Poppy had put on a dinner-dress of ochre linen; its simple V-neck and dropped waist were fashionable enough, but almost casual; Aunt Esther might not mind it, but Aunt Jo most certainly would; she would need something grander for Friday. Poppy smiled. “You want to check them out, do you? Lowenthal and Loring?” She cocked her head. “It could be a nice way to mark the transition. But if you’re going to invite Aunt Jo, you should probably include Hank and Cecily—they’ll be here until the sixteenth—and one or two of her other friends, or she’ll have to stay away. You know what she’s like.”
“Sadly, I do know. Yet I’d love to see Hank, and meet his new wife. I’ve liked him since he was in short-pants. I hope he hasn’t turned out like Tobias has.” Aunt Jo paused. “Your brother was such an engaging child, and he’s damned impossible now.”
“So he is,” said Poppy sadly, unshocked by her aunt’s language.
“Then we shan’t invite him to the party. He’s become such a stuffed shirt, he probably wouldn’t enjoy it, anyway.” Aunt Esther nodded, and took another sip of cognac as if to summon up her courage. “Would you mind if I included Benedict Stephanson among the guests? He’s a very old friend.”
“It’s your party and your house,” said Poppy. “If you want Judge Stephanson here, by all means, invite him. I won’t protest.”
“You may, if you like. The party is mostly for you, and that gives you veto power.” She turned toward the door as Miss Roth approached. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, not exactly. Mister Hawkins is here. He has something for Miss Poppy.” Miss Roth’s face revealed nothing as to what that might be.
“I must have forgotten something at Aunt Jo’s,” Poppy said, feeling apologetic. “I’ll just go get it.” She put her glass aside and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me?”
“Go on,” said Aunt Esther. “Thank you, Miss Roth,” she added.
Miss Roth fell in next to Poppy as she left the parlor. “The side entrance, Miss Poppy.”
“Thank you,” said Poppy, and turned toward the sitting room reserved for the staff; there was a door between that and the kitchen, which led out into the kitchen-garden.
Standing just inside it, Hawkins held a large cardboard box with small holes cut into it in his arms; a battery of loud feline complaints came from inside it. “Miss Thornton,” he said unhappily.
Poppy stared. “Ye gods! Is that—”
“—the cat?” he finished for her. “Yes. Missus Dritchner says you had better take him; he’s done nothing but scratch and yowl since you left.” He held out the box. “I have his sand in the auto.”
Miss Roth stood very still, her face impassive. “Do you want me to take…it up to your room, Miss Poppy?”
Recovering herself a little, Poppy shook her head. “I’d better do it. Maestro doesn’t know you, and he’s…in a strange place.” She grabbed the box. “If you’ll tell Mister Hawkins where you want to put Maestro’s sand? I’d recommend the upstairs bathroom, but my aunt might prefer a different arrangement.” She could feel Maestro shift inside the box, and caught a glimpse of a black nose thrust up to one of the small holes. “I’ll close the door at the top of the stairs, to keep him confined until he’s used to the place.”
“Thank you, Miss Thornton. I’ll just go get his bag of sand,” said Hawkins, and opened the door to step outside.
“I’ll tend to this,” Miss Roth said to Poppy. “If you will take the…” she faltered, trying to decide what to call the cat.
“His name is Maestro. He is a former tom, so you needn’t worry about his behavior too much.” That was not quite candid, and she knew it, but she would explain about the cat’s temperament later. “I’ll take him up now, and get a bowl of milk for him before my aunt and I sit down to dinner, if you’ll ask Missus Sassoro to get it ready for him.”
“Very good, Miss Poppy.” Miss Roth turned her attention to the garden door.
Satisfied that the competent Miss Roth would handle matters, Poppy made for the stairs, listening to Maestro’s proclaiming his displeasure. “What on earth am I to do with you, Maestro?” she asked as she hurried up the stairs. As she reached the top, she hooked the door with her foot and jerked it closed behind her. “You’ll have to stay up here for a day or two,” she informed Maestro as she set the box on the hallway runner and opened the top.
