Unsettled Spirits (13 page)

Not at all shy, I stood to see what had happened to Mr. Underhill.

"Mr. Underhill collapsed," I reported to Lucy.

"Mercy sakes! Another one?"

"Indeed," said I, thinking this was ridiculous. Not that I didn't appreciate excitement as much as the next person, but to have two Communion Sundays in a row disrupted by a falling body was a trifle too much to endure.

"What do you think happened to him?" asked Lucy, pulling the edges of her eyes outward so that she could see better and squinting hard. I thought she'd look better if she just wore her cheaters, but I didn't tell her so.

"I don't know." I suspected poison, but I didn't let on.

But why did someone persist in poisoning the First Methodist-Episcopal Church's congregants on Communion Sunday? I didn't know, but I felt mighty unsettled by the notion. I liked my church, darn it, and I didn't think it was nice of someone to persist in killing its members.

A space had cleared around Mr. Underhill and I heard someone, probably his wife, cry, "Grover!" In the cleared space, I saw Mr. Underhill clutching at his throat and uttering gasping, unintelligible phrases or words. If he were a better-liked man, probably someone would have rushed up to help him, but evidently no one quite dared, which I considered an interesting phenomenon. When Mrs. Franbold fell, everyone except Mr. Underhill had raced to assist her, for all the good it had done.

But there were Sam and Dr. Benjamin. They didn't care how unpopular a man was; if he was in distress, they would try to help him. I saw them both kneel beside the writhing form of Mr. Underhill. Then I saw Mr. Underhill shake all over once and then lie still.

Goodness gracious. What did that mean? Actually, I thought I knew. The man was dead. His was a much more dramatic demise than Mrs. Franbold's had been. Interesting.

I squinted into the sanctuary. The lights were on, but the room was big, and folks had begun crowding around Sam and Doc Benjamin. Was Mr. Underhill's face a pinkish red? One of the books I'd checked into at the library had confirmed my notion that a victim of cyanide poisoning was liable to show a distinct pinkish coloring after death. Perhaps I was imagining the pinkening of Mr. Underhill's skin tone. My imagination takes off on its own quite often.

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 long, 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."