not healthy!" I whispered madly.
"Come, come. You know what I mean."
"Yes," I whispered, scanning the room for anything I might use to thwart his evil intentions. "I do." So much for that topic. I searched for another, less lethal one. "So you belong to a bootlegging gang?"
He laughed, sounding quite merry, which irked me. Here he was, aiming to murder me, and he was laughing? The little, mild-mannered rat. Maybe a mouse. "Heavens, no. My brother Rodney was quite the dull fellow. He was fit for nothing but manual labor, so I decided he might as well make us some money while laboring. He was a fool to kidnap the Evans fellow, because that led the police on a search. I understand you were responsible for that, too." He'd quit laughing and glared at me.
"I didn't mean to." Shoot, I couldn't even work up a good whisper for that one.
"You did it anyway, or so I've been told." He shook his head. "You're such an interfering woman."
"No, I'm not."
"You killed your own brother?" Good Lord. "Are you planning to marry Betsy Powell?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but yes. She's a sweet lady. Well, I don't suppose the term lady applies any longer, but I'm a forgiving man. She'll make a perfect mate for a scholarly bloke like me." He moved closer, and I continued sidling away from him.
"A murderous bloke, you mean," I whispered bitterly.
And then I spied a pile of Bibles on a shelf behind the desk.
"Now, now, now. It's not polite to call people names. Miss Powell is a most lovely and predictable woman, and just the sort of person I need to keep my house in order and cook my meals. She won't do outrageous things like tell fortunes or visit chemical plants on spurious errands."
"She works in one," I pointed out, still sidling. I'd reached the stack of Bibles. What I wanted was a baseball bat or a loaded gun, but this particular Sunday-school room wasn't equipped with either of those items, a serious deficit under the circumstances. I did lift my arm, as if to cover my face. In fact, I wanted to be able to reach those heavy books in a hurry. This turned out to be a good thing for me to have done.
Because he lunged. I swept the pile of Bibles off the shelf. They fell with a resounding crash right in front of Mr. Gerald Kingston, who promptly fell over them, dropping his syringe. I didn't stoop to pick it up, but stomped on it, shattering it to bits. Then I ran for the door like a spooked hare.
"Come back here!" he screamed, sounding oddly like Miss Betsy Powell.
"Not on your life."
"It's your life in peril here!"
I heard him scramble to his feet, but I'd reached the door, unlocked it, and flung it wide. Then I bolted out of that room, hit a brick wall, and nearly bounced back into the felonious grip of Mr. Gerald Kingston.
But it wasn't a brick wall. It was Sam Rotondo. I threw my arms around him and whispered as loudly as I could, but less grammatically than I might have wished, "It was him! He killed Mr. Underwood! He killed his own brother! He's a bootlegger! He's a murderer!"