“Good Lord!” Mildred turned a paler shade under her foundation and powder. “What on earth were they thinking, to show you the body?”
“I’m a reporter. I was sent to cover the story. The other reporters there saw the body, so why shouldn’t I, as well?” Poppy said, as if she had to defend herself.
“But still — ” Mildred interrupted herself. “I think it’s just too ghastly.”
“You may be right; it was pretty unpleasant, and perhaps worse because I knew him, however slightly,” said Poppy, glancing away from Mildred. “But, Milly, I hope you won’t think me ghoulish to say that this story could be the making of me as a reporter.” That thought had kept her calm during Loring’s questioning. “If I can work this story all the way through, make it everything Lowenthal wants, then I’ll be in a position to do the kinds of stories I want to do: stories with substance on real issues. No more Fine Books Society meetings for me!”
“But corpses — Poppy, that’s so lurid. I mean … dead bodies. Good gracious, I don’t understand why you don’t simply find the sort of man who can appreciate you and — ”
“Now you’re sounding like Aunt Jo. Twenty-four is not the end of the world, you know.” Poppy shook her head, and sternly corrected herself: twenty-five in a little over a month. “I’m not about to waste my life, and my education, simply waiting for some man to come along and bestow himself and all his goods upon me. For one thing, there’s a shortage of good men, or haven’t you noticed? Between the Great War and the ‘Flu, there aren’t enough left to go around for everyone. Some of us have to make other plans, and I have the temperament for it. If I’m going to be an old maid, I’d just as soon I do something worthwhile with myself.”
“But staying single! Deliberately? Aren’t you worried?”
Little as she wanted to admit it, Poppy was a bit worried, but was not about to acknowledge that to Mildred. “I have a good job, and if that fails, I have an inheritance. I’m more fortunate than a lot of women. I don’t have to settle for a man just to keep a roof over my head.”
“And, as you say, you do have ten thousand a year from your father’s trust,” Mildred said with a little frown. “That’s quite an independence.”
“Yes, it is. I’m grateful to my father for providing it, though I’d rather have him still alive than have the money.”
“Well, of course you would,” Mildred agreed. “You value your father’s memory.” She gave an impatient little sigh. “Perhaps a little too much? What man can live up to him?”
Poppy bristled. “I am not trying to find a substitute father, Milly, and well you know it. But I’m not about to — ”
“ — Settle for the first man who asks you. Yes, Poppy, I know. You’ve said the same thing for ages. But still.”
“He would have to be the right man, one who wouldn’t try to hedge me in, or turn me into an asset, or would resent my work. The thing is, Milly,” Poppy confided, “is that I like being a reporter, and I’m not so sure I’d like being married, especially if it were to the wrong man. That would be dreadful.”
“Why don’t you let me look around for you? I’m a pretty successful matchmaker, if I say so myself. If I had some idea of what you want in a man, I could start looking for someone who wouldn’t want to limit you, or any of the rest of it. You said yourself that I did well for Timothy and Bess Rymer, and Howard and Katherine Hall, and Dorian and Roberta Mitchell, and — ”
“Thanks, Milly, but I don’t think so.”
“But why not?” Mildred exclaimed.
“The trouble is, I’m not like you: I don’t know what I want, only what I don’t want,” she explained, surprising herself. “You knew what you wanted, and you got him.”
“My Humphrey is a prince, an absolute prince,” Mildred declared staunchly. “I am a very lucky woman.”
“And he’s right for you in every way. You two are clearly made for each other, and I’m very happy for you. He’ll be the god of your idolatry and he’ll dote upon you until you’re both doddering ancients. But, Milly, he’d drive me nuts, if I had to live with him, and I’d do the same to him,” said Poppy, making no apology for her slang.
“You’re being too hard on yourself, or too hard to please,” said Mildred, then glanced speculatively at Poppy. “What about Todd Powers? He seemed very interested in you. You could probably still get him back, if you wanted to.”
