by Alice Duncan
"Daisy!" said Ma.
"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," I said, thinking sometimes I couldn't win. "I just thought it would be nice for a honeymoon. It will travel well, and it's dressy, so she can wear it to hotel restaurants and dancing and stuff like that. She has other dresses for casual wear, but she wanted something special for her and Mr. Zollinger's getaway from the wedding. So to speak."
"You sound as if they robbed a bank," muttered Ma.
"I didn't mean it to sound like that. She wanted to look good, and I think I helped her look darned good."
"What are you ladies talking about?" asked Sam as the Zollingers' Essex Coach tootled off down Colorado Boulevard, trailing tin cans and making a terrible racket. I was pretty sure Mr. Zollinger, who wasn't known as a gay blade, would stop soon and remove the auto's noisy trimmings. Not, however, until they were out of sight of the church, since he was a good sport even if he was rather dull.
"The dress I made for Lucy," I told him.
"What dress did you make? Her wedding dress?"
"Well, she wore her mother's wedding gown. I only altered it for her. No, I made the dress she just left the church in. Or in which she just left the church. Myself. I made the pattern and everything."
From Sam's blank stare, I figured he didn't even know that one required a pattern before one set about sewing up a dress. I put my hand on his arm. "Never mind. They drove away in a very nice automobile, and Lucy was wearing a very nice traveling gown, thanks to me. Well, the dress was thanks to me. I don't know where her mister got the car."
Pa heaved a huge sigh. "I'm bushed. Let's go home. I'd like to nap off that meal." He gave me a huge smile. "You did a great job, sweetheart. I know you made all those bridesmaids' dresses, and helped Lucy a lot. You're a good friend to have."
So, naturally, my eyes teared up, and I felt like an idiot. I swear....
Chapter 25
The Sunday following the wedding included an exhausted Daisy Gumm Majesty. I guess all of the prior week's activities had worn me down some, because I was, as Pa had put it, bushed. Therefore, I had to drag myself out of bed, into the bathroom, then the kitchen, where we all partook of Sunday breakfast, courtesy (of course) of Aunt Vi.
For some reason, I didn't feel particularly well that morning, although I didn't mention it to anyone. I figured I'd perk up as the day progressed. Silly me.
"You look a little peaky this morning," said Ma, eyeing me critically.
Great. Just how I wanted to look. "I'm a bit tired," I admitted.
Ma leaned over and pressed her hand to my forehead. Then she frowned. "You seem a little warm to me."
"Really? Shoot, maybe I'm sick. I thought I was just tired because of all the stuff that went on last week. You know, to get ready for the wedding."
"Do you feel well enough to go to church?" asked Ma. Both Pa and Vi had commenced staring at me, and I felt kind of conspicuous.
"Of course, I'm well enough to go to church. Besides, what would Mr. Hostetter do without me?" Glancing at three surprised expressions, I added, "That was a joke."
"Oh," said Ma. "I thought maybe you and Lucy were supposed to sing a duet today or something." I guess she remembered Lucy was no longer in Pasadena, because she said, "That's silly, isn't it? Lucy's on her honeymoon."
"Right. But I'll go to church. I love today's anthem, 'Forty Days and Forty Nights,' and don't want to miss it. Of course, if Lucy were here, we'd probably sing a duet during one of the verses, but she's not, so we won't."
"Makes sense to me," said Pa, returning his attention from my peaky face to his waffles and syrup. Have I mentioned that our back-east relations always sent us a jug of maple syrup for Christmas? Well, they did, and it was delicious.
"Wonderful waffles, Vi," said I, hoping to divert the family's attention from my state of health, which was, when I started thinking about it, a trifle under par as the golfers like to say. But I was probably just tired, so before I could think myself into being sick, I stopped thinking.
Sam arrived shortly before we were to leave for church. Spike and I met him at the door, and he stooped to give me a peck on the cheek before stooping even further to pet Spike. Sam was beginning to get his priorities straight. As soon as he straightened, he squinted at me and said, "You're looking a little peaky today. Do you feel all right?"
Criminy! Did I look that bad?
"Thank you. I'm fine." Snippy, Daisy. Very snippy.
"Don't bite my head off. I care about you, you know."
