Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “May I quote you—not that you’re not on it, but about how difficult the case is apt to be? All reporters will want something from any policeman who’ll talk to them,” she warned him, scribbling his remarks on the back of a used envelope.

  “Go right ahead, so long as you don’t use my name,” he told her. “Are you going to be free later?”

  “I doubt it. Aunt Esther is arriving at four and I’m supposed to pick her up at the station. We’ll probably have dinner out, assuming her train is on time and we can get to her house before the traffic builds up, and unload her luggage. If the train’s late, I hope that Missus Sassoro has something she can prepare on short notice.” She hated having to speak to him this way; it sounded as if she were trying to avoid him, and she didn’t want him to think that, so she changed the subject. “If you’re not going to be working on the Napier robbery will you be at the briefing today?”

  “Nope,” said Loring. “I’m on stand-by to go to Canada to retrieve Overstreet, and I usually don’t do robbery investigations anyway; that’s Ned Harper’s fiefdom, not mine.” He hesitated. “Speaking of cases, though, there’s another case pending. It’s the one I want to talk to you about. I have a hunch that it’s going to take up more time than I anticipated, and I’m not sure how to evaluate the…ramifications. I’d be much obliged for your help.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” she said half-heartedly, hearing the kind of distant sound in his words that meant he was troubled; she was about to ask more, but frowned as the light above her blinked off and on twice.

  “That’s not the phrase I’d use,” he said, the fatigue back in his tone, and Poppy was sure the distant stare was back in his eyes. He followed her example and changed the subject. “Am I right, that you’re moving tomorrow?”

  “You are. I’ll have tomorrow off—I told you that, didn’t I?—and a couple of hours this afternoon, as well as Sunday. I’ll be unpacking.” Poppy ran through her calendar mentally. “What about Monday? I’d be free for lunch—unless something comes up. If that won’t work, I should know by Sunday what my schedule will be.”

  “Yes. I’ll let you know on Sunday; both of us will have a good tentative agenda by then.” He went quiet.

  “You’ll need Aunt Esther’s number,” she reminded him, debating with herself whether or not he wanted to discuss his perplexing case now; she decided against it. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow, when I’m moving in. I have it in my book at home.” While that was true, she knew the number by heart, but wanted Aunt Esther’s permission before she gave it out.

  “Much appreciated.” He coughed gently. “If something unanticipated arises, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

  “Of course. Things should be a little less hectic next week,” she said, reluctant to hang up.

  “Okay. If you don’t call me Monday, I’ll phone you Tuesday unless I’m in Canada. If I have to go, I’ll try to reach you before I head out.”

  “You can leave a message with Aunt Esther’s housekeeper: her name is Miss Roth, Alexandra Roth.”

  Loring was silent for a second or two; Poppy surmised that he was writing down the name. “I’ll do that. And you can give me the address then, too.” He hesitated. “I’ll cross my fingers for Monday.”

  “I will, too. I’m looking forward to it, and I apologize for having to postpone it. Thanks for the rain-check.” She prepared to hang up. “Good luck with Overstreet.” As she said it, she decided she would ask Holte if he could supply more information about Percy Knott, and a few more bits of information about Miles Overstreet; she was eager to find out anything that might lead her to Stacy, and the satisfaction of seeing him charged with her attempted murder. When she had felt the first stirrings of desire for revenge, she had been shocked, but now she was accustomed to them, and was able to relegate them to the bottom of her mental lists, but had one last thought: it was prudent to move out of Aunt Jo’s house before the investigation of her case heated up again.

  “Thanks, Poppy,” he said, and rang off.

  She sat still for over a minute, wanting to ask Holte what he thought of the conversation, but with six other reporters in the room clacking away at their typewriters, she did not want to seem completely out of her mind; she remained silent, planning to spend some time with Holte later that day, when they could talk in private. Perhaps she would learn more about the mysterious case he had alluded to, including why he felt it needed to be kept secret. With that for consolation, she prepared for her interview with Neva Plowright.

