Unsettled Spirits Read Free Page A

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