Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “So she’s in good hands. I’ll see you in forty minutes or so.” Saying that, she went out of the kitchen and through the entry-hall to the stairs.

  Maestro met her at the top of the stairs, exclaiming insistently for the treat he was to have, and wreathed around her legs as she carried the laden plate into the bathroom and set it on the floor. “There you go. It’s probably better than you deserve, no matter what you think,” she scolded fondly, then refilled his water-bowl before returning to her bedroom and pulling open her closet door again. “What to wear today?” she asked herself.

  “The mauve suit with the short jacket would be nice; you could wear it to the latest briefing on the Napier robbery, which is coming up,” said Chesterton Holte from somewhere near the ceiling. “And that pale-pink blouse would set it off well.”

  Poppy rounded on him, seeing him as a bright smudge next to the central light fixture. “I should have known,” she said.

  “Yes, you should have,” he agreed, dropping down to her eye-level. “I assumed you would want to discuss last night’s festivities before you go off to work.”

  She took out the mauve suit and studied it. Holte was right, she decided. “What did you want to say about the party?”

  He became a little more distinct. “On the whole, I thought it went well.”

  “But—?” she said for him.

  “Your Aunt Josephine really out-did herself: she can be quite a piece of work when she wants to be. And Aunt Esther was right about Missus Timms. I wonder whatever possessed him to marry her?”

  “I have no idea. Perhaps she wasn’t so…florid when he did.” Poppy hung the suit on the outer hook of the closet door, and then went back inside to look for the blouse.

  “Whatever possessed Josephine to take after Missus Pearse that way?” Holte asked, while Poppy sorted through her blouses.

  “I wish I knew. That was deplorable behavior.” Poppy took the pale pink blouse off the hanger and stepped out of the closet.

  “Do you think the Pearses have reason to worry about GAD?” Holte asked her.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think: they’re worried,” said Poppy.

  “All right. But is Missus Pearse really making too much of things?” Holte persisted.

  “I don’t know. She has been trying to keep GAD enveloped in cotton batting since HOB died, but that doesn’t mean that she’s exaggerating her distress.” She glanced toward the window. “It looks fairly cool out,” she remarked while she took the suit down.

  “I can’t tell, but I’d think that’s likely; there are clouds building up.”

  “I’ll keep rain in mind,” Poppy said.

  He lingered at the closet door. “Another thing?”

  “Yes?” Poppy said cautiously.

  “What was Mildred Fairchild telling you about the Tattler? And pray enlighten me what is the Tattler?”

  “It’s a weekly gossip sheet, the very best of yellow journalism.” Her sarcastic tone underscored her back-handed compliment. “You know the kind of thing—tales about all manner of misbehavior, and rumored misbehavior of celebrities, officials, sport champions, and so forth, the more lurid the better.”

  “That’s what I supposed, given the name,” said Holte, moving toward Poppy while she set the suit out on her bed. “They must have had a field day with Moncrief’s murder. Or Knott’s, for that matter.”

  “I didn’t bother to read it to find out; I’d guess you’re right,” said Poppy. “But I know they hung around the story for a month or so.” She put the blouse on top of the suit. “I’m going to have a short bath, and then we can resume this analysis—if it’s all right with you?”

  “Whatever suits you,” he said at his most courtly.

  At this, Poppy laughed, then went across the hall to the bathroom, where Maestro had finished about half his meal. “Saving some for later?” she asked him as she turned on the hot water, and then the cold.

  Maestro murred at her, and jumped onto the toilet seat, his steady gaze fixed on her.