  Holte drifted around the city room just below the ceiling, and found himself curious about what Poppy was going to do in the latter part of the afternoon. He considered his options, and made up his mind to join her in her Hudson when she made the drive to the Moncrief house, where Missus Plowright was staying. For the next half-hour, he watched Poppy jot questions in her notebook, sensing that she was not looking forward to the interview; small wonder, he told himself, since it would be awkward for both women. In the lobby of the Addison Newspaper Corporation building, she stopped to buy a cruller and a cup of coffee, ate both standing up, then wiped her fingers on a dish rag attached to the counter for that purpose; she winced at its well- used state but said nothing to the man behind the counter, who was known to be adverse to suggestions from customers.

  When Poppy left the lobby, she had her large, patent-leather purse under her arm, and the keys to her car in her hand; in her other hand, she carried her brief-case. She walked swiftly to the alley where most of the Clarion’s staff who owned autos parked, all of them with their left- side tires on the narrow walkway in order to leave enough space in the street for vans and trucks to pass. Her Hudson stood out among the predominantly black autos—Fords for the most part—and she took pleasure in getting into it, proud as she was of the auto, and for once glad that she could afford such an obvious luxury. She unlocked the door, slipped inside onto the buff- colored leather front bench, and settled herself behind the wheel.

  “There’s a large van coming up behind you,” Holte said from the rear seat. “He’s not slowing down.”

  “Thanks. I see it in the rear-view mirror,” she responded, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had startled her. She rolled down the window, pressed the starter, adjusted the choke, counted to fifty as the engine warmed up, and engaged the clutch as she released the hand-brake, then put the Hudson into first gear. Gently depressing the accelerator, she pulled on the steering wheel before she thrust her left arm out of the window, held straight, to warn approaching traffic that she was about to come away from the curb just as the van lumbered by her. As soon as it was gone, she pulled out from her parking space and followed the larger vehicle to the corner, turned right, shifted into second gear, and headed toward the Moncrief house, driving carefully through a cluster of delivery vehicles that clogged the street.

  “I haven’t asked—how did you sleep last night?” Holte inquired, paying little attention to the traffic around them.

  “Well enough. I woke up early, and that surprised me. I was afraid I might oversleep, even with the alarm on. Missus Boudon left a plate with a buttered muffin and two sausages, with instructions to put it in the oven at 375 for ten minutes. That would warm it up enough without burning the food, she informed me in the note she provided. I made my own coffee. It was kind of strange to be all alone in the kitchen, except for Maestro, who was complaining of hunger. I gave him a little of the leftover turkey. I guess I’d better get used to it—being alone in the morning. At least I know how to make breakfast for myself.” She slowed down to pass a large delivery wagon laden with a great many burlap sacks and drawn by a quartet of large, seal- brown mules. The nearer on-side lead-mule laid back his ears and brayed when Poppy came abreast of him. “Not very well-mannered, is he?”

  “Mules seldom are,” Holte observed. “Doesn’t your Aunt Esther have a cook?”

  “She does. Missus Sassoro; but with Aunt Esther so often out of town, she has an…irregular sche
dule. I don’t know how Missus Sassoro feels about more fixed hours. I suppose she and I will have to work something out.”

  Once past a wagon pulled by two sweating Percherons, Poppy picked up speed, but kept within the flow of traffic, growing more accustomed to the confusion around her. She was concentrating so intently on her driving that she did not quite hear the next question Holte asked. “Pardon me: what do you want?”

  “I was asking if you were taking Allegheny or Lehigh.” He sounded a bit amused. “I’d think Allegheny will get you to Riverview faster.”

  “I’m not going to Aunt Esther’s until later—remember? I’m on my way to the Moncriefs’ house, to talk to Louise’s sister.” Poppy’s severity of expression astounded Holte. “I haven’t decided how to approach her.”

  “It’s not likely she’ll be forthcoming; you’ll have to deal with her indirectly,” he said. “You might want to mention that this has been a difficult time for you, and for much the same reason that it has for Missus Plowright.”

  “Play on her sympathy, you mean?”

  Holte hesitated before he spoke. “If you want to call it that.”