I slumped. "I know it. I'm sorry, Sam, but everyone thinks I look peaky today. I'm just a little tired from all the stuff I did last week and the wedding yesterday, I think."
"Very well, but if you don't feel well, you probably should stay home from church today."
"I'm going to church," I told him firmly.
"All right." He shrugged and said no more. He really was beginning to shape up. Some.
So we loaded ourselves into Sam's Hudson (not an Essex Coach, but the plain old regular variety) and Sam drove us to church.
Although I wouldn't admit it to anyone in my family (or to Sam), the longer I stayed awake that day, the worse I felt. My mother had been right about the relative heat on my forehead, I reckon, because after I donned my choir robe, and the choir sang its anthem, which went very well even without a duet with Lucy and me, I started sweating.
Now, I don't like to be sick. I'd nursed my poor husband for years before he died, and it gave me an almost crazy dislike of being ill. Of course, everyone gets sick every once in a while, and Billy's problems weren't your ordinary illnesses or anything like that, but it still took a lot for me to admit to feeling unwell.
However, right after church and after I'd taken off my choir robe and was about to head to Fellowship Hall to partake of a cup of tea—I didn't feel like eating, which was unlike me—I took a detour to the ladies' room in the very rear of the church for fear my tummy might erupt. Not a pleasant feeling, which is why I chose to use the least-popular (at that time on a Sunday morning) ladies' room.
Once I got to the ladies' room parlor, I sat on the sofa. My stomach calmed down a bit, but I still felt slightly feverish. I decided to rest a little before joining my family and, as I did my resting, I heard sobbing coming from the room leading off the parlor that contained three toilets in neat little stalls. We were very up-to-date in our Methodist-Episcopal church.
Curious, and when I was sure I wasn't going to throw up or do anything else disgusting, I tiptoed to the other room to find Miss Betsy Powell curled up in a little wicker chair with its pretty embroidered seat cover and seat back. I guess the chair had been set there for the little old ladies who couldn't stand in line, not that we ever had many lines, but we were a tremendously charitable church.
I said softly, "Betsy? Miss Powell? What's the matter? Is there anything I can do to help you?"
She jumped like a startled fawn, dropped her hands from where they'd been hankie-ing her eyes, and stared at me, her huge blue eyes drowning in tears. "What? What? Oh! It's you!"
"Is there something I can do for you? Get you some water? The doctor? Anything?"
She stared at me for a moment and then wailed (she would), "Nooooo! No! There's nothing anyone can do for me! I'm going straight to hell for what I've done! Oh, I can't be forgiven for this. It's impossible. Not even God can save me now!"
Huh? "Oh, certainly He can. God can do anything?" Well, except keep soldiers from being shot to death and people's spouses from dying of consumption, but I didn't think that was what she meant. "Here, Betsy. Come with me."
She put up a feeble struggle. "No! Leave me alone!"
"I don't think you should be alone right now. Here, the ladies'-room parlor is more comfortable than this room."
"Is anyone else there?" she asked, plainly frightened.
"No. It will just be the two of us. Nobody uses this room at this time on a Sunday morning."
"Well..."
"Perhaps if you could talk
to me—or someone—about your problem, you could think of a solution."
She gave a watery, "Ha. Shows how much you know."
"True. But perhaps it will help you to talk about it."
"It won't."
Great. "I promise I won't tell a soul." I couldn't cross my fingers behind my back, but I did have certain reservations about my promise to Miss Powell that I didn't reveal to her. Maybe I'd finally discover who'd poisoned Mr. Underhill! And then, depending on who it was, I might or might not tell the police, in the form of Sam Rotondo. What the heck, if Sherlock Holmes could dispense fair justice on his own, why not Daisy Gumm Majesty?
It's probably best if you don't answer that.
I guided Betsy to a comfortable chair in the parlor and sat beside her on the sofa, where I'd more or less collapsed before. Oddly enough, I'd forgotten all about feeling sick.
"Can't you tell me what the matter is, Betsy? I'm sure it's nowhere near as awful as you think it is."
"It is," she said more firmly than she's spoken before. "I killed someone."
I regret to say I gasped, even though I'd halfway expected the words. "My goodness," I said in my mildest voice. "Well, whoever it was, I'm sure he deserved it."