Maestro laid back his ears and hissed fulsomely, his baleful stare directed at a dim spot in the air hovering in the open door of Poppy’s bedroom.
“Hello, cat,” said Chesterton Holte as Maestro slid out of the box and made for the safety under Poppy’s bed.
“Why did Aunt Jo send him over?” Poppy asked Holte.
“Revenge?” Holte suggested mischievously.
Poppy resisted the urge to make a sharp rejoinder. “I believe you two can amuse each other while I go back to the parlor,” she said with exaggerated courtesy. “I’ll make sure he has—”
“—a bowl of milk in a short while,” Holte said, drifting upward.
“Yes; I thought you were listening,” said Poppy, and opened the door at the top of the stairs. “Don’t bedevil the cat while I’m gone.”
“That will depend on the cat more than me,” Holte remarked as Poppy started down the stairs after making certain that the door was fully closed.
“So now you have Jo’s cat,” Aunt Esther said by way of greeting as Poppy came back into the parlor. “Miss Roth told me.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Poppy. “Or Miss Roth, for that matter. He’s not such a bad creature.”
“If you want him, there’s no reason you can’t keep him, so far as I’m concerned. After all, I’ll be gone in a few weeks, and you’ll have the house to yourself until after New Year’s, and the cat will provide you a little company while I’m boating up the Amazon, not that I expect you to live like a hermit.” She chuckled. “He’s not much of a chaperon, is he? But you’re twenty-five now, aren’t you? So that shouldn’t be an issue.”
“Born May 27th, 1899, so I turned twenty-five this year,” Poppy said, trying to contain her chagrin.
“Yes; I remember. Oliver was beside himself with delight.” Esther sounded a bit wistful, but did not belabor it. “Don’t let me become maudlin about his death, will you?”
“Not if you don’t want to.” Poppy sat down, picked up her glass, and drank down the last bit of cognac. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
“I asked Miss Roth to have Missus Sassoro gather up some scraps of lamb for…him?”
“Thanks. Yes; him. Maestro will be glad of something to eat,” said Poppy. “I’ll keep him upstairs for a week or so; that way he won’t be underfoot at the party.”
“That’s probably wise,” Aunt Esther said. “And speaking of the party, how many guests would you like to have?”
“For a buffet? You know better than I how many can be in this house without crowding, and what your staff can accommodate. What would you like?”
“I’ve been thinking about that while you were dealing with…Maestro.” Aunt Esther gave a decisive nod. “Shall we say twenty guests or so? Perhaps a few more, making allowances for spouses. Missus Sassoro will have an opportunity to shine; she doesn’t get that very often with me. I’ll ask her to arrange for more help for the party so she won’t have to pay attention to anything more than cooking. Miss Roth can work out the plans in the next day or two. I’ll have Galliard get in touch with Enrico Ruscelli, to arrange for the wine and booze; he’s Galliard’s usual legger. Supposed to have premium goods.”
“Italian?” Poppy guessed from the name.
“Second generation American, but with many relatives back in Genoa, so he has access to all the French wines and spirits as well as the Italian ones.” Esther tapped the bottle of cognac. “This is some of what he imports; I think you’d agree it’s top quality.”
“It is good,” Poppy agreed. “You said a buffet—how extensive will it be?”
“I’ll have to speak to Missus Sassoro about it. She
understands these things better than I, and she’ll be able to supply a good number of side- dishes and a great deal of finger-food; no one need go hungry. I won’t have to concern myself with them, but we don’t want it to look shabby. I think a crown roast of pork might be nice, and perhaps a rack of lamb. I’m fond of lamb.” She paused and made a face. “I’ve had camel, in the Middle East, which I don’t like, and dog in Manchuria, which bothers me—it has nothing to do with the taste or texture; it’s the idea of dog that I dislike.”
“Then let’s not have any,” Poppy said, and saw her aunt smile.
“I’ll let you know what Missus Sassoro recommends,” said Aunt Esther.
“Will you invite anyone from the National Geographic Society?” Poppy asked, trying to imagine how large an event Aunt Esther really had in mind.