  “You needn’t guard me; I’m not going to drown,” said Poppy as she removed her bathrobe and nightgown, hanging them on the towel-rack before getting into the tub and sitting down in the rising water. When the water was high enough, she turned off the taps and lay back, letting the warmth sink into her; the dull ache in her lower back gradually faded, and the tension eased. She sighed with pleasure and closed her eyes, letting herself luxuriate. After a few minutes, she sat up and grabbed her soap and washcloth and began with her face and neck, working her way down her body. She had reached her waist when something that had been lurking in the back of her mind suddenly surfaced. “Ye gods!” she blurted out. “The Tattler. Merrinelle Butterworth. I should have said something to Loring last night. It’s going to be a—” She did not say scandal, as if silence could keep it from happening. Hurriedly she rinsed off and pulled the plug, scrambling out of the tub, snatching her bathrobe from the towel-rack, and tugging it on. She bolted out of the bathroom and down the stairs, pausing only to make sure the door was closed to keep Maestro confined upstairs. In the entry-hall, she went to the phone alcove and picked up the receiver, telling the operator Inspector Loring’s number, and waiting, breathing a little fast, and trying to marshal her thoughts without too many self-recriminations.

  “Loring,” said his familiar voice in her ear.

  “Hello, Inspector, it’s—”

  “Poppy. I recognize your voice. What’s on your mind? Have you recovered from last night?”

  “I’ve mostly recovered. But there is something I should have told you last night. It slipped my mind in all the confusion.” She felt horribly contrite, and so hurried on to make a quick confession of the whole. “Mildred Fairchild mentioned an article or interview in the Tattler. You must know what it is. Well, there’s a story in the most recent issue about Merrinelle Butterworth, Jonathan Butterworth’s oldest daughter. In it, Mildred says, Merrinelle not only claims to be GAD’s fiancée, but that he has disappeared, and the family isn’t pursuing the matter. The Pearses won’t like that when they find out about it.”

  Loring cursed quietly, then said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You didn’t. I happen to agree.”

  “Well, do you think any of it’s true? The Tattler isn’t famous for its accuracy, as the police have reason to know.” He waited for her response.

  “I know that Merrinelle has told people before that GAD is her intended’, but whether that is his intention as well as hers, I don’t know.” Poppy took a deep breath and hurried on, “Isadora has said that it’s unthinkable that he should form such a connection, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t; GAD goes his own way in most things.”

  “So you’ve said,” Loring interjected.

  Poppy felt a chill through her robe and realized that Holte had come downstairs from her room. “I don’t know what the family, or you, can do about this, but I thought you should know, and I apologize again for not informing you sooner.” She paused. “I’m planning to pick up a copy of the Tattler on my way in to work. I’ll have a better idea of how bad the story is after I’ve read what they’ve published.”

  There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, then Loring said, “This is your half- day, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I’m doing the afternoon instead of the morning, but I’ll be going in around ten- thirty.” She took a deep breath. “Lowenthal arranged it.”

  “Interesting fellow, your boss,” Loring observed, but did not enlarge on his meaning. In a different tone, he went on, “Would you be adverse to me stopping by in the evening, around seven? We could talk about this in more depth. You can show me the Tattler story and give me your take on it. You know what kind of coverage the Tattler is after, and you can tell me why they’re running this story. I’ll have a chance to check out some of the particulars and, by then, I should have more from the Pearses—I’m not looking forward to that. Missus Pearse is not going to be happy, no matter wha
t. She wants public attention, but she wants it to be carefully managed, not the kind this article is apt to bring about, and who can blame her.”

  “She’ll be mortified,” Poppy agreed. “What a mess.”

  “That it is,” Loring said slowly, and then went on more briskly. “So. I might as well get to it. Thank you for calling. I’m rather glad you waited to tell me until this morning. I’m not sure I would have paid that much attention last night. There was so much going on.”

  “That’s nice of you to say,” Poppy responded, despondency coming over her without warning. “I feel as if I’ve let you down.”

  “What?” He gave a kind of laugh. “No such thing. You’ve done me a great favor, and I hope I can repay it in some way. I’ll see you tonight.” And with that, he hung up.

  Poppy hung up as well, and made her way back up the stairs, despondent and cold. Once she was in her room, she got out of her bathrobe and let it drop to the floor, then sat on the bed, trying to sort out why she had botched telling him about the article when she had first heard about it. She decided that it was because she had not yet seen the article, and couldn’t inform Loring with anything more than second hand information, all the while admitting to herself that this was exactly what she had ended up doing. Although this was readily explainable, she had an uneasy feeling that she was dodging an issue in allowing herself to be persuaded so facilely.

