Unsettled Spirits (5 page)

"Good question," muttered Sam.

"I suspect because the party is being held as a benefit for the Pasadena Humane Society, and the Humane Society cares for dogs and cats that need help. I read in the
Star News
a couple of weeks ago that they've even taken in desert tortoises and a goat once and a couple of sheep and a parrot." I eyed Sam speculatively. "If Mrs. P invites you, you ought to come in an ape costume."

"Thanks," grumbled Sam.

"Maybe someone will show up in a skunk costume," said Pa.

"Joe!" said my mother, giving him the evil eye instead of giving it to me for once.

"It'll be interesting to see the costumes, at all odds. I'm looking forward to it."

"And you'll do what? Read tarot cards?" asked Vi. "Mrs. Pinkerton admires you so much, I'm surprised she asked you to work at such a... I don't know. It just sounds undignified to me."

"Well, at least I won't be the only one who looks undignified. Heck, I get to dress up as a human being anyway. I always dress as a Gypsy for these sorts of things. Mrs. P isn't the only one who asks me to perform at charity events."

"Why don't you have to dress as a hippo or an elephant or something?" asked Sam.

"Because
I
will be manning—or womanning, I suppose—the fortune-telling tent." I shot him a good glare. "And don't you
dare
tell me fortune-telling is illegal, Sam Rotondo. This is for a good cause, and I won't be making money telling fortunes."

"But you'll be making money," he said.

I squinted at him from across the table. "Mrs. Pinkerton will be paying me to play a role, Sam Rotondo. I've
never
told fortunes!"

He had the gall to laugh at me!

"I just love to wind you up and watch you tear into me," he said.

Everyone laughed. Except me. Blasted man. And he wanted me to marry him? Well, we'd just see about that.

Chapter 4

Mrs. Franbold's funeral was scheduled for Friday at ten a.m. at Morningside Cemetery. Pastor Smith told us choir members that Mrs. Franbold's family didn't want a big, fancy funeral service at the church, but rather a more sedate service at the cemetery itself. We choir members practiced the hymn, "Abide with Me," to sing at the gravesite. Nice hymn, if kind of boring. Don't tell anyone I said that, please.

The timing was all right by me, although it meant neither Ma nor Aunt Vi could attend, since they both had to work during the day. I drove Pa in our Chevrolet, and wasn't surprised to see Sam's big, black Hudson parked near the gravesite. When he saw me parking the auto, he walked over to open my door for me. He let Pa fend for himself.

"You here in an official capacity?" I asked, hoping to get the scoop about whether or not Mrs. Franbold had been poisoned.

"Sort of," he said.

"Very informative," I muttered as I straightened my skirt and prepared to walk to the gravesite, which was conspicuous because a blue tent had been erected over it, although I didn't know long it would last, as a fierce wind howled that cold January day.

"Don't pick on Sam," my father said with a chuckle. "He was there when the poor woman died, don't forget."

"Yes, and it wasn't pleasant," said Sam.

I peered up at him, squinting because the sun shone brightly that day in spite of the frigid wind. "I thought you were used to dead people by this time."

"I'm not accustomed to people dropping dead at my feet," he said, sounding grumpy.

"She didn't drop dead at your feet. She dropped dead at Mr. Underhill's feet, and he didn't even have the grace to catch her, but let her fall, plunk, right onto the floor. You had to walk clear across the sanctuary to get to her body."

"Yeah, well, Doc Benjamin and I are about the only two in that congregation who know what to do when a person collapses like that."

"Hmm. I guess so. So that's why you're here, right? To scope out the crowd and decided who did her in?"

"Good God," muttered Sam.

"But..."

"Leave Sam alone, Daisy," said Pa. "He has his job to do, just as you have yours."

"Aha! So you
are
here in an official capacity!"

"Partially." Sam took my gloved hand, put it on his bent elbow, and he and Pa and I walked to the flapping blue tent. "We still don't know what caused the poor woman's death."

"Oh." Don't ask me why, but I was disappointed. I mean, I truly didn't want to think that anyone would murder poor old Mrs. Franbold, but a natural death was so boring compared to murder.

"Disappointed, aren't you?" said Sam. He knew me so well.

"Of course not," I lied. Then I changed the subject. "There are lots of people here," I said, gazing at a crowd that was larger than I'd anticipated, the weather being what it was. "Are all these folks related to Mrs. Franbold?"

Sam nodded at a cluster of three people, two women and a man, all of whom appeared upset and miserable. "Those are her children. The kids on the folding chairs are her grandchildren." I was surprised to see a row of gloomy-looking young adult men and women, one of whom dangled a baby on her lap. Mrs. Franbold must have been older than I'd thought.

"Oh, my. I didn't even know she had children and grandchildren. I'm sorry for them."

"Yeah. They were caught by surprise by their mother's sudden death."

"So you
do
think she was poisoned?"

Sam hesitated for so long, I was sure he wouldn't answer my question, but he surprised me. "Not sure. An autopsy was performed, and there were indefinite signs of some kind of alien substance in her stomach, but doctors don't have test results back." He shrugged. "We may never know for sure, although Doc Benjamin suspects that if anything deadly was used on purpose, it was probably cyanide."

"Cyanide! But she must have been poisoned if there was cyanine in her system."

"Not necessarily," said Sam. "Lots of things, including apple seeds and apricot pits, contain various poisons."

"Piffle. She wouldn't have been munching on apricot pits," I said, feeling my brow crease. Instantly I smoothed it out. Nobody wanted to hire a wrinkly spiritualist.

