by Alice Duncan
A general buzzing ensued. Mr. Underhill looked irritated, as if he didn't approve of people collapsing in church. Lucy Spinks, a soprano who was engaged to marry an older gentleman named Albert Zollinger, whispered in my ear, "What do you think is happening?"
As much as I squinted, I couldn't see much because there were so many people in the way, so I said, "I'm not sure. It looks as though Mrs. Franbold fell down."
"Oh, dear. Poor sweet thing. I hope she didn't break anything."
"Me, too."
A scream erupted, and I winced, as I'm sure the rest of the choir did, also. This time, I decided to heck with convention and stood in an effort to discover who'd screamed. It was then I saw Miss Betsy Powell, who had been assisting with communion, cover her face with her hands and give out short, sharp, piercing shrieks. Little communion cups littered the floor around her. The trustees would never get the grape juice out of that carpet. At that point I guess our minister, the Reverend Merle Negley Smith, decided to abandon his position behind the communion wafers and assist the afflicted, because he hurried down the chancel steps and rushed over to Miss Powell. She had by this time broken into noisy sobs, and Pastor Smith gently guided her out of the church via a side door. Another gentleman, Mr. Gerald Kingston, held out a hand as if to help Pastor Smith, but neither Pastor Smith nor Miss Powell seemed to notice his good intentions. Poor Mr. Kingston was left, looking unhappy, staring after the pair.
"What's the matter with whoever that is?" whispered Lucy.
On tiptoes, trying to see around the lectern used by our lay speakers, I said, "I'm not sure. Maybe Mrs. Franbold is dead or having a fit or something. It was Miss Powell who was screaming. There's grape juice all over the floor, because she dropped the tray of communion cups she was holding. I think Mr. Underhill bumped the tray out of her hands. He didn't even try to help Mrs. Franbold. Now it looks as if Miss Powell is crying hysterically. Pastor Smith is leading her away from the mess." Darn, but I wished people would get out of my line of vision!
"Why would she scream?"
"Maybe she's not used to seeing people fall over in front of her at communion?" I shrugged.
"Maybe."
Mr. Floy Hostetter, our choir director, also abandoned the chancel then, and rushed over to the crowd clustered around Mrs. Franbold. Lucy and I exchanged a speaking glance, but we both decided not to add our presence to what was already a chaotic scene.
Suddenly Sam Rotondo stood, rocklike in his solidness. His voice rose over those of the masses. He didn't holler. He didn't have to. "Everyone, please take your seats. I'll handle this."
Nobody moved.
"Take your seats," said Sam in a voice I doubt anyone could ignore. He sounded like a general giving instructions to a firing squad.
The well-behaved congregants of the First Methodist-Episcopal Church on the corner of Marengo and Colorado in Pasadena seemed inclined to obey him, because everyone straggled back to their seats. This was probably a good thing, although communion hadn't ended yet, so many of the sittees were as of that moment un-sanctified. Or something like that.
After a brief conference with Sam, Mr. Hostetter trotted back to the chancel, climbed the steps, and walked to the preacher's pulpit. He held up his hands, and all murmuring stopped. I sat down. Darn it, I wanted to know what had happened!
"Dear ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated for a moment or two more. Mrs. Franbold has been taken ill, and some kind fellows are assisting her out of the sanctuary."
What he meant was that Sam and Dr. Benjamin were picking the woman up off the floor and aimed to take her somewhere else. My guess was that they would go to Mr. Smith's office, where there was a convenient couch. Lying on a couch had to be more comfortable than lying on the floor of a church sanctuary. Of course, at that point in time, no one knew for sure that the dear woman was dead. Well, I kind of did, but that's only because stuff like that seems to happen in my vicinity. Not necessarily people dropping dead but, as my father once told me, "Strange things happen around you." I'd resented his words at the time, but he was right, whether I resented his saying them or not.
After another few minutes, during which Sam and Dr. Benjamin, each with one of Mrs. Franbold's arms draped over their shoulders, escorted the woman from the sanctuary, Mr. Hostetter said, "Er... We shall resume communion at this time." He glanced frantically around the church. "Um, may we have a couple of volunteers, since our minister and Miss Powell are indisposed?" He then turned, gestured to Lucy and me and said, "Miss Spinks and Mrs. Majesty, perhaps you might be of service now."
