Beatrice Timms’ eyes lit up at the sight of Loring, and she sashayed over to him. “Tell me, Miss Poppy, who is this handsome man?” She made a poutful smirk at Loring while continuing to speak to Poppy. “How do you come to know him? I don’t think I’ve seen him before. Are you keeping him for yourself?”
“He’s with the police.” Poppy saw Beatrice Timms blink. “Inspector Loring, this is Beatrice Timms. Missus Timms, may I present Inspector Loring.”
“I had no idea that a policeman could be so handsome,” Beatrice cooed. “I’m drinking shouldn’t you arrest me?”
Professor Timms came up to pull his wife away; he exchanged a hurried handshake with Loring, then directed Beatrice’s attention to the platter of chopped mushrooms in cream-sauce in pastry shells that Howard Dale was just handing around. “Sorry,” he said to no one in particular as he watched his wife go after the waiter.
“No reason to be,” said Loring, and let Poppy move him along.
By ten minutes to seven almost all the guests had assembled, and the buzz of conversation had risen to a roar. The waiters continued to circulate, offering an astonishing variety of finger-foods to the guests; Esther continued to pour drinks while she conversed with her company. She was exchanging pleasantries with Archibald Wyman when there was a barely audible ring from the doorbell, and Miss Roth went to answer it.
“Are we late?” Hank Dritchner asked as he came in, bearing box of chocolates for his aunt and hostess. He was in a very neat dinner-jacket and formal trousers, but he was overshadowed by Cecily, who wore a damask dinner-dress the golden-orange of persimmons, set off with a long pearl necklace and matching earrings. She handed her fox wrap to Miss Roth, and made way for Josephine, who was rigged out as formidably as if she were going to opening night at the Metropolitan Opera in New York: her hair was done up in an elaborate knot and secured with a jeweled comb and a spray of dull-red feathers; she had on a three-tiered diamond-and- topaz collar, and a gown of dull-gold satin with heavy embroidery in the same color on the hem and sleeves that almost glowed. Josephine looked around the guests with an air of hauteur that made Poppy want to rebuke her for such bad manners.
The lamp on the high-boy blinked twice; Poppy decided it was a kind of wink from Holte.
Esther went toward them as the sound of conversation drifted to silence at this splendid entrance. “Very nearly, Hank. Good evening, Josephine,” she said crisply to her sister. “You’re here just under the wire. Only the Pearses haven’t arrived. Everyone else is here. I’ve put dinner back for ten minutes, but we’ll have to start then, whether Sherman and Isadora are here or not.” She then addressed Cecily. “I’m Esther Thornton, Hank’s aunt. I’m very happy to meet you at last.” She indicated the way into the parlor, and started back toward the high-boy. “If you would like a drink before dinner, now’s the time.”
Cecily looked around, and said, “A pleasure to meet you, too. I see we’re overdressed. I’m sorry. I was told this would be a more formal occasion than I see it is.” She held out her hand to Esther. “I hope you won’t hold it against me.”
Poppy saw the entry-hall light blink, and nodded in agreement; she decided to accompany the near-last of the visitors back into the parlor.
Josephine was standing ramrod straight. “I hope you have some sherry, Esther, and that it is not too common.”
“Since I knew you would be here, I ordered some especially,” Esther told her sister, a bit too sweetly. “Come into the drawing room and let me pour some for you.” She led the way through her guests, making occasional introductions, back to the high-boy, where she produced a bottle of the best sherry that Ruscelli was able to secure. “Will this suit you?” she asked Josephine, showing her the label. “Portuguese, you see, the seal is still in place on the cork, so there has been no fiddling with it.”
Josephine studied it, squinting for want of glasses, and made her pronouncement. “Better than I expected from you, Esther. I’ll have some.”
Gradually, other conversations resumed, but not to the level they had been before.
About five minutes past the hour and Miss Roth again answered the doorbell, admitting Sherman and Isadora Pearse; she took their coats and mentioned that the dinner was about to be served.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” Isadora said in a soft voice as she entered the parlor and made her way to Esther’s side; her manner was carefully subdued, and she moved as if in an unpleasant dream, or a wholly unfamiliar place.