“Ye gods, why on earth would I want to saddle myself with someone like Todd Powers? He’s got money and position, as well as influence, but he’s just the kind of man who makes me savage, and I don’t mean that in a flattering sense. He’s arrogant, superior, and self-centered in the extreme. He likes to be gallant and protective because it makes him feel superior to poor, helpless women, and he says so. Oh, not in so many words, but in his condescending manner. When he crosses the street with a woman, he takes hold of her elbow, which doesn’t help at all, and forces the woman to lean on him.” Realizing that she had raised her voice too much, Poppy took and deep breath and went on more levelly. “He does say that behind every great man there’s a great woman, which is often true, sadly. When he says behind, he means that’s where a woman belongs — subordinate and devoted. Well, I don’t want to spend my life furthering someone else’s ambitions, thank you very much. I have ambitions of my own.”
“But Poppy, you’re going to be twenty-five. You’re running out of opportunities,” Mildred said with so much sympathy that Poppy had to stifle the urge to yell at her.
“Twenty-five isn’t antediluvian, Milly,” she said, though between Aunt Jo and Mildred, she was beginning to think it might be.
“You’re so much like your Aunt Esther,” said Mildred, thinking of Poppy’s father’s other sister, the one who had made a life for herself without a husband, traveling the world for the National Geographic Society and was presently somewhere in eastern Russia. “Always ready to take women’s parts, no matter what the circumstances. Sometimes I wonder how your family managed to breed two such different women as Esther and Josephine — don’t you?” She shook her head, and touched the corner of her mouth with a red-lacquered fingernail. “Esther hasn’t realized that there’s no need for Suffragettes any longer, or demonstrations, or protests. We have the vote, and the way is clear.”
“Milly, Milly, the vote’s just the beginning, a first step, not the end of the fight,” said Poppy. “And Aunt Esther is right: there’s a long way to go to true equality; the vote’s a good start, and we need it, but there are so many other matters we need to address. We have a great deal more to do.” She found herself breathing a little faster. “Don’t you want the right to control your own property? To bequeath and inherit without some male being part of the process? Don’t you want to be able to sign a contract without your husband co-signing? Don’t you want to be paid the same salaries as men earn?”
“Why should I bother myself with tedium? Oh, Poppy, you can’t tell me you want to have to handle all those details?” Mildred laughed.
“I’d certainly like the option,” said Poppy.
“But don’t you see?” Mildred persisted. “This way — with a husband — you can have the best of both worlds? You can vote and run for office and all the rest of it, but you don’t have to be on your own. You’re protected.”
“Protected means immature, incompetent, incapable,” said Poppy. “We protect children, not adults.”
“Oh, stuff!” Mildred exclaimed. “How can you say such things?” She was becoming distressed, and it showed, as she reached for her embroidered linen handkerchief and began twisting it between her hands.
“I say it because it’s true, and we both know it,” Poppy told her, softening her words with a smile. “Things are a little better than the way they were twenty years ago, and there are far worse conditions in many other countries, but — ”
“Oh, there’s room for improvement, I grant you, but the real fighting is over, like the Great War.” Mildred smiled back. “And I’m glad of it.”
>
“Perhaps,” Poppy allowed, though she was tempted to argue.
“You’re always looking on the dark side of things, Poppy. I can’t understand it, someone like you being caught up in all that darkness. You’re not willing to make allowances, or to take the time to concentrate on the good in people. Don’t you think you should try the light side, instead?” Mildred’s tone was rancorous, her eyes were severe, but her lips continued to smile.
“When there’s light enough, I will,” said Poppy, then sat back.
“Poppea Millicent Thornton, you are the most impossible — ” She stopped herself, touched the brim of her hat, and said in another tone, “Do you think we should ring for the waiter and order something?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” said Poppy, mentally chiding herself for becoming so insistent; she would never change Mildred’s mind, and she knew it.
Mildred was glad of the distraction ordering their meal would provide. “That would be a good idea, I think.” She reached up and pushed the small bell at the edge of the door. “I’m going to have soup instead of an appetizer. What about you?”