Lucy and I looked at each other, shrugged, and went to take over the giving of communion in place of Mr. Smith and Miss Powell. Communion isn't difficult to assist with, since all you have to do is have one person hold out a plate with communion wafers on it, and then another person offer each congregant a little glass cup filled about halfway with grape juice. Folks eat the wafer, drink the juice in the cup, and then—if they're doing it right—kneel prayerfully at the front altar or go to their seats. That day, the Communion Committee rushed to gather together more half-full communion cups, and I held the tray, still a little juicy from Miss Powell's earlier mishap. I regret to say my mind often wandered when it was supposed to be contemplating the state of my soul.
It sure wandered that day, and not just because I was trying to think of how to get grape juice out of a church carpet. I could hardly wait for the service to end so I could ask Sam what was wrong with Mrs. Franbold. If she was dead, how'd she die? If she was merely sick, what had made her sick? Had she suffered an apoplectic stroke? Heart attack? Perhaps she'd been ill and had come to church with walking pneumonia, although that sounded far-fetched. If a person is that sick, he or she should stay home, sleep and drink lots of hot tea with lemon and honey. At least that's what my mother always made me do when I was sick. Oh, and she'd give me cod-liver oil, too.
The mere thought of cod-liver oil made me shudder.
Lucy asked, "Are you all right, Daisy?"
"Fine, thanks." I decided she didn't need to know my innermost thoughts.
After communion was over, the congregation, led by Mr. Hostetter, began singing our final hymn of the day, "O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing," which is a nice hymn. It's also the first hymn in every Methodist hymnal I've ever seen, although I'm not sure why. It was written by Charles Wesley, so maybe that's the reason, the Wesley brothers having begun Methodism in the 1700s.
Because Pastor Smith hadn't returned by the time the hymn was finished, Mr. Hostetter gave the final benediction and bade the congregants Godspeed.
Fortunately for us, Lucy and I didn't have to pick up the leftover communion stuff. Ladies from the Communion Committee did that. So we both hightailed it to the choir room, removed our choir robes, hung them up, and hurried to Fellowship Hall, where tea and cookies would be served.
My family never stayed long at fellowship because Aunt Vi always had a delicious meal cooking for us at home. Therefore, I rushed around asking people if they knew what had happened to Mrs. Franbold. Nobody knew. And Sam, darn him, didn't show up at fellowship.
"We'd best be getting on home," Ma said not ten minutes after I'd appeared in Fellowship Hall. "Do you suppose Sam is still busy with Mrs. Franbold?"
"Don't know," said Pa.
"Probably," said Aunt Vi. "That poor woman. How old is she, anyway?"
"I don't know," I said. "Old. Well, elderly," I amended when I saw my mother's black look aimed at me. She expected her daughter to be polite and courteous all the time, even though her daughter—me—was all grown up and earning a living. I sighed. "Maybe he's in Pastor Smith's office. I'll go look."
"I'd like Sam to come to dinner," said Aunt Vi. She loved anyone who loved her cooking, and Sam lavished praise upon her every time he dined with us. Not that she didn't deserve his accolades, but I suspected him sometimes of going overboard just so she'd ask him to dinner more often.
"Right. I'll be back directly." And before anyone coul
d stop me, I hurried out of the fellowship hall and to the pastor's office, which was just up the hall a few feet. I knocked softly on the closed door and wished curtains hadn't been drawn across the window.
A few seconds elapsed, and then I nearly leaped out of my skin when the door suddenly opened, and a scowling Sam glared down at me. He took up most of the doorway, so I couldn't see past him.
"What?"
"Aunt Vi wants to know if you're coming to dinner with us," I said, deciding not to bellow at him for his rudeness. We were, after all, in a church.
"I don't know yet."
Well, wasn't he just a load of joy and helpfulness? "But what should I tell Vi."
His scowl intensified. "Tell her I don't know yet."
Oh, boy. How friendly. "Sam, what happened to Mrs. Franbold?"
Before Sam could tell me it was none of my business, I saw a hand descend upon Sam's shoulder, and Pastor Smith said, "Perhaps Mrs. Majesty can help console Miss Powell, Detective."