“We had matters at home to attend to,” Sherman added as he joined his wife and hostess. “It couldn’t be helped.”
“No harm done,” said Esther. “Can I get you something to drink, or would you prefer to wait for the wine we’ll be having at dinner?”
“I think I’ll wait,” said Isadora just as Sherman asked for Scotch.
“Very good,” said Esther, and looked over at her niece. “Poppy, will you go tell Missus Sassoro we’re ready to dine?”
“Certainly,” said Poppy, and hurried off to do this.
In the conversational lapse, Josephine came over to Esther, nodded to the Pearses, and said, “This is quite an unusual occasion, Esther.”
Taking care not to display rancor to match her sister’s, Esther said, “You’re too kind.” She took Jo’s almost empty glass and poured out more than three ounces of the antique-gold liquid sherry into it. Handing this to Josephine, she added, “How fortuitous. The sherry nearly matches your gown.”
“Thank you,” said Josephine at her frostiest. She glanced at the Pearses. “I’ve heard about GAD. How difficult for you. I know what you’re going through: my Eustace is still missing. You must be beside yourselves. I know I am consumed with worry for my youngest.” She made an apologetic gesture. “GAD’s not your youngest, but still.”
“It hasn’t been easy,” said Sherman in a tone that made it clear that he did not want to talk about it.
“Certainly not,” said Josephine grandly. “It’s a parent’s duty to look after children, no matter how old they may become. To have a child gone and not know to where, is a pain that there are no words to describe.” She came closer to Isadora. “Like you, I have endured the waiting, and all the uncertainties.”
Esther watched this with dismay. “This is hardly the occasion to compare scars, Jo,” she said as calmly as she could.
“But I haven’t seen Isadora for months,” said Josephine indignantly. “And I sympathize with her uncertainly so keenly.”
The conversation in the room had quieted; the other guests were watching this exchange with a mixture of curiosity and alarm.
Josephine went on without apology. “Just think of what Sherman and Isadora are subjected to. Most everyone here can only imagine, but I understand. I can comprehend their pain. When your child is missing, possibly in danger, or worse; it eats at you, doesn’t it. I know it eats at me.”
“Jo, you’re not helping,” said Esther quietly.
It was as if Josephine had not heard her older sister. “It wrings my heart to spend day after day, longing for a word, a simple reassurance that Eustace is alive, that I—”
“Stop it!” Isadora shrieked. “Don’t say another word!” In the next breath, she was weeping. “Don’t you dare speak.”
There was a startled silence, and a few of the guests did their best not to stare at the Pearses, although they did begin to whisper.
Isadora glared at Josephine. “I came here tonight to get away from my worries, not to grovel in them. Now you’ve brought them all back! I can’t bear it!”
Aunt Esther recovered her composure quickly. “Poppy, will you take over for me? I’m going to take Isadora to my room, so she can lie down for a while. The dinner will be out in a minute or two, and you can supervise the buffet.” Saying that, she went to Isadora, who was leaning on her husband’s arm. “If you’ll come with me Isadora, I’ll get you a cold compress for your face.”
“Thank you, Esther,” Isadora managed to say as Esther guided her out of the
parlor, leaving Josephine standing, incensed and nonplused, by the highboy.
In the next instant, conversation erupted throughout the room, everyone trying to talk about anything other than what had just happened in front of them.
Making her way to the high-boy, Poppy said, “What may I pour for you Mister Pearse?”
He shook his head. “I think I’d better go to my wife. She…hasn’t been quite herself since GAD…” His voice trailed off and he turned to follow after Esther.
“What a…display!” Josephine exclaimed, preparing to break into a diatribe, only to be interrupted by Mildred.
“Missus Dritchner,” Mildred spoke up, “won’t you take a seat on the couch? Then you and I can have a comfortable coze. I’m sorry that my condition does not allow me the luxury of standing. I realize that you’ve been having a difficult time, but this may not be the place for commiseration; that needs more privacy, don’t you think? Please. Sit down with me.” She patted the cushion next to her. “We all need to unwind a bit, don’t we?”