"No, but it's also contained in almonds and other things. If she inhaled it—and don't ask me how she could have done it, because I don't know—it might have killed her almost instantly. But we just don't know at this point."

"Don't people who are poisoned by cyanide have a pinkish cast to their skin?" I asked.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Not always."

"Hmm. Too bad." It was then I spotted Betsy Powell, clad all in black, sobbing into a black handkerchief. Mr. Gerald Kingston held her arm, trying against major odds to bring her comfort. Big help she was going to be during the hymn, not that she had to sing. That was the choir's job. "Has anyone figured out why Miss Powell was so upset by Mrs. Franbold's death and the prospect of her having been poisoned?"

"No," Sam snapped.

I sighed.

Pa chuckled.

But by that time we were at the gravesite. Pastor Smith nodded graciously at us, and, because I'm not merely a good spiritualist-medium, but am also a friendly person, I walked to Mrs. Franbold's children, who gazed at my approach with varying degrees of unhappiness.

"Good morning," said I, which it clearly wasn't for this group. But tradition holds with such inane comments. "I'm Mrs. Majesty, and I knew your mother from church. I'm so very sorry for your loss." I held out a hand, not aiming for any one of Mrs. Franbold's children specifically. A tall, gaunt woman in what looked like an expensive fur coat, took my proffered hand.

"How kind of you to come, Mrs. Majesty. Mother spoke of you often. I'm Vivian Daltry. My mother, my children, and I saw you in the recent production of
The Mikado
at the church. I must say you made an excellent Katisha."

Well, glory be! I had no idea Mrs. Franbold had brought her daughter and grandchildren to see
The Mikado
. I think I was flattered. "Thank you. It was an... interesting experience, singing in an operetta."

"I'd have been scared to death," said Mrs. Daltry.

"I was, at first. I'd never sung solo before, but it was fun after a while," I told her.

"Yes, I heard there were some... problems unrelated to the production that had to be solved."

"Indeed." And that was putting it mildly. "But I wanted you to know how much I liked Mrs. Franbold, and I'm awfully sorry she was taken from you so suddenly." I figured that might give them the opportunity to tell me if she'd been sick.

No such luck.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Daltry, letting go of my hand and bringing a white hankie to her eyes. "It was a terrible shock. I don't think she ever suffered a sick day in her life. And then, poof! She was gone, just like that." After sniffling and wiping her eyes, she said, "Please let me introduce you to my sister, Katherine—Katherine Peterson—and my brother, Charles Franbold."

"How do you do?" said Charles, taking my hand briefly and shaking it.

Katherine shook my hand, too, but she seemed too upset to speak. Her nose was red and her eyes continued to leak. As soon as she released my hand, she wiped both nose and eyes with a damp hankie.

Very well, it seemed to me that if someone had indeed done in Mrs. Franbold on purpose, her children didn't appear to be, on the surface anyway, the likely culprits. I'd take my oath all three were genuinely grieved.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets against the cold, Charles said, "I guess it wasn't exactly unexpected, although she never showed any signs of illness or weakness. She was eighty-seven years old, after all." He gestured to his two sisters. "Heck, we're all in our fifties, and my daughter has a daughter of her own." He gestured to the seated bunch of young adults. I noticed a man standing behind the woman with the baby. He seemed to be staring at the little girl with doting eyes. I got all misty for a moment.

"Charles," said Katherine, at last finding her voice and jarring me back to attention. "There's no need to announce our ages. I'm sure Mrs. Majesty isn't interested."

Actually, I was, but I didn't say so. Instead, I said, "I guess she led long and full life. Still, it's a shock when someone suddenly... well, dies like that. And in church. It was quite distressing to the entire congregation."

"I can imagine," muttered Charles.

"And it happened during the communion service?" said Vivian, making the statement a question.

"Yes. I fear Miss Powell, who was assisting with communion that day, was quite unsettled by your mother falling over like that. Miss Powell dropped the tray she'd been holding, and communion grape juice went everywhere."

"Oh, dear, did they ever get the stains out? Grape juice leaves such an awful stain." Vivian again. A practical woman, she.

"My aunt suggested we try peroxide on the stains, and that seems to have done the trick fairly well. At choir practice last night, I checked the carpet. You could barely see a stain left."

"Hmph," said Charles. "I hope they tested the carpet."

Both of his sisters turned to stare at him. He frowned at them. "I don't care what you think. Mother might have been old, but she was in perfect health."

"Yes," said Vivian as if she'd heard it all before. "You believe Mother was poisoned. But who would do such a thing to her, of all people? She was a wonderful woman." After sniffling once more, she turned to me and said, "Can you think of a single soul who would want our mother dead, Mrs. Majesty?"

"No, I certainly can't. From what I knew of her, she was a kind and well-loved woman."

Katherine sobbed into her hankie, and Vivian blew her nose. Charles just stood there, looking gloomy.

"Well, I don't want to take your time. I only wanted to offer my condolences," I said and turned to go. Vivian stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. My shoulder, by the way, was draped in a black velveteen cloak, which was not merely fashionable, but which kept me almost toasty on that cold, windy day.

"Wait, Mrs. Majesty. Mother told us you are a well-respected spiritualist-medium. Is that correct?" asked Vivian.

"Er, yes, I am." I tried to look modest. "At least my clients seem to be happy with my services."

"Do you think you could perform a séance for us? To see if we can get in touch with Mother?"