So. Miss Powell needed consolation, did she? I wondered why. Rather than ask, I said, "I'll be happy to help." It wasn't even a fib. If I could get into the pastor's office, maybe I could finally learn what had happened to poor old Mrs. Franbold. And why whatever it was had so upset Betsy Powell.
Sam, who knew me very well, made a perfectly hideous face, which only I could see, and said, "She only wants to nose around."
"I do not!" Very well, that was just a tiny little stretcher. I also wanted to be helpful.
"I do wish you'd step aside and let her in, Detective Rotondo. Miss Powell is terribly upset." Pastor Smith sounded rattled.
After heaving a sigh about the size of Mount Wilson, Sam said, "Very well. Come in. But sit with Miss Powell and don't get in the way."
"I won't get in the way," I told him in a voice that clearly conveyed my irritation with him. Get in the way, my foot.
"Right," said Sam, unconvinced.
Nevertheless, he stepped aside, and I entered the pastor's office. I was surprised to see a couple of uniformed police officers standing at the sofa that held Mrs. Franbold. I shot a quick look at Sam and whispered, "Is she...?"
"Yes. She is. Now go comfort that other lady."
Oh, my. Poor Mrs. Franbold! What could have happened to her?
Betsy Powell sat sobbing on an overstuffed chair not far from the minister's desk. I walked over and knelt beside her. "Miss Powell? Betsy, please tell me what's wrong. Is there anything I can do for you?"
She lifted her head, and I saw that she, too, failed to look good when she cried. Her eyes were swollen almost shut, her face was red, and she was gasping and sobbing and generally looking like a mess. I feared she might faint if she kept that up.
Putting an arm on her shoulder, I said, "There, there. That's enough now. You needn't cry. Poor Mrs. Franbold was an elderly woman, and she's now in a better place. If God decided to call her during communion... Well, what better time to do it?" I thought that was kind of a nice way of putting it, but Betsy only gasped loudly and sobbed harder.
"No!" she cried, her words thickened with tears. "No! It wasn't her time! Oh, oh, oh!"
Perfect. Now what was I supposed to do? I'd heard that one could cure an hysterical person by slapping the person's face, but I didn't think church would be a good place to do that. Therefore, I shook Betsy's shoulder rather hard.
"That's enough now, Betsy Powell. Get hold of yourself. This is no time and no place to get the galloping glooms." Don't ask me why I used those words. I think I'd read them in a book or something. "This is Pastor Smith's office, and I'm sure he has better things to do than listen to you have fits while he's trying to deal with the death of a long-time congregant. Now buck up." I spoke sternly, for me. I generally try to convey a gentle waftiness, but I was dealing with hysterics here, so I believed firmness was called for.
Evidently Betsy Powell wasn't so sure, because she stared at me for about thirty seconds, and then crumpled into a faint. Oh, goody. Just what everyone needed: another body to contend with.
But no one else seemed to mind. In fact, Pastor Smith actually said, "Did she finally pass out? Thank God."
Sam said, "Thanks, Daisy. She was driving us nerts."
Dr. Benjamin said, "She fainted? Excellent."
Well, there you go. I'd been mean, and everyone appreciated me for it.
"What happened to Mrs. Franbold?" I asked after making sure Betsy still breathed. She did.
"Don't know," said Sam. "That's why the uniforms are here."
"Oh. I wondered why you'd called the cops."
Sam gave me a frown I don't believe I deserved. "Any time there's a sudden, unexpected death, it's a good idea to get a medical opinion. Dr. Benjamin is the one who suggested we call the uniforms."
"Really?" Still kneeling, although my knees were beginning to object, I turned to Doc Benjamin. "Why's that, Doc?"
He didn't answer me for quite a few seconds, and his lips pursed in and pooched out, as if he were determining whether or not to answer my question. I held my breath and slowly got to my feet, making sure Betsy Powell was firmly attached to her chair and wouldn't slither out of it.
At last, the doctor looked at me and said, "From the signs, it looks to me as if Mrs. Franbold might have taken or been given something that might have caused a violent reaction. I may well be wrong, but it's best to check these things out."