For once, Poppy felt deeply grateful to Mildred, and decided she would have to do something nice for her in the coming days. She poured out a small glass of cognac and took as sip as Hank came up to her. “You can’t blame Missus Pearse. She has had a terrible time about GAD.”
The noise of conversation grew louder, sharp and brittle as glass.
“You’re handling this well. I’ll speak with my mother in the morning,” said Hank to Poppy. “And you needn’t show me around. I can introduce myself to anyone I don’t know.” He held out his hand to Cecily, who had come to his side, his fingers interlacing with hers. “Let’s do a quick reconnoiter darling; you have your drink. I’ll collect a refill in a minute or two.” He moved off through the crowd, taking the time to greet some of his acquaintances, and to introduce his wife. As Poppy watched them, she saw Hank approach Loring, and had to resist the desire to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“Thornton,” a voice sounded a bit behind her.
She turned and found herself facing Cornelius Lowenthal. “Yes, boss?” she replied, dreading what he might say next.
“I take it that nothing about this will be in the papers? I mean what happened with your aunt and Missus Pearse.” He sounded as if he spoke in jest, but there was a kindness in his question that surprised her. “It’s not the kind of news we like to run. That’s more for the Tattler.”
“Well, I’m certainly not going to put it there,” said Poppy.
“Nor will I,” said Lowenthal, and changed the subject. “That guy who arrived next to last? The one with the beard? Who is he and what does he do? I think I know him from somewhere, but I can’t place him.”
“That’s my cousin, Galahad Dritchner; everyone but his mother calls him Hank. He designs yachts and aeroplanes. He and his wife live in Maine.” She saw Lowenthal nod in the way he did when he had put things together.
“Aha. Yes. We did a story on his company, sometime early last year. I didn’t make the Dritchner connection back then, you still being fairly new to the paper, and me not familiar with your Aunt Josephine.”
“And I was still covering the society page, and garden parties,” Poppy added.
Lowenthal ignored the barb. “Is he Stacy’s brother?”
This question surprised Poppy. “His oldest. Why?”
“Think you could get information out of him? Something to add to your on-going assignment. Not that I expect you to pump him or anything like that, but he might give you a lead you can use in a follow-up story. Having the personal touch should be useful. An interview, or some such. Not tonight, but maybe some time in the next day or so? Think about, won’t you?” He held up his glass. “Your aunt Esther serves first class booze.”
“So she does,” Poppy agreed. “But about Galahad; he hasn’t been in touch with Stacy for some time; he and Stacy don’t get along very well.”
“Oh. Pity with two ts.” He gave a hitch to his shoulders. “Thought it might be worth a try,” he added, and made his way back to his wife, who was now sitting demurely on one of the extra chairs, next to Bernadette Stanton; the two women appeared to be having a lively discussion about the finger-food.
Poppy watched them for a moment, then took a quick step sideways as Abner Bridges came through with a pitcher of lemonade, which he set on the high-boy among the bottles and glasses.
“Quite an evening, at least so far,” Holte remarked from a place beside and above her. “Your aunt is every bit as eclectic as you told me she’d be.”
“Ye gods, Holte,” she muttered.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” It was as much of an apology as he was prepared to give. “What a…diverse group.”
“That it is,” Poppy said, and started to move away from him.
He drifted after her. “They’re getting ready to bring the food out of the kitchen.”
“I know. Thank goodness. It’s almost seven-fifteen. Missus Sassoro is probably beside herself.” She glanced about to be sure no one was paying attention to her, and noticed Loring watching her from a place by the nearer of two bookcases. She smiled in his direction. It was tempting to think that he might have noticed or heard things that she could glean from him later, but not tonight, with so many people thronging the house. She looked away from Holte and let her gaze shift around the room.
As if this were an invitation, Loring came toward her, one of the pastry-shells-with- mushrooms in his fingers. “I want to thank you for asking me to come, although I almost begged off. I was afraid it would be one of those stiff, hoity-toity gatherings that I would expect from your Aunt Josephine, all formal and elite.” He ducked his head and lowered his voice. “Not the needling of Missus Pearse, of course. But you were right about your Aunt Esther and Aunt Josephine—chalk and cheese.”