After giving me a sour look, Betsy said, "It was a she, and no, she didn't."
A she? What she? When she? Who she? "Goodness. Who was it?" Oh, dear. I hoped that wasn't too blunt.
Another several sobs preceded Betsy's pitiful, "Mrs. Franbold! Oh, Daisy! I killed that poor woman, who never did any harm to anyone." She peered at me through eyes that had resumed dripping. "I'm going to hell, aren't I?"
"Not for that, you're not," I said. Even to my own ears, I sounded disappointed. "Mrs. Franbold died of natural causes."
Betsy sat up straight in her chair. "What?"
Dang, I wished she'd stop screeching. "She died of natural cause. The medical examiner said so."
"Then why is that detective friend of yours here every week, staring at me?"
"Um... I don't think Detective Rotondo is staring at you in particular, Betsy. He comes to church with my family because we're... friends. He's a friend of the family, I mean."
"Oh. Well, it seems as though every time I look at him, he's staring at me."
And I thought he stared at me all during church services. I guess one perceives what one wants to perceive.
"No. I'm virtually positive he's not staring at you, Betsy. I'm sorry if he's upset you, and I'm extremely sorry you thought you had something to do with Mrs. Franbold's death. But why would you think that?"
She sat silent for so many seconds, I wanted to reach out and shake her. At last she heaved a gusty sigh and whispered, "Because you were right about when I assisted with communion that day. I was trying to kill someone else, and I thought she'd got the wrong communion cup."
Well, that knocked me for a loop. "Whom were you trying to kill?" I asked, trying to sound merely conversational and not shocked.
Another silence ensued. Then another sigh. Finally, she said, "Mr. Underhill." And she started crying again.
I patted her shoulder and tried to get her to shut up, because the woman had just confessed to murder, only it wasn't the right one! Mr. Underhill had been murdered, but she hadn't mentioned him as having consumed the poison she'd wanted to give him. She thought she'd done in Mrs. Franbold, only by accident.
"Um... So you actually did kill Mr. Underhill? He was poisoned. The medical examiner said it was cyanide, and they thought the poison might have come from his chemical plant."
"But I didn't kill him! I wanted to, but I didn't. I got so scared after Mrs. Franbold dropped dead that I never tried anything like that again! Oh, but I hated that man." She'd begun to growl, and her hands clenched into fists in her lap.
Because I was quite befuddled, I only sat there in silence for a few moments while Betsy Powell fumed. Then I said, "Um... Why did you hate Mr. Underhill? Mind you, everyone I've ever spoken to who knew him hated him, including his family, but why did you?"
Her lips pinched together so tightly, lines radiated out from them sort of like the rays of the sun reflecting on a pool, only nowhere near as prettily. She didn't speak for a long time, and I feared she might not reveal her deepest secrets. And here I was so empathetic a listener. Yes, I'm being sarcastic again. Bad Daisy.
"Betsy?" I said softly. "I'm sorry. I'm sure you had a good reason to dislike him so much. Don't you think you'd feel better if you shared your burden?"
She eyed me with grave misgiving before saying softly, "You wouldn't understand."
Giving her my most comforting spiritualistic gaze, I purred, "Are you sure? I listen to people's problems all the time, and so far I've never let out anyone's secret. Some folks find my services helpful."
"You want me to buy your ears?" She screeched.
Oh, dear. "No, no. I didn't mean that. I don't want your money. I would like, if possible, to help you overcome this terrible burden you're carrying. I've probably heard every problem anyone's ever had, in one form or another, so I do believe I might understand and be able to help you."
The atmosphere was getting thicker and gooier with each passing second, by golly.
"Well..." She still appeared—and sounded—doubtful.
I remained silent, smiling gently and trying to look angelic. Fortunately for me, Betsy's unhappiness had driven my fever out of my head. So to speak. I mean, it was still there, but I wasn't bothered by it for the moment.
"You really won't tell anyone? Now that I know I didn't really kill anyone—although I was going to kill Mr. Underhill, which I know is an unforgivable sin—maybe I could get this off my chest."