As luck would have it, Betsy Powell woke up in time to hear Dr. Benjamin's words. She let out a screech that could probably have been heard in Illinois. Fortunately, she fainted again instantly.
Chapter 3
"You mean, she might have been given something like poison? How could she have been poisoned?" asked Aunt Vi as we gathered around the dining room table and I told my family what had transpired in Pastor Smith's office.
That day our dinner, which we took right after church on Sundays, was a pot roast with potatoes, carrots, celery and little pearl onions. Aunt Vi's pot roast was one of the more delicious dishes on the face of the earth.
"I don't know." I glanced across the table at Sam, who'd joined us. "Sam? Why did Doc think the woman was poisoned?"
"Beats me. He mentioned poison, and I called the department to send some uniforms in. He might be mistaken. The medical examiner will run tests to find out what happened."
"That's terrible," said Ma, a sensitive plant, if a not-very-imaginative one.
"It's terrible that she dropped dead in church," I said. "But how could she get poison there?"
"We don't know she was poisoned, and if she was, we don't know how," said Sam as if he wished I'd drop the subject. In a pig's eye.
"Maybe Betsy Powell poisoned her," I opined, thinking about how Betsy had reacted to Mrs. Franbold's collapse. She'd reacted again when she'd heard Dr. Benjamin mention poison. Hmm. Was that a clue?
"Daisy!" said Ma, who didn't approve of her daughter suggesting ugly things at the dinner table.
"Well, she was sure upset. I don't think she'd be that upset if Mrs. Franbold had just dropped dead, unless she knew something the rest of us didn't. Well, and she also spilled grape juice on the church carpet. Maybe she was worried about that."
"Oh, dear," said Ma. "Grape juice stains terribly."
"I thought the same thing," I told her.
"Peroxide," said Aunt Vi as if she knew what she was talking about. "Peroxide will get wine and grape-juice stains out of most things."
Wine and grape-juice stains? Vi's late husband, Ernie, had enjoyed imbibing. Maybe that's why Vi knew about peroxide's stain-removing capabilities.
Still and all... "But I can't imagine why spilling communion cups could have led to her hysteria."
"You can never tell," said Sam. "Some women cherish their hysterics."
I was about to argue with him, but then I remembered Mrs. Pinkerton. Mrs. Pinkerton might be said to cherish her hysterics, I guess, although she didn't seem to enjoy them much. Neither had Betsy Powell.
"Do you know Miss Powell well, Daisy?"
asked Pa, buttering a biscuit. Aunt Vi also made the best biscuits in the world.
"No. Not well. I see her at church. She's not in the choir, although I think she's on a couple of other committees, because sometimes I see her on Thursday evenings after choir practice." Glancing again at Sam, I asked, "Do you know how old she is?"
"Who? Miss Powell?"
"Yes."
He shrugged. "The uniforms probably managed to take a statement from her after she woke up from her second faint. From the looks of her, I'd say she was in her forties, maybe?"
"Hmm. Never married," I mused. "That's kind of unusual, isn't it? I mean, she's not ugly or anything."
"Daisy!"
Oh, dear. I'd annoyed my mother again. "Sorry, Ma, but she's a nice-looking woman, and most nice-looking women get married when they're young, don't they?"
"Maybe women her age," said Sam. "Nowadays, though, there aren't that many young men still alive to marry them."
That was the truth. The Great War had cut down almost an entire generation of young men. We in the United States were luckier in that regard than were Great Britain, France, and Belgium, but a whole lot of our young men had been wiped out, too, thanks to Kaiser Bill's determination to rule the world. Too bad nobody'd poisoned him.
This sad truth was also why Lucille Spinks had agreed to marry Albert Zollinger, a widower some years her senior. Not that Mr. Zollinger wasn't a nice man, but still, there were precious few younger ones for Lucy to choose from. Dismal thought. Back to Betsy Powell.
"She's nice enough," I said. "Kind of sweet. You know the kind. Brings flowers or cookies to people who are sick and stuff like that. I thought men liked sweet women."
"Maybe she's just boring," said Sam.
My mother didn't yell at him, which I believe to be unfair considering his statement was worse than my earlier one had been. But there's never been any justice in this old world, and I don't suppose there ever will be.
