poor woman hadn’t heard
about Mrs. Chalmers’ death yet. I’d read the obituary in the Los Angeles Times this morning, but
since she’d died on Thursday and I hadn’t discovered her body until
the afternoon, and the police were involved and all, I guess the
news didn’t hit the Saturday paper. Naturally, the obituary hadn’t
mentioned anything about murder. It had only mentioned a “sudden
and untimely” death.
So I decided that, if I couldn’t honestly get
as excited about this Angelica Gospel Hall thing as Mrs. Chalmers
and Mrs. Pinkney, at least I could darned well act. Therefore, I
put on a tragic expression, took hold of Mrs. Pinkney’s arm and
whispered in the most morose tone I could summon, “Oh, my dear, you
haven’t heard?”
Blinking and losing some of her gusto, Mrs.
Pinkney said, “Heard what?”
I glanced around as if to make sure we
weren’t being overheard and then whispered even more morosely,
“Mrs. Chalmers has passed on.”
“P-passed on?” Mrs. Pinkney swallowed.
“Whatever do you mean? I spoke with her on the telephone last
Thursday morning.”
“The very day of her death,” said I in the
voice of doom.
Mrs. Pinkney’s hand flew to her bosom, where
it remained. Her eyes widened, and I felt awful when I saw tears
building in them. “How . . . how did she die?”
After glancing around one last time, I
leaned toward Mrs. Pinkney and muttered, “She was murdered .”
Mrs. Pinkney let out a scream that might have
torn the ceiling off the Angelica Gospel Hall. Then she
fainted.
Chapter Seven
“Oh, dear, I’m so very sorry!” I whispered,
appalled as I stared down at the gentleman who’d rushed over at
Mrs. Pinkney’s blood-curdling scream.
“Whatever in the world happened to her?”
A deacon, or whatever the folks at the
Angelica Gospel Hall called those fellows, was chafing Mrs.
Pinkney’s hands and looking worried. It was he who’d asked the
question, and he looked none too pleased. As for me, I was wishing
frantically that I’d followed my mother’s strict instruction always
to carry a vial of smelling salts with me. Since I’d never fainted
in my life and didn’t intend to begin doing so any time soon, I
hadn’t thought I’d needed to follow her orders on my way to church
that morning. Shows how much I knew.
“I . . . um, I told her that Mrs.
Chalmers—she attended services here, and I guess Mrs. Pinkney knew
her—had passed away. Then she screamed and fainted.” I left out the
part about Mrs. Chalmers having been murdered, which was what had
actually brought on the shriek and the faint. I hoped God would
forgive me for committing the sin of omission in church.
The deacon’s neck nearly snapped when his
head jerked up and he stared at me. “You know Mrs. Chalmers?” He
was a gaunt-looking fellow, and my news didn’t do a thing for his
looks. I felt guilty. “You mean Mrs. Persephone Chalmers?”
There it was again. The Mrs. Persephone
Chalmers thing. I’d wondered ever since I’d met her why Mrs.
Chalmers didn’t call herself Mrs. Franchot Chalmers, Franchot being
her husband’s first name. Not that I’d want to be called Mrs.
Franchot anything at all, but I didn’t think Franchot was any worse
than Persephone. Or Clovilla or Mercedes, for that matter.
However, that is neither here nor there. I
knew to whom he referred, and I nodded unhappily. “Yes. Mrs.
Chalmers was . . .” Should I use the M word? Well, why not? I
doubted this fellow would scream, and if he fainted, he was already
pretty close to the floor. “She was murdered, actually. Last
Thursday. In the late morning or the early afternoon.” I didn’t
know the time of her death yet, but I’d deduced it from Ernie’s
statement.
“Murdered! Surely, you’re mistaken.”