  “Spy-style?” Poppy suggested, and wished she could take the words back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend that the way it sounded.”

  “I am aware of that,” he said at his most reasonable. “But yes, that was what I was getting at. You’ll learn more if you can avoid a direct confrontation. Let her take the lead, and choose the topics. You can make nudges, conversationally, that should get her to what you want to know.”

  Poppy braked at a new stop sign and watched a large truck laden with huge wheels of cheese and sacks of russet potatoes going across the intersection, followed by a taxi and an Oakland touring-car. When the way was clear, she went on, doing her best to make herself appear calm, in accord with Holte’s suggestion, reminding herself that she would have to ration her energy; this was going to be a long day.

  SIX

  MISSUS HAAS OPENED THE DOOR PROMPTLY IN RESPONSE TO POPPY’S KNOCK. “Good afternoon, Miss Thornton. Missus Plowright is expecting you.” She was dressed in black, and indicated the black wreath above the knocker; she made a dignified nod, as if to show that the household was still officially grieving. “They finally delivered the mourning decorations, two days after Missus Moncrief… left. I’ve had them refreshed once a week ever since, and will for the next two months. No matter what Missus Moncrief has done, her husband is still dead, and I’ll make certain that we mourn him properly.”

  “You’ve done well,” said Poppy, stepping into the beautiful entry-hall of the Moncriefs’ house. There was black bunting over all the doors, and black-silk roses in a lilac vase next to the foot of the stairs. Black bands crossed the fronts of two old portraits. The place had an empty feeling to it, as if more than its owners were gone from it.

  Missus Haas continued her recitation. “There are black ties on the draperies and around the mirrors—at least those downstairs—which will also be kept in place for another two months. Missus Moncrief’s maid—you recall her? Missus Reedley?—has left, which leaves the kitchen understaffed. Missus Plowright will be doing interviews to replace her. The trouble is that this is short-term employment, and it will be difficult to find qualified help for what is likely to be only a few months; those who have applied so far are more interested in the notoriety than the running of the house.” She smiled uncertainly. “I want to thank you for how well you handled your references to me and Missus Reedley in your articles. So considerate and tactful.”

  “I appreciated all your help,” said Poppy, and noticed that Missus Haas was quite pale, and a bit thinner since the last time they had spoken; she could tell that the stress of the summer was weighing on her, so she said, “I’m sure that I’m keeping you from your work. Where is Missus Plowright? I don’t want her to have to wait.”

  With another discreet lowering of her eyes, Missus Haas said, “She’s in the back parlor; I’ll show you the way.”

  “Thank you,” said Poppy, and fell in behind Missus Haas as she went down a shadowed corridor; the walls were lined with paintings and photographs, several with small black bands across them, even the shell-shaped light sconces had black ribbons around their tops. The house was eerily silent, and there was a staleness in the air that could not be banished with open windows.

  “I know I should set out some bouquets to sweeten the place,” said Missus Haas, as if this lack were a serious social gaffe. “But it would look so disrespectful, and that is something I wish to avoid just now, things be as…uncertain as they are.”

  “Very sensible,” Poppy agreed, and stopped behind Missus Haas, who was opening one of the pocket-doors in the corridor that revealed a fairly small but beautiful room, painted in periwinkle-blue, with upholstery and draperies in dull-gold. South-facing windows were sunlit, enlivening the back parlor and setting off three glass-fronted cabinets containing a large collection of Oriental porcelains, each carefully labeled; in spite of herself, Poppy was impressed; it was a gem of a room, and most likely the result of Louise’s attention, who, in her own flighty way, had a deft way with decor.

  Missus Haas stepped into the room, and addressed the woman in a walking-dress of deep- iris: half-mourning. She was seated at a neat, antique secretary, the desk open, and a stack of papers laid out in front of her, but looked up as Missus Haas announced, “Missus Plowright, Miss Thornton is here.”

  “Thank you,” said Neva Plowright, gathering the pages together and setting a carnelian paperweight atop them before closing the front of the desk. That done, she turned around and held out her hand. “Miss Thornton. Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for seeing me,” said Poppy, advancing and shaking Missus Plowwright’s hand.

