Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Speaking of the time, when does Missus Sassoro arrive?”

  “Quarter to seven. Her husband drops her off on his way to work and picks her up at eight-thirty. Tonight it will be later, of course; closer to eleven or midnight is my guess, or maybe later, and she won’t be expected back until noon tomorrow. Why so curious?” She went to remove the toast and to turn off the toaster.

  “I’m just trying to get the rhythm of this place,” said Holte.

  “Um,” she said, busying herself with spreading butter on her toast.

  “And Aunt Esther? When does she rise?”

  “You are being nosy,” Poppy said by way of rebuke before answering him. “She’s usually up a little before seven. Is this more rhythm?”

  “Yes, in part,” said Holte.

  “The schedules are less fixed here than they were at Aunt Jo’s; you’ll find the household beat a syncopated one, I’m afraid,” Poppy said as she picked up her coffee mug and went to open the pocket-doors. “I’m not going to bother to raise the blinds,” she informed him as she turned on the light in the ceiling of the small room that was dominated by a large, oval table with six chairs set around it, and with a sugar-bowl and salt and pepper shakers in its center. There was a narrow cupboard angled into one corner, and a painting of Guernsey cows grazing in a field on one wall. Poppy pulled out a chair and set down the mug, then went back for her plate of toast. “Nothing so grand as Aunt Jo’s breakfast room, but I like it; it’s cozy.” She sat down and began to nibble on the toast. “I’m beginning to wake up. I’ll be fine when I get behind the wheel.”

  Holte came into the room and sat, apparently crossed-legged, on the table opposite Poppy. “Do you mind if I come along with you to work?”

  “You’ll probably do it anyway, so why should I mind?” She added sugar to her creamed coffee.

  “Just trying to be polite,” said Holte cordially, and changed the subject. “Is there anything more on that missing boy? The Pearse—”

  “You mean GAD?” Poppy asked, and went on before Holte could confirm it. “Not that Loring has mentioned, and there’s still nothing in the papers. You can probably thank the Napier robbery for that.”

  Holte made a kind of nod. “What do you think happened to him, really?”

  Poppy tried an experimental sip at her coffee and set the mug down again. “Not yet,” she said to the air; then she looked at the shimmer that was Holte. “Since you haven’t come across him in the dimension of ghosts, I’d say that either he has taken off on some adventure of his own—which he has done before—or he has been kidnapped, which doesn’t seem likely. His oldest sister is more likely to want to be rid of him than the Europeans are.”

  “Why would he not be a target in Europe?” asked Holte.

  Poppy considered her answer, and finally said, “An American on his own in Europe may be a rarity, but GAD doesn’t go in for high living nor draws attention to himself, so it doesn’t mean that a lone American is rich, and an object of exploitation, only that he is inquisitive, so not worth the effort. Or so it seems to me.”

  “Do you think most Europeans understand that?” Holte leaned forward to hear her. “The last bunch of Americans they experienced were soldiers.”

  “I couldn’t say what they understand,” said Poppy as she finished her first piece of toast and reached for her coffee mug. “You probably know more about that than I do.”

  Holte circled the breakfast-nook. “What did you mean about his older sister?”

  “Is this another one of those are Stacy and Derrington and Louise in it together questions? I was making a wise-crack—obviously not very well—about how disappointed Auralia is about GAD being the heir, when her husband is so much more suited to the position, at least in Auralia’s mind. I don’t know William Mikkelsohn well enough to have a view of his beliefs in the matter.” She started on her second piece of toast.

  “Auralia is the one you don’t like, isn’t she?” said Holte. “She’s the one you warned Loring about: Auralia and Tatiana.”

  Poppy swallowed her bit of toast and sighed. “We don’t get along, Auralia and I. To give the devil her due, it’s a pity that she couldn’t be the heir—she has a real talent for running things, including the Pearse’s fortune.” She paused. “And don’t ask me about Tatiana. She may be sneaky and secretive, but she likes GAD.”

  “And fourteen is a bit young to be organizing an overseas kidnapping,” Holte conceded.