  Standing up, she began the routine of dressing, doing her best to put the whole episode out of her mind. She had got as far as her slip and silk stockings when Holte addressed her from the far corner of the room.

  “You haven’t done anything very dreadful; word of a spy—and believe me when I say that I understand what dreadful is. The damage had already been done when you learned about it, and you made it possible for Loring to prepare to talk with the Pearses rather than being blind- sided by them—as you say, they aren’t going to be pleased. At least now, he’ll be able to take the high road.” As he spoke, Maestro bounced sideways into the room, fur puffed out in all directions, his tail like a bottle-brush.

  Poppy clapped her hands at the cat. “You can’t scare a ghost, Maestro. You should know that by now.” Secretly, she was glad of the diversion Maestro’s presence provided. She opened the zipper in the left-hand-side seam in order to step into the skirt. “Why do you say that, Holte?”

  “Because you’re castigating yourself needlessly,” he said at his most reasonable. “You’ve no reason to do it, not from my perspective.”

  “That’s kind of you,” she said in patent disbelief.

  He drifted a little nearer. “If you feel compelled to apologize to someone, apologize to Cornelius Lowenthal. You did not let him know that there was a potential big story he could get on before other papers. Of course, he would have sent you out to the nearest newsstand to get a copy, and then would have ordered you to go to the study and cobble together an inch or two of material, which you would then have had to confirm with the Pearses, and wouldn’t that have made for a better party?” This last bit of ironic advice had the effect of pulling her up short.

  “I can only tell you that you’re probably right,” she said, summoning up the remnants of her dignity, “but I still think I should have informed Loring last night.”

  “Give the poor man a break. He was having fun, which I wager he doesn’t do often.”

  “You’re very likely right about that,” said Poppy, doing her utmost to restore her equanimity.

  “You do realize that he came because he likes you,” Holte said. “He likes being in your company.”

  “So you tell me,” Poppy snapped, and then stopped, her manner becoming less caustic. “I beg your pardon: I seem to be in a beastly frame of mind this morning. I shouldn’t have spoken so bluntly. I think I may have got over-tired last night; it was a demanding evening. I didn’t fall asleep until sometime after three.”

  “And you were up before the crack of dawn yesterday.” He moved nearer to her. “Don’t be so demanding of yourself. You’re blowing your minor errors way out of proportion.”

  “I can’t afford not to,” said Poppy, continuing to dress. She wished now that she had remained in bed a little longer.

  “Because you are convinced that you have to hold yourself to a high standard—no, to a higher standard, because you have something to prove—I understand that. But you are expecting far more from yourself than you expect of others, and that puts you at a disadvantage. If you’re willing to extend the benefit of the doubt to others, you should do the same for yourself. Please believe me.” He swooped over to the end of her bed and gave the appearance of sitting on it.

  Maestro hissed and scooted under the bed.

  Poppy paid little attention to the cat, and kept her focus on Holte. “I should be off to the paper shortly; right after breakfast.”

  “You don’t have to arrive until noon, you know,” Holte reminded her. “It wouldn’t hurt you to take advantage of that; spend a little time with your aunt. You can review the party, and catch up on the gossip.”

  “I want to get into the paper early.”

  “To show that an evening of socializing won’t flatten you?” He did the ghostly equivalent of a laugh. “If Lowenthal isn’t bothered by this, you shouldn’t be.”

  “Harris and Gafney will use it to make hay, joking and speculating on oh, everything.” Still in her stockinged feet, but otherwise fully dressed, Poppy went to her vanity table and began to inspect her face; she saw dull-blue circles under her eyes, and sighed. She had some foundation in her cosmetics drawer, and wondered if she should resort to putting it on to mask them—powder alone wouldn’t be enough. Taking her ivory comb in hand she began to put her hair in order; thanks to the recent cut, it fell into style quickly, and that gave her a moment of hope.

