Haunting Investigation
Page 13
“Front page, at or above the fold.” He clapped his hands. “Get back to work. I want to hear from Moncrief’s friends and family, as many as possible: five’s a minimum. Get the usual. Distress. Shock. Disbelief. How could it happen to such a man? You have a couple hours’ lead on the other papers; your calls are likely to get some information, so make the most of it. After two or three reporters phone, those people won’t answer.”
Poppy offered a casual salute. “Sir, yes, sir,” she said, as she had heard soldiers back from Europe respond to orders.
She walked down to her office, thinking as she went that she really didn’t want to spend hours making calls to acquaintances to discover their reaction to Madison Moncrief’s murder, that she’d rather go to the Hall of Records and find out more about Madison Moncrief’s accounts at Hadley and Grimes, but, she reminded herself, the calls are the job right now. She had drawn up a list of people who were friends of the Moncriefs, and decided to begin with them. Picking up the ‘phone, she gave the switchboard the number for Walter and Isobel Montgomery, and waited while they put the call through. The housekeeper answered the phone and told Poppy that Missus Montgomery was out and was expected back after three. The housekeeper did not suggest that Poppy leave a message.
Before the housekeeper hung up, Poppy said, “Please, tell her that I’ll try to reach her later. I’m Poppy Thornton.” She didn’t add that she was a reporter for the Clarion. She put a star next to the Montgomerys names on her list; her next call went to Bertram and Geraldine Chapman; this time things went a bit better.
“Chapman residence,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“Geraldine Chapman?” Poppy asked, recognizing her voice; she pictured the pretty, slender Geraldine in one of her elegant dresses, the hem eight inches above her ankles, the drape of the fabric revealing hints of what lay beneath. No doubt her dark-brown hair would be up in a sleek knot on the crown of her head, and she would have at least one rope of pearls around her neck, and a cigarette in her hand. “Missus Chapman, this is Poppy Thornton here. I’m calling to ask you some questions if you could spare — ”
“ — about Madison Moncrief. Yes, of course. I’ve heard already: murder. What a dreadful thing to have happened. Louise must be devastated.” She took an unsteady breath. “She’s been through so much.”
“I would think she has, and this would be more than enough on its own; to lose her husband so soon after she lost a child must be devastating,” Poppy said. “That’s why I’m calling friends of the Moncriefs rather than Louise herself.” She knew she would have to speak to Louise sometime, but she wanted to have Stacy with her when she did.
“That’s quite considerate, for a reporter,” said Geraldine, warming a little. “What would you like me to tell you?”
“Oh, your view on the case. I don’t mean accusations of guilt, but what you know about Madison’s state of mind recently. Did you notice anything that seemed out of character for him? Did he seem worried? Had he said anything about any difficulties?” That’s always a good place to start, she told herself.
There was a short pause, and then Geraldine said, “Well, the miscarriage was terribly upsetting to both of them, as you must know. Louise really isn’t over it yet, and I think Madison was more troubled than he wanted to admit; he was more stoic about it than she — as you might expect — but I know it must have been shattering. Still, that might have explained a suicide, but not murder.”
“How recently did you see Madison?”
“Just over three weeks ago, at the Sheridans’ party for the symphony. Louise wasn’t with him, and he seemed a bit at loose ends. He came with Christopher and Isme Greenloch, as I recall; they left early.” She hesitated. “After the Greenlochs went, Madison spent a fair amount of time with the Fairchilds — Humphrey and Mildred?”
“Mildred and I were at school together,” Poppy said, to reinforce her position; she added the Greenlochs to the list of people to ‘phone. “I’ll have to give her a call, as well.”
“I thought Madison seemed out of sorts, but under the circumstances, why shouldn’t he? He was so looking forward to being a father, and the loss of the baby was a burden to him. And he mentioned that he had things on his mind, beyond the miscarriage, but who knows what those things were.” Geraldine went on to describe her lunch with Louise a few days after the symphony gala, and then to express her concern for Louise. “She won’t find it easy without Madison. She’s depended upon him so much.”
Poppy felt this was an odd observation, considering how little time Madison and Louise had spent together for the last two years. “How do you mean?”
“He was so devoted to her, and not demanding or jealous, and how many women can say that about their men? He was willing to tolerate Julian Eastley’s hanging on Louise’s sleeve, and encouraged her to have their male friends be her escort when he wasn’t free to accompany her to events — but you know that. Your cousin Stacy took her to horse shows on several occasions, didn’t he. And the symphony once or twice. They say the two of them are great friends, don’t they? Not many husbands would be so lenient with their wives, or would only be so because they themselves were straying.”
“You mean Louise’s rumored affair, or something else?” Poppy dared to ask, knowing that Geraldine could stop talking to her at any moment.
“It all came to nothing, you know, that affair business. At the most she had a flirtation, nothing more serious than that. I never thought the story was credible — the identity of her supposed lover kept changing, and that usually means more gossip than substance.” She coughed delicately. “Bess Rymer told me that it was all a conflation of tales, nothing more, and she’s quite close to Louise.”
“Apparently you agree,” said Poppy, wondering how often she would have to listen to variations on this report today.
“Look, Poppy, I liked Madison, and I feel for Louise. What do you expect me to say?” She stopped herself. “Why not talk to Bess?”
“I will. And to Milly. And Isme. There are a few others on my list as well.” She was about to mention the rest of the names, then changed her mind; she didn’t want Geraldine alerting her friends about newspaper interviews — that would come soon enough.
“Well, I don’t envy you the task. But I’m relieved you’ll be making the calls, not one of those ham-handed reporters who barge right in with inappropriate personal questions the way they did after James Poindexter … um … died.”
“Thanks, Geraldine. I’m glad someone’s aware of how difficult such calls can be.”
“Yes. Well, say hello to your aunt for me, and to Stacy; I hear he’s in town.” She paused briefly. “Good-bye.” Then she hung up without waiting for Poppy to say the same to her.
Poppy looked at her notes and decided it was going to be a long afternoon. She checked off Geraldine, and prepared to make her next ‘phone call.
It was almost eight by the time Poppy left the office. By then Cornelius Lowenthal was gone and Matthew Pike ruled the city room. She nodded to Carlotta Upshaw who was just arriving, but did not stop to speak with her; she was too tired, too worn out from talking, and she needed to get home. Aunt Jo had been annoyed to learn she would be later than originally expected, and further delay would only add to her umbrage.
The rain had slacked off, but was still persistent enough to make her umbrella necessary to Poppy as she stood at the curb and signaled for a cab, telling herself that perhaps she should buy her