AIMEE AND AGATHA: THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR OF THE DISAPPEARING WOMEN
By: Aviva Rosenthal
Tags: Mystery, Aimee Semple Mcpherson, Agatha Christie, Feminism, Justice

You wouldn’t think to put them together, the explosive Pentecostal preacher with a penchant for spectacle, and the publicity-shy English writer whose main religious concern was bodies found in vicarages. They never met. Yet the two were born only three weeks apart, emerging from fiery trials at 36 to command their fate, and though separated by an ocean and a continent, stood as reassuring bulwarks against the fear and chaos of the 20th century, to rally the world with their message: let justice roll down like water, and righteousness like a mighty stream. Life wasn’t fair, they’d been told, and their response was to make it more so.

In fires, earthquakes and poverty, Aimee was there for the people of LA. When Mulholland’s badly built San Francisquito Dam burst in 1928, flooding 400 Angelenos out to their death at sea, the Red Cross showed up on the beach to find Aimee and her congregation already handing out food, first aid and blankets. Through the desperation of the Depression, the terror of WWII, she stood firm for them. And she was alone, by then. She never remarried. Minnie left the church, along with several members. Roberta had followed, estranged. There were lawsuits. To most of the city in later years she was a has-been, a punchline from the 20’s.

DA Asa Keyes was indicted for taking bribes in 1928, and died shortly after his five-year prison sentence. Bob Schuler softened after the FCC revoked his license in 1931, acknowledging all the good she had done. Her hard work with the church continued, and she had fun with it; reaching out to her public through film and radio, bobbing her hair, hobnobbing with celebrities, traveling and testifying abroad. Apparently she and Gandhi got on like a house on fire.

Meanwhile, Agatha moved out of Styles, returning to her childhood home at Ashfield. Madge and Carlo stuck by her, and she found a new energy in life as in work, turning out two books a year: 74 mystery novels, 28 story collections, 16 plays, six books of poetry and two memoirs. By the 50’s, she’d outsold everyone but Shakespeare and the Bible, but appeared to be unconscious of all the kerfuffle, giving her grandson the rights to her new play for his birthday with the apology that ‘it probably won’t last for more than six performances.’ ‘The Mousetrap’ has grossed an average of five million pounds annually since 1952, and is still running.

She had money now, and could travel, unfettered by Archie and his bitter demands. On an excursion to Ur, archaeologist Max Mallowan was grumbling over having to babysit some writer he’d never read, who’d probably need all sorts of special treatment. Well? Where is Lady Muck, anyway? Under the car, he was told. Poked his head down to find Agatha Christie on the sand, relaxing in the shade. Hullo, he said. Hullo, said she. A year later they were married, despite his being 14 years younger and Agatha’s repeated protests that he was just a friend. Turns out a friend was just what she needed.

They lived happily ever after — and that year, she started writing about a new sleuth. A dithering old lady forever losing her yarn, mind like a steel trap behind those mild blue eyes. No one takes her seriously, until she rises like Nemesis to defeat even the cleverest and most diabolical of villains. Miss Marple, like Poirot, had a soft spot for vulnerable girls in service, but everyone else was seared by her wrath: aristocratic families who used money to bully each other, pompous ex-military men, bad actors, beatniks, vulgar foreigners, those people in the ugly new houses. Not much could be done about them, really — but she would not stand for evil.

When Curtain was published in 1975, we knew it couldn’t be long. It had been kept in a vault since WWII; Agatha was sure she’d be killed in the Blitz, and wasn’t about to miss her chance to bump off Poirot. She passed away of natural causes only a few months later, in the quiet of her home, having outlived Archie by 14 years. Her estate was valued at 90 million dollars, most of which went to her family. She is buried at St. Mary’s. Miss Marple continues to abide.

Aimee headed up to Oakland in September of 1944 for a series of revivals. The first went very well indeed; she was so excited she had trouble sleeping that night, and took some Seconal. She called a doctor near dawn, fearing she’d taken too many. In surgery, he referred her to another doctor, who referred her to another. She never made the third call. Rolf found her unconscious the next morning, and she died an hour later.

Her body lay in state at the Foursquare Church for three days as thousands of Angelenos mourned their champion, the fearless farm girl from Ontario. She is buried at Forest Lawn. Rolf assumed control of the church, which continues to attract followers worldwide. Aimee had taken Pentecostalism from a fringe sect to a global religion, but no one could really replace her; Billy Graham showed up five years later, every bit as good at making connections and soliciting donations — just not quite as good at redistributing them. Considering the millions of dollars that had streamed through the Church, and the shameless greed of mega-churches past and present, you’d expect Sister’s bank account to be bulging, but no.

Her entire worldly estate came to ten thousand dollars. And, of course, a tambourine.