  “Stay in a bit longer. Trust me, you need a little time to shore up your reserves. You and Esther can have a little time to confer on last night, and it would be a useful thing to do,” Holte persisted.

  Poppy nodded as she opened the little box, rubbed the minuscule brush in the damp, dark- brown color, and applied the mascara to her lashes. The dullness she felt continued to nag at her until she did a quick review of the date, and realized what was happening, something that she was reluctant to explain to Holte. Ghost he might be, but she supposed he had the usual male disgust of female ailments. But finally she remarked, “I shouldn’t mention this, but my Monthlies are about to start, and that always puts me out of curl.” Just making such an admission to a man, no matter how noncorporeal, upset her, and she could feel color rising in her face.

  Holte digested this and said, “I remember that Sybil used to become weepy when hers were on her.”

  “Thank goodness I’ve been spared that; not that my shrewishness is much better,” said Poppy, inspecting her face as she applied a dot of rouge to each of her cheeks and began to blend it into her skin. “My mother used to tell me to take an aspirin or two and ignore it. At least we have pads now instead of rags.” This bold admission took her by surprise. “I know I shouldn’t talk about such Women’s Matters with men. I’m sorry. I was taught better than this.” She swung around on her chair and faced Holte’s pale outline. “Why do I tell you such things? You would probably rather that I change the subject.”

  Holte took a few seconds to answer. “I suppose you have to tell someone, and I’m available. You can talk to Maestro, but I think you want a more developed answer than a meow or a purr.” He went nearer. “Your week has been trying. I can see that. Not just the party, though it has demanded a lot of you.”

  “That’s no excuse.”

  “No, but it is an explanation.” He leaned back and rose into the air, now fully horizontal. “When I was alive, I thought that women made too much of what their bodies do. But being a ghost, I can see that everyone with a body has demands made on them by bodies: hunger, thirst, fatigue, illness and injury, the need to be active, the need for sleep, and many other things. One of the burdens of b
eing alive is maintaining your body.”

  “How philosophical you are this mor—” She broke off. “I’m sorry. Pay no attention to me.” She moved around to face her mirror.

  When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “Don’t fret, Poppy. You’re allowed the occasional stumble.”

  She shook her head. “No, Holte, that’s the problem: I’m not.”

  Holte was about to argue the point, but saw that it was neither the time nor the place to offer his opinion. He waved in her direction and wafted out the window.

  NINETEEN

  AUNT ESTHER WAS IN THE BREAKFAST-NOOK, A CUP OF HOT, BLACK COFFEE IN front of her. This morning she was dressed in a tan barn-coat, a shirt of brown cotton, and a pair of sturdy canvas slacks of the same color; she wore mucking-boots on her feet. She looked up as Poppy came in and took the chair opposite her aunt’s. “I see you’re going in early.”

  “I think it’s best that I do,” Poppy said, and smiled at Missus Sassoro as she set down a plate with three buttered scones and a small tub of raspberry preserves. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure, Miss Poppy. I’ll have your coffee in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” She stepped back into the kitchen.

  “Well, while you’re out, I thought I would go to the nursery and select some new plants for the garden,” Esther announced. “Galliard will handle the digging, but I will do the planting.”

  “What kind of plants did you have in mind,” Poppy wondered while she spread raspberry preserves on the top scone.

  “I thought some herbs for the side-garden would be nice; fresh herbs are so much better than the dried ones, aren’t they? I had some there a couple of years ago, but what with one thing and another, they didn’t thrive. I was gone most of the time, and Miss Roth has no talent for gardening. Galliard doesn’t mind vegetable gardening, but isn’t fond of the more decorative sort, beyond trimming and pruning.” She took a spoon and stirred her coffee. “Also, I’d like to get a tree or two for the back of the garden, against the fence. That part of the garden could use a little something extra. A willow or a couple of birches, I was thinking.”