“I like the lobster bisque here,” said Poppy, aware that they had drawn back from a terrible, invisible brink.
“It’s one of their better offerings,” Mildred agreed. “I think I’ll have some, too, and cod to follow.” She slipped her handkerchief back into her coat-pocket. “Hasn’t it been a dreary spring? Don’t you long for sunny days?”
Glad to change to this innocuous topic, Poppy agreed that the spring was disappointing so far and that she would welcome a break in the weather. “But I hope we have a cooler summer than last year.”
“Wasn’t it appalling?” Mildred agreed at once, and turned to open the curtain for the waiter.
They ordered, and unfolded their napkins, each telling the other how hungry she was. From there, they went on to catch up on what their college friends were doing, how each other’s families were, what their plans were for the summer, and the astonishing progress of Mildred’s three-year-old twins, Portia and Miranda, both of whom promised to be real beauties, according to their proud mother. With the children to discuss, and Mildred’s recent purchase of three arm- chairs from Mayes Brothers, they dined convivially enough and parted on good terms, each promising to telephone the other within the week.
Splurging on a taxi-ride home, Poppy found herself in the back seat of a year-old Cadillac, her briefcase lying on the seat beside her, her purse in her lap, her umbrella propped against her leg. As she rode through the damp streets, her thoughts began to drift back to the Moncrief house and the story she had filed four minutes before the metropolitan edition deadline; she hadn’t waited around to see what Lowenthal thought of it, too worried that he might spike it after all. If more important news superceded the Moncrief story, Lowenthal wouldn’t hesitate to take it out. She’d wait until she saw the paper before she congratulated herself. Dinner with Mildred had eased the lingering questions about Madison Moncrief’s death, but now she harkened back to three minutes to five, when she handed the two sheets to Lowenthal, she had held her breath before obeying his wave of dismissal. She wanted to figure out the significance of every nuance of gesture, every inflection of tone, and what it meant to Lowenthal, keeping her on the Moncrief story. She patted her briefcase as if to console the carbon copy of her article inside.
“It was a good story, if a bit terse,” said a voice beside her in the dark of the passenger compartment.
Poppy almost jumped. “Ye gods! Don’t do that!”
“Read your mind?” Holte asked.
“Sorry, ma’am. The road’s a bit uneven here,” the cabby said.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” said Poppy, looking about. She closed the glass partition between her and the driver, then stared into the space beside her. “What’s going on here?” she whispered irately.
“I’m haunting you,” said Chesterton Holte in a conversational voice. He had almost appeared on the seat beside her, but seemed to be a hovering shape, not a presence. “Remember?”
“Shhh,” she admonished him.
“He can’t hear me,” he reassured her, lowering his voice to match hers. “Only you can. He can’t see me, either.”
“So if I talk to you, he’s going to think I’m crazy,” Poppy muttered.
“Ghosts aren’t perceptible to most people,” Holte reminded her.
“Just me, animals, some birds, and the occasional baby,” said Poppy very softly. “And one drunken sailor.”
“That’s right,” Holte concurred.
Poppy resisted the urge to shout at him, and instead, she said very softly, “Other than haunting me, what are you doing here? Do you only come out at night?”
“Hardly,” said Holte, continuing after a slight pause. “I’ve been following you all day. Part of my haunting.”
“All day,” Poppy repeated, reviewing her day in her thoughts, her frown deepening.
“From when you went down to breakfast until now.” He was like an exhaled breath on a frosty night: a white smudge in the darkness of the taxi’s interior.
“Ye gods,” Poppy said, aghast at what Holte must have witnessed. “All day.” She lowered her voice again. “Why?”
“I told you last night: I owe your family something for what happened to your father.” His tone became thoughtful. “At the time, I thought it was justified, a reality of the Great War — unfortunate but unavoidable. But after I died, I came to realize that it was another senseless loss in a sea of senseless losses, and that I had deprived your family of someone who should not have left you so abruptly.” He made a coughing sound. “So now that I grasp the … ah … error of my ways, I feel compelled to make up for the misfortune of his absence in your life. And it strikes me that your current assignment provides me a good opportunity to make a start.”