“I suppose I should. It will make for an interesting mix, don’t you think? Elliott Wickman ought to be invited, and Professor Timms; he’ll bring that dreadful wife of his, but it can’t be helped.” She shot another disapproving look at the flickering lamp. “I suppose I’ll have to have that repaired.”
“Shall I screw the bulb in more tightly?” Poppy offered.
Aunt Esther’s frown remained in place. “I’ll ask Miss Roth to replace the bulb.”
Poppy resisted the urge to apologize for Chesterton Holte’s usual disruption of electric light, not wanting to broach the subject of his haunting. “It may be the weather; the evening is fairly humid.”
The light stuttered again.
“So it is,” Aunt Esther agreed, eyeing the lamp with suspicion. “But I don’t want the light going out during the party. I’ll ask Miss Roth to get a new bulb for it. And something brighter for the porch-light; it’s as gloomy as an abandoned tomb with the one we have now.” She took a long sip of cognac, her intense stare indicating she was lost in thought. Then her gaze shifted to the appetizers on the china plate. “Have another canapé. Dinner won’t be served for twenty minutes at least, and with all you’ve been doing today, you must be famished.”
Obediently Poppy reached for another of the lamb-filled pastry shells. “These are very good. I don’t think I’ve had anything like them before.”
“I got the recipe in Greece, on my way toward the Soviet Union. It was easier to come in through the southern route than from central Europe, and I did my best to make the most of it.” Aunt Esther grinned at the memory. “I collected about a dozen new dishes on the trip. I think I may have Missus Sassoro make the cheese fritters that the Greeks offer with bread in the evening. They serve it all with some devilish twice-distilled plum brandy that they pour for their guests as a welcoming libation, which they offer along with a saucer of salt and a pinch of bread.”
“Are all your new recipes Greek?” Poppy inquired, fairly certain that Aunt Esther would enjoy telling her about her most recent journey; she bit the lamb and pastry-shell in two, chewing discreetly.
“Four of them are. The rest are from farther east, and not just the usual fare from those places. I came upon some interesting dishes in the Caspian region: there’s a very nice pork roast stuffed with onions and figs and mushrooms; they slather almond-butter all over it before it’s roasted, to keep the meat from drying out. They serve it with cracked wheat or rice seasoned with garlic and coriander. And I have a salmon dish from Siberia.”
The combination of flavors for the pork was unfamiliar to Poppy, but she said, “That might be a good choice for Friday. And it might be wise to have some fish. Perhaps your Siberian salmon?”
But Aunt Esther shook her head. “We don’t have easy access to the spices for that one; Missus Sassoro will have to go into New York City, to where the Russians have their groceries. Don’t worry. Missus Sassoro does a nice baked cod in cheese sauce with tarragon.” Aunt Esther said. “It ought to please the more serious Christians among us.”
Poppy was startled to hear Aunt Esther speak so nonchalantly about the religious observances of many of their friends and family. “You can’t not have fish on Friday, Aunt Esther,” she said.
Aunt Esther tasted her cognac. “That’s the trouble with my travels,” she said as if admitting to improper behavior. “Not everyone everywhere conducts their religions as many of us do here. I get out of the habit of fish on Friday for High Church Episcopalians and the occasional Catholics I entertain. It’s good of you to remind me.”
“Missus Sassoro would speak up if I said nothing.” Poppy said, all the while thinking of the number of dining traditions Aunt Esther must have encountered on her journeys: that was another possibility for an article for the Clarion.
“She most certainly would, good Catholic that she is.” Aunt Esther had more of the lamb appetizers, licking her fingers rather than using the linen napkin Miss Roth had provided for her use. They sat in companionable silence while they finished up the lamb canapés, then spent the next ten minutes talking about Aunt Esther’s next trip, and were still discussing it when Miss Roth announced that dinner was served; they went to the dining room and sat down to a meal that began with Scottish soup, then roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and asparagus with mayonnaise, finished off with a vanilla custard. When they got up from the table, Aunt Esther announced her intention to retire for the night.