"I'm sure God will forgive you—anyone, for that matter—for failed bad intentions. Heck, he forgives anyone who asks him." Maybe. What did I know about God? Not a whole lot, in spite of my entire life of faithful attendance at the Methodist-Episcopal Church.
"Well, then..."
Betsy Powell buried her head in her hands, and I held my breath, praying, probably sacrilegiously, that she'd spill her guts. Not literally. I continued to smile in as benevolent a fashion as I could.
At last, she blurted out through her fingers, which still covered her face, "He seduced me! He told me he loved me! He promised he'd marry me!"
It was my turn to blink and look blank. I didn't want to spoil the moment or anything, but... Huh? "Um... wasn't he a married man?" I knew, of course, that he'd been a married man, the bounder.
"Yes! But he said he'd divorce his wife and marry me. I... I... I... Oh, Mrs. Majesty, I fell in love with him. And then he laughed at me! And he broke my heart! And then I was ruined for anyone else, and when Mr. Kingston began paying attention to me, I didn't know what to do! I couldn't confess my evil to him, because that would drive him away. And now I don't know what to doooooo!"
And she turned in her chair, flung her arms around me, and darned near strangled me to death as she sobbed onto my shoulder.
Merciful heavens. I hadn't expected anything like this from the pretty-ish, forty-ish Betsy Powell. Golly, Mr. Underhill had been even more of a louse than I'd suspected, the cad.
Once I'd delicately maneuvered myself into a more comfy position, from which I could speak without inhaling or spitting on a bunch of hair and a black cloche hat, I said, "Oh, Miss Powell, I'm so sorry. That man was a complete wretch. What he did to you was a crime, and he deserved to die. And you can take comfort from the fact that, while you didn't kill him, someone else who probably had just as much of a reason to hate him as you, did kill him, and he's no longer here to plague the rest of the human race. I know God will forgive you for hating him, because you had good reason." Hmm. That sort of went against the turn the other cheek thing Pastor Smith was always spouting at us. Oh, well. In my opinion, you can only turn so many cheeks, and then it's time for stronger measures. Besides, if those words didn't make her feel better, I didn't know my stuff.
She pulled back slightly, thank God, and sniffled at me. "Do you rea
lly think so?"
"I know so." I sounded a good deal more positive than I felt.
"Really?"
"Yes." Firmly.
"But... but... but what about Mr. Kingston?"
Hmm. Yet another knotty problem. "I, uh, don't really know the man, but he seems quite fond of you. Do you really think he'd fault you for your one... mistake? I mean, if he's a just and kindhearted man, he'll understand."
She looked totally unconvinced. "I don't know about that. Men aren't like women. They'll do any old thing and know a woman will forgive them, but if a woman steps out of line, the entire countryside turns against her. I read about stuff like that all the time in the Saturday Evening Post. A man can be forgiven anything, but let a woman make one mistake, and she's banned forevermore by everyone."
Perhaps she ought to broaden her reading horizons. I didn't tell her that. "Hmm. I truly don't know what to tell you about Mr. Kingston. You know him a lot better than I do. I'm only sorry Mr. Underhill did such a wicked thing to you. I, for one, am glad he's dead." There. I meant it, too.
"Oh, Daisy! Thank you!"
Blast. She recommenced strangling me.
But that didn't last too awfully long, and by the time the two of us walked from the ladies' room to the Fellowship Hall, I'd helped Miss Betsy Powell wash her face, powder her cheeks a tiny bit to remove the major ravages of weeping, and I didn't think either one of us looked precisely like the wrath of God, although I was only guessing about that part.
Chapter 26
Aaaaand, I guessed wrong. As soon as I stepped foot into Fellowship Hall that day, my entire family, Sam, and Dr. Benjamin and his wife ganged up on me. Well, that's only six people, but they felt like a gang.
"You're sick. I can tell," said Sam, always polite and gentlemanly.
I glared at him, but by that time, both Aunt Vi and Ma had a hand to my forehead, each taking opposite sides of me. "You have a fever," declared Aunt Vi and Ma in a duet.
"You're terribly flushed, dear," said Mrs. Benjamin, a worried expression on her face. She turned to her husband. "Dr. Benjamin"—she always called him Dr. Benjamin—"you need to examine Mrs. Majesty. She's clearly ill."