Poppy giggled. “Have you met everyone?”
“Not everyone. I’ve met Judge Stephanson a couple of times before, when he was still on the bench, and I know Doctor Wyman, in the line of work. I had a few words with Franklin Grimes; not quite what I expected.”
“He’s not like most of his family.”
“That’s what makes him interesting to me,” Loring said.
“Snooping?” Poppy suggested.
A rattle of pots came from the dining room, augmented by a range of intensified aromas; the evening meal was being moved from the kitchen to the waiting platters in the dining room.
“Unsuccessfully,” Loring admitted. “Is he really so disinterested in the family business as he claims to be?”
“I think so. Second son, and all that.” Poppy more felt than heard Holte make a non- sound very like a titter of amusement; she ignored him.
“By the way,” Loring said as if as if something had just occurred to him, “does Missus Timms go after every man in the room, or just ones she hasn’t met until now?”
“I don’t know; tonight is my first exposure. A few days ago Aunt Esther said Missus Timms is like a shark after chum: it’s more a question of quantity than quality.” She disliked the catty tone of her remark, but had to admit that it was more accurate than she had expected. “No offense Loring.”
“None taken. I’ll rely on you to protect me from her,” he said teasingly.
Before she could answer, the dinner-gong sounded, and the guests moved in the direction of the dining room, some of them leaving their cocktail glasses on the various tables in the parlor and sitting room, in anticipation of the wine to come.
EIGHTEEN
POPPY DID NOT WAKEN UNTIL ALMOST NINE THE FOLLOWING MORNING; SHE stretched and glanced toward the windows, and encountered an ominous stare from Maestro, who interrupted his grooming to let Poppy know he was not pleased. “Don’t fret, cat,” she said fondly. “Between your late-night snack last night and left-overs for the next few days, you won’t be going hungry. Not that you ever have,” she added affectionately.
Maestro was unimpressed with this assurance, and offered another loud reprimand for her laxness.
“All right, all right, I’ll get up and bring you something to eat.” She threw back her comforter and sheet and swung her feet to the floor. “Missus Sassoro should be here by now. I’ll bet she has a plate made up for you already.” Rising, she went to the closet for her bathrobe, pulled it on, and stopped in the bathroom on her way down to the kitchen, claimed her slippers, and headed for the stairs.
“Good morning, Miss Poppy,” said Missus Sassoro as Poppy came into the kitchen; it was almost restored to normal but for three large roasting pans sitting on the drainboard. “It was a fine gathering, last night.”
“Ye gods, I should hope so, with all the wonderful food you supplied,” said Poppy. “I was wondering if you had anything for Maestro? He’s been asking.”
Missus Sassoro grinned. “He’ll like his breakfast—more duck, and a slice of glazed pork along with a little of the grilled cod. There wasn’t any lamb left, or I would have given him some of that, too. His plate’s in the refrigerator, on the top shelf, wrapped in wax paper.”
Poppy made a gesture of thanks. “Sounds perfect.”
“Will you be wanting breakfast?” Missus Sassoro asked as she put a tray of scones into the oven to bake.
“In forty minutes or so,” Poppy told her while she retrieved the cat’s meal from the refrigerator. “I’m going to rise slowly today.”
“A sore head?” the cook ventured.
“No, just the product of a very long day yesterday.” Poppy thought for a second. “Will the scones be ready by then? And might I have two of them with butter and raspberry preserves? Along with my coffee?”
Missus Sassoro nodded. “Of course. Missus Thornton has already asked for the scones, and a cheese omelette in her room; I was planning to start with Miss Roth’s oatmeal as soon as I finish the dishes.”
“Do you know when she’s going to be up? Aunt Esther, not Miss Roth.” Poppy asked, recalling that she thought Aunt Esther had looked weary by the end of the evening.
“She said before ten, and if she wasn’t, that I or Miss Roth should go and wake her.” Missus Sassoro said, glancing at the kitchen clock.
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 20