The word had so shaken him, he allowed poor Mrs. Pinkney’s head to
drop onto the tiled floor once more. I winced in sympathy at the
dull thunk , but answered,
annoyed by this fellow’s suggestion
about Mrs. Chalmers’ death yet. I’d read the obituary in the Los Angeles Times this morning, but
since she’d died on Thursday and I hadn’t discovered her body until
the afternoon, and the police were involved and all, I guess the
news didn’t hit the Saturday paper. Naturally, the obituary hadn’t
mentioned anything about murder. It had only mentioned a “sudden
and untimely” death.
So I decided that, if I couldn’t honestly get
as excited about this Angelica Gospel Hall thing as Mrs. Chalmers
and Mrs. Pinkney, at least I could darned well act. Therefore, I
put on a tragic expression, took hold of Mrs. Pinkney’s arm and
whispered in the most morose tone I could summon, “Oh, my dear, you
haven’t heard?”
Blinking and losing some of her gusto, Mrs.
Pinkney said, “Heard what?”
I glanced around as if to make sure we
weren’t being overheard and then whispered even more morosely,
“Mrs. Chalmers has passed on.”
“P-passed on?” Mrs. Pinkney swallowed.
“Whatever do you mean? I spoke with her on the telephone last
Thursday morning.”
“The very day of her death,” said I in the
voice of doom.
Mrs. Pinkney’s hand flew to her bosom, where
it remained. Her eyes widened, and I felt awful when I saw tears
building in them. “How . . . how did she die?”
After glancing around one last time, I
leaned toward Mrs. Pinkney and muttered, “She was murdered .”
Mrs. Pinkney let out a scream that might have
torn the ceiling off the Angelica Gospel Hall. Then she
fainted.
Chapter Seven
“Oh, dear, I’m so very sorry!” I whispered,
appalled as I stared down at the gentleman who’d rushed over at
Mrs. Pinkney’s blood-curdling scream.
“Whatever in the world happened to her?”
A deacon, or whatever the folks at the
Angelica Gospel Hall called those fellows, was chafing Mrs.
Pinkney’s hands and looking worried. It was he who’d asked the
question, and he looked none too pleased. As for me, I was wishing
frantically that I’d followed my mother’s strict instruction always
to carry a vial of smelling salts with me. Since I’d never fainted
in my life and didn’t intend to begin doing so any time soon, I
hadn’t thought I’d needed to follow her orders on my way to church
that morning. Shows how much I knew.
“I . . . um, I told her that Mrs.
Chalmers—she attended services here, and I guess Mrs. Pinkney knew
her—had passed away. Then she screamed and fainted.” I left out the
part about Mrs. Chalmers having been murdered, which was what had
actually brought on the shriek and the faint. I hoped God would
forgive me for committing the sin of omission in church.
The deacon’s neck nearly snapped when his
head jerked up and he stared at me. “You know Mrs. Chalmers?” He
was a gaunt-looking fellow, and my news didn’t do a thing for his
looks. I felt guilty. “You mean Mrs. Persephone Chalmers?”
There it was again. The Mrs. Persephone
Chalmers thing. I’d wondered ever since I’d met her why Mrs.
Chalmers didn’t call herself Mrs. Franchot Chalmers, Franchot being
her husband’s first name. Not that I’d want to be called Mrs.
Franchot anything at all, but I didn’t think Franchot was any worse
than Persephone. Or Clovilla or Mercedes, for that matter.
However, that is neither here nor there. I
knew to whom he referred, and I nodded unhappily. “Yes. Mrs.
Chalmers was . . .” Should I use the M word? Well, why not? I
doubted this fellow would scream, and if he fainted, he was already
pretty close to the floor. “She was murdered, actually. Last
Thursday. In the late morning or the early afternoon.” I didn’t
know the time of her death yet, but I’d deduced it from Ernie’s
statement.
“Murdered! Surely, you’re mistaken.”
The word had so shaken him, he allowed poor Mrs. Pinkney’s head to
drop onto the tiled floor once more. I winced in sympathy at the
dull thunk , but answered,
annoyed by this fellow’s suggestion
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