Poppy briefly asked herself if all of this could be an illusion, but she set that aside for the time being: she had some questions she wanted answered. “What do you mean?” she whispered; she would make up her mind about Holte’s reality some other time.
“Your story on the Moncrief killing was interesting. You had all the basic facts, and you presented them clearly, to the extent that you know them.”
“Thank you,” she said at her most acerbic.
Impervious to her tone, he went on, “You missed one point, however.”
“Oh?” Her tone offered him no encouragement.
“It’s an important point,” he said.
She couldn’t resist asking him, “And what would that be?”
“The point,” said Holte, “that Madison Moncrief was murdered.”
SEVEN
“MURDERED?” SHE EXCLAIMED IN A HUSHED VOICE, GLANCING SWIFTLY AT THE rear-view mirror and the driver’s face. “Ye g — what makes you think so?”
“Because he told me,” said Holte as if this ought to be obvious.
“He told … Of course,” she said sarcastically. “He’s a ghost now, too, is he? You’ve become acquainted?”
“Ghosts can converse with one another, you know, at least they come as close to it as their condition makes possible, ” he said, sounding huffy, then he took a more accommodating tone. “Not as we’re conversing now, but there are ways we’re able to exchange information and experience when we need to.”
“And you’re certain it’s murder, not some incomplete memory or a cruel game? I imagine dying can be perturbing when it happens, and one might not pay close attention to what went on around one.” She wouldn’t have thought that Madison would do anything so beastly, but if he had become a ghost under violent circumstances — if there were actually such things as ghosts — might he try to seek revenge through a misleading report? She tried to banish the whole farrago from her thoughts. “Besides,” she added, “is he sure?”
“That he was murdered?” Holte asked. “Yes, he is. That isn’t the kind of thing you make mistakes about, once you remember how it happened.”
“I guess you sho
uld know,” said Poppy, struggling to keep her voice low.
“I … um … witnessed his experience, as he had it, and it seemed to be murder to me, since he vaguely recalls someone got him up onto the chandelier: he didn’t do it himself,” he said, then added, “He couldn’t reveal who killed him.”
“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?” Poppy challenged, and noticed she was speaking more loudly again, and mentally shushed herself.
“Couldn’t, I think,” said Holte. “When a ghost is revealing something to another ghost, it’s nearly impossible to lie or obfuscate.”
“I suppose I should have known that,” said Poppy with a sarcastic glance at Holte, and noticed that the cabby was eyeing her in his rear-view mirror. She bent over her briefcase and went on in a whisper. “Can we do this later? I’m apt to end up in the asylum if I keep talking to you; the driver thinks I’m talking to myself and that worries him.”
“Very well.” As he fell silent he also vanished.
Left suddenly alone, Poppy felt very much, and very irrationally, abandoned. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered. She told herself she was acting like a schoolgirl, that Holte wasn’t anything real, that ghosts, helpful or not, did not exist, but she discovered that she missed him, and that it didn’t matter whether he was imaginary or not. She sat back, amazed at herself, and doing her best to make herself feel at ease; for the rest of the journey, she did her best to make her mind a blank.
“That’ll be a dollar fifty,” said the cabby as he drew up in front of Aunt Josephine’s house, looking relieved to be rid of her.
Poppy sighed, handed the cabby a dollar seventy-five and let herself out, taking care to make sure she left nothing behind. She was mildly surprised to find the porch-light out. She glanced along the street and saw all the houses were dark. “Damn,” she said aloud, in case Holte should be listening. “The butler’s in his apartment over the garage at this time of night, and there’s no bell: the power’s out again.” As she slipped her key into the lock and went inside she waved a dismissal to the cabbie; the taxi pulled away from the curb.
Haunting Investigation Page 5