“You may do as you wish,” she told Poppy, “but I know you’ll be up early, and you’ve had a busy day.”
“You’re right—I’m tired. Will I see you in the morning?” Poppy stifled a yawn and started toward the stairs.
Aunt Esther shrugged. “Perhaps. I may sleep in.”
Since Aunt Esther said nothing more, Poppy said, “Well, good night, then.”
“Yes,” said Esther, going toward the corridor to the rear of the house where she had her bedroom and study. “Good night.”
NINE
BY NOON THE FOLLOWING DAY POPPY WAS ON HER WAY TO A LUNCH WITH Inspector Loring, bound for the Blind Pig Grill, which was half-way between Loring’s precinct station and the Addison Newspaper Corporation building; the place had been a compromise, hurriedly agreed upon when Loring had phoned her an hour ago, requesting her to join him without more explanation than that. Poppy drove through the streets, half-listening to Chesterton Holte, whose voice came from the back seat, relating something he had learned in the dimension of ghosts the night before.
“—and Percy Knott remembers that he had a phone call the night he was killed, one from your cousin. About authenticating an antique.”
“You’ve said something about this already,” Poppy reminded him, as she turned left toward the old Franklin Building. “And it was about the dispute between Warren and Stacy, wasn’t it?”
“From what Knott is remembering, it probably was.” It was a careful answer. “His memory is far from complete.”
There was a blast of horns a short way ahead; Poppy slowed down. “Do you have any idea why Stacy would be telling Knott anything about his business with Warren Derrington? He usually plays his cards close to the chest.”
Holte gave a grim laugh. “Knott thinks that perhaps it didn’t actually have anything to do with business; Knott now thinks it is likely that Stacy was setting him up to be murdered. He is fairly certain that Stacy was worried about their importing business, and wanted Knott taken out of the picture. By Derrington, probably, but possibly Stacy. It may sound a bit convoluted, but at least Knott is remembering, bit by bit. The actual murder is very hard to recall, for all of us.”
“Stacy killed him?” Poppy repeated, to be sure she had heard Holte clearly above the blare of the traffic that was occasionally pierced by a loud shrill of a police whistle; she disliked the idea that her cousin was willing to kill, because that would confirm that he had intended to do away with Poppy when he had locked her in the room in the Mayes Brothers’ basement warehouse, an idea she still disliked thinking about. “What reason would Stacy have to murder Knott?”
Holte had a ready answer, “What reason did Stacy have to attempt to kill you?”
Poppy swallowed aga
inst the sudden tightness in her throat. “I don’t know, and I’ve thought about it many times.”
“Hardly surprising,” said Holte.
“All right; giving Knott the benefit of the doubt, is he certain that it was Stacy who called him?”
“That’s what he said. He’s not completely positive, but he thinks it’s probable—it’s Stacy or Derrington, and he’s inclined to think it was Stacy, and not simply because of the phone call. He told me that he now believes that at the time he had assumed that the bad blood between your cousin and Warren Derrington had somehow been resolved, and that they were planning to continue in their business venture together. At least, that’s the way he recalls at present; he knows he might have got it wrong, which is why he wants to confront Derrington, to see if any of this can be confirmed, but hasn’t been able to locate him.”
“But ghosts often forget things, don’t they,” Poppy said. “You told me that.”
“True enough, but they often remember, as well, given time, and at present, it isn’t helpful to have to wait; I’m aware of that,” Holte said, and added, “I didn’t remember that I had been the cause of your father’s death until I’d been in the dimension of ghosts for almost five years, more or less, time being—”
“—less well-defined than it is when you are corporeal,” Poppy said, a bit impatiently as she double-clutched into second gear.
“Yes; it takes time to accustom oneself to being noncorporeal, and five years is not an unusually long time to do that, all things considered. I didn’t remember a lot of things about my life and death until about five years had passed. Then it came back to me—even the parts I would rather have forgot.” A suggestion of an outline of a tall, lean man glimmered in her rear- view mirror.
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 10