  “I’m aware that this could be awkward for you,” Missus Plowright said, gesturing to an overstuffed settee that stood at right angles to the window. “Missus Haas will bring us tea shortly.”

  “It may be awkward for us both,” said Poppy as she went to sit down. “Let me say that although my cousin may have run off with your sister, and that both of them remain unaccounted for, there are larger issues here, and those are the ones I believe we should address. We’ll have to touch on Louise and Stacy, but the greater interest will focus on your brother-in-law’s murder, as well as that of Percy Knott, and the impact these tragedies have had and are having upon you and your family.”

  Neva Plowright managed a weary smile, and left her chair at the secretary to occupy the grandmother chair next to the occasional table across from the settee. “It hasn’t been an easy time.”

  “For any of us.” Poppy took her notebook and pencil from her large purse. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take notes.”

  Neva Plowright made an automatic smile. “Go right ahead. I must admit that I am glad to have a break from gathering up information for the probate court.”

  “I’ll be ready in a minute.” While this was accurate, Poppy already knew what she wanted to ask, but she needed a little time to get a sense of what sort of person Louise’s sister was, having never before had a private conversation with her. Looking at Neva Plowright, Poppy made a swift mental comparison of the two sisters: where Louise was pale-blonde, fey, and willowy, mercurial in temperament, and deliberately beautiful, Neva was more sturdily built, her dark-blonde hair in ordered waves, fashionable but not excessively stylish. Her features were less lovely than her sister’s, but she was attractive in a way that had been in fashion twenty years ago. She was blessed with a disciplined manner and the demeanor of someone who would always make the effort to comport herself with dignity. Unlike Louise, Neva wore little make-up, and only a hint of violet scent. There was no suggestion of the flirtatious about her, nor any tinge of questionable conduct. No one would ever call Neva Plowright a madcap or a minx, as had often been the case with Louise. Poppy opened her notebook to an unused page and said, “I’d like to know a little about how things have been in the last month or so. I understand t
here have been some difficulties with Mister Moncrief’s will.”

  “Yes, there have been, unfortunately.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Madison’s attorney has been held up in discussions with Hadley and Grimes, who is claiming that Madison was part of what appears to have been a conspiracy to defraud their clients whose accounts were in his—Madison’s—hands, which is blatantly untrue. There has been a threat from Hadley and Grimes to sue his estate for damages. He was rich enough to bear a reasonable settlement, if it comes to that, but I would be remiss in my duties if I failed to assist Madison’s attorney in nipping that idea in the bud. Until this is straightened out, the whole estate will be in limbo.”

  “I’ve been aware of that.” Poppy scribbled a few words and asked, “Has there been any progress in resolving the issues?”

  “Not that I am aware of, but I am expecting to have a conference with my attorney as well as Madison’s, and the representatives of Hadley and Grimes, before I return to Baltimore, very likely sometime next week. This has taken much longer than I first expected. When Louise left, I thought she would be gone for a month or so, to recover from the shock of Madison’s death, but—” She unlocked her hands and attempted to smile. “I have been hoping to have some news of Louise; I’ve had nothing so far, and that is exacerbating the delays in settling the estate. I don’t know how she wants me to proceed; I hope that my guesses will not be too far off the mark, when and if she conveys her wishes to me.”

  “That is a problem,” Poppy said, a little taken aback that Missus Plowright, after indicating that she did not want to discuss her sister’s affairs, should be so eager to bring Louise’s highly irregular fortunes into their discourse.

  “Shortly after she left,” Missus Plowright went on as if she had not heard Poppy, “there was a new washing machine delivered to the house. Missus Haas said that Louise had ordered it before she departed for her unknown destination. But what am I to do with it? I have no authorization to sell the house or its contents at this time, and may not have it after the will is read. Both my sister and Madison had said they wanted me to be the executrix of their wills, but I have no idea if they got around to revising their wills to reflect this desire, let alone designating me officially, or providing me with instructions as to how to—” She stopped abruptly, her thoughts unfinished. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring any of this up.”