  “Being a spy, you would know such things,” said Poppy lightly, and took another bite of toast.

  “Yes, I would.” He sounded a bit affronted, and Poppy realized that she had overstepped with him.

  “Another witticism goes astray,” she admitted. “I didn’t mean to insult you, or to slight you. It’s early, and I’m a bit cross. Apologies for my sharp tongue.”

  Holte made a gesture of acceptance. “And to make it worse, you have Matthew Pike to deal with when you get to work on Saturday.”

  “You understand, don’t you? You’re right: I’m borrowing trouble.” She took the last of the toast and washed it down with the rest of her coffee. “Ye gods, but I’m ready for tonight’s party. I need to unwind.”

  “Then I hope you make the most of it,” said Holte in a rush of sympathy.

  “So do I,” said Poppy, and got up from the table, gathered her plate and her mug together and went back into the kitchen to place them in the sink before retrieving the plate of chopped meat from the refrigerator and bearing it off to Maestro.

  SIXTEEN

  IT HAD TURNED OUT TO BE A SLOW DAY FOR NEWS—THERE HAD BEEN A FIRE IN some old row-houses that was quickly put out, two men had been arrested at the political rally, and a college football demonstration game had been postponed due to rain—so Lowenthal had let Poppy go at quarter to three, coming out of his office to her desk saying, “You have a lot to do before your guests arrive, so hop to it. Chop-chop.”

  “Thanks, boss,” said Poppy, startled but relieved; she put her desk perfunctorily in order and gathered up her purse and her brief-case. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Looking forward to it,” he called out to her as she left the city room, a couple of wolf- whistles echoing behind her. She hurried to the alley where she had parked her Hudson, got in, and headed off toward Aunt Esther’s house. As soon as she arrived, she parked in her usual spot and hotfooted it up to the door, letting herself in with her key, crying “Hello; it’s me,” as she stepped inside.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Aunt Esther called out to Poppy as she came into the entry-hall. “I need to run out to the legger again—we’re short on the Champagne—and I need someone to sign for the chocolates and pastries, and Miss Roth is on an errand, so it has to be you.” She paused. “Be careful; Galliard brought down the spare chairs from the attic a couple hours ago, and I still haven’t set them all about the room yet. Same for the four occasional tables.”

  “Where are you?” Poppy wondered aloud.

  “In the dining room. I’m putting out the cups and saucers; I was going to do the plates next, but I’ll let you tend to it if you’re willing. I shouldn’t be gone more than a half hour. I’ve phoned ahead; they’ll be ready for me.” She smiled as Poppy came into the dining room, and indicated the stacks of Italian china that was waiting on the china cabinet, about to be set on the long, oaken table. “In stacks of eight, in clusters; leave room for silver and napkins between the clusters. Dinner plates at this end, salad plates in the middle, and the shallow dessert bowls at the far end. Put out all thirty-two of each of them; we may have a few extras turn up. You’ll find the reserves in the crockery-pantry on the next-to-bottom shelf. Miss Roth will take care of the glasses and the silverware when she gets back. It shouldn’t take you more than twenty minutes to attend to this, and it will be a world of help.”

  Poppy laid her purse and brief-case on the nearest chair and went to the glass-fronted hutch where the good china was stored. “You’ve done the cups and saucers I see. S
o I’ll start with the salad plates? Or the dessert bowls? Four stacks of eight is what you want?”

  “Yes, whichever you like. The serving platters will go on the side-board behind you—the waiters will take care of what goes in them—and the desserts will be put out after the main meal is removed.” She took off the apron she was wearing and draped it over another chair. “You won’t need this; I’ve been washing carrots and radishes in the kitchen to give Missus Sassoro a hand.”

  “I thought this was going to be a finger-food event,” said Poppy, trying to decide whether to do the salad plates or the dessert bowls first.

  “I thought so too at first, but then I reconsidered. This is going to be a proper celebration, and I don’t want it to look skimpy, so I decided that something more substantial would be needed. Not that there won’t be finger-food, but there will be more to it than that.” She looked around the room. “Well, you should be able to handle everything. Missus Sassoro is in the pantry at the moment. If you need some help, go into the kitchen and tap on the pantry door. I should warn you that the kitchen is getting hot.” With that, Esther strode out of the dining room, going toward the coat-closet between the dining room and the entry-hall, where she kept her purse. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes, thirty at the most. Miss Roth should be here by then.”

  “That’s good to know,” said Poppy. “I’ll get right to this,” she added as she heard the front door close. “Salad plates, I guess,” she said, and began her work.

  As Aunt Esther had promised, she was back in a just over twenty minutes announcing, “My auto is in the garage and the trunk is locked. Galliard can bring the cases in later. How are you doing?” She peeked in the door. “Oh, very good.”

  “I finished up five minutes ago; the pastries and chocolates are in the kitchen,” Poppy reported, “and I am going to go and lie down for half an hour, and then I’ll have a short bath and dress.”

  “Is Miss Roth back yet?” Esther inquired.

  “Not yet. Missus Sassoro says Miss Roth will be here no later than five. That gives her an hour and a half before any of the guests arrive.” Poppy came around the table and approached her aunt. “Have you had a nap yet?”

  “Oh, yes; I lay down immediately after lunch, and didn’t get up until two-thirty. I’m quite refreshed.” She flicked her fingers at Poppy. “Shoo. Go have a nap. I’ll see you at around five- thirty. You’d best take the evening food up to your cat now. You won’t have time later, and he’ll start complaining.”

  “Good idea; and I can bring down his morning plate after I dress and…gild the lily.” She kissed the air near Aunt Esther’s cheek, then hastened off to the kitchen where Missus Sassoro was just putting a large baking-tray of stuffed pastry shells into the oven; her face was red from heat and effort. “The cat’s dinner is…?” Poppy asked.

  “In the refrigerator, top shelf. I gave him some of the trimmings from the ducks, and some of the left-over pot-roast from last night.” She shut the oven door and rounded on Poppy. “Take it now. I’ll need the space in a little while. I’ll put his breakfast together before I leave tonight, so he won’t have to go hungry.”

  “Thanks,” said Poppy, and retrieved the plate. “He’s going to love this.”

  “So long as he doesn’t get used to the duck, that’s grand,” said Missus Sassoro, going to lift the damp cloth over a large bowl of rising dough; she punched it down as Poppy left the room.

  This time, Maestro was waiting right beyond the door at the top of the stairs, his eyes alight, and his intention to escape obvious.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” said Poppy, bending down to push him back with the hand that held her purse and brief-case, the treasure of duck-trimmings and pot-roast held aloft. “Come into the bathroom, and have a taste of your bribe.”

  Maestro uttered imprecations at Poppy, but his dinner proved more irresistible than the opportunity to explore the rest of the house; he backed up, his full attention on the plate in her right hand.

  Poppy kicked the door closed behind her, and went into the bathroom, taking care not to step on the cat, who was twining himself around her legs. She bent down, set her purse and brief- case aside, picked up the used plate from the morning, and set down the duck-trimmings. “There you go,” she said, rubbing his head as he bent to eat as if he had not had a meal in days. She set the used plate in the sink, picked up her purse and brief-case, and left Maestro to dine. In her bedroom, she stripped down to her slip, removed her silk stockings, and took her bathrobe from the closet and wrapped herself in it, set her alarm, then stretched out on her bed; she almost expected to find Holte watching her from some odd corner of the room, but there was no sign of him, and in less than ten minutes, she was asleep.

  She roused herself shortly before the alarm sounded, and turned off the ringer. After taking a little time to stretch, she got up and went to the closet, removing the dress she had chosen for the evening: a long-sleeved, cowl-necked, drop-waisted evening dress with a tulip- skirt in mulberry-colored silk that reached just below her calves. It had cost her over seventy dollars, but she told herself that it was worth every penny. Leaving it on the hook on the outside of her closet door, she undressed completely then donned her bathrobe again and went across to the bathroom where she found Maestro curled up on the fresh towel next to the sink. “Wretch,” she said fondly, and put the plug in the bathtub drain and turned on the hot water. “It would serve you right if I gave you a bath,” she warned him.

  Maestro opened one eye, then closed it, sniffing as he did.

  Poppy resisted the urge to throw her washcloth at him, removed her bathrobe, turned on the cold water and got into the rapidly filling tub. Lying back, she felt the warmth take her and was tempted to nod off again; the aromas wafting up from the kitchen reminded her of the purpose of this afternoon indulgence. She reached for the soap—Pears—and began dutifully to wash, taking care not to get her hair wet, for there would not be time for it to dry before the guests arrived. When she had soaped and rinsed, she left the tub, pulled the plug, and removed Maestro from his place on her towel. He protested; she scratched his ruff by way of showing regret for her lack of courtesy, and then set about drying off, planning which of her new brassieres she would wear tonight, and what scent she would use.

  Twenty minutes later and ten minutes early she was downstairs, smelling of rose-and- jasmine, her small amethyst earrings complimenting her dress without ostentation. She found Aunt Esther in the drawing room, in a spruce-green, ankle-length ensemble of peau de soie; she had on gold bracelets and an Art Nouveau brooch of gold and tourmaline in a lotus design; she had done her hair up in a bun and fixed it in place with a pair of inlaid chopsticks.

  “I’m glad you’re early,” said Aunt Esther, taking a critical look at her niece. “Just the right note. That color becomes you.”

  “I agree,” said Poppy. “And your dress is very flattering.”

  Aunt Esther chortled. “What you mean is that it isn’t bad for an old lady like me.” She held up her hand. “No, don’t. I appreciate the sentiment, you don’t have to apologize for it; I know what I see in the mirror, and I know I’m not a fair young thing anymore, though I’m glad you tried to let me think so.”

  “Old needn’t mean ugly,” said Poppy, thinking back to her mother’s mother, who had remained an attractive women to the last.

  “No—but often it can,” said Aunt Esther, adding, “Judge Stephanson is going to arrive in about half an hour; I asked him to come early.”

  There was a loud clatter from the dining room and a male voice called out, “Nothing’s broken; just a little trouble positioning the platters!”

  “That’s the new waiter,” Esther explained. “They both arrived here an hour ago, and between Missus Sassoro and Miss Roth, they’ve been working hard ever since. They’re the ones who organized the extra chairs and tables. We should be ready well in advance of the company. Incidentally, Miss Roth has changed for the evening; a very nice dress of dark-blue polish
ed cotton; she’ll be on door-duty.” She went to the high-boy at the end of the sofa. “Would you like a splash of cognac? I’m going to pour myself a little brandy.”

  “I’ll have brandy with you,” said Poppy. “But just a little.”

  “Marvelous,” said Aunt Esther, and set out two small snifters. “We’ll do the inspection in ten minutes, if that will do for you?” She opened the bottle and poured out a little more than a tablespoonful for each of them. “By the way, Langton Timms is bringing Beatrice; I knew he would. Do your best not to pay her much attention. She’s a bit…overdone.”

  “I think you warned me about her before,” said Poppy, taking the proffered snifter.

  “She’s always trying to generate male admiration, like a shark after chum. She has a taste for well-set-up young men. You might want to warn Inspector Loring.” She touched the rim of her snifter to Poppy’s. “I don’t like speaking ill of other women, but one must draw the line somewhere.”

  “Amen to that,” Poppy responded.

  “Eulalle Kinnon phoned in regrets this morning, well after you left. And you know that Isme Greenloch declined as well. Eulalle claimed she had forgotten a prior engagement, but I suspect that Josephine told her about the mixed company we’re going to have, so she thought it better to stay home. Fernald and Bernadette Stanton are still going to be here, and Josephine with Hank and Cecily, so we won’t be completely without the upper-crust. And the Fairchilds will be here, too. We’re covered for high-class guests. And Sherman and Isadora Pearse have said they’ll be here, which is a pleasant surprise.” She sipped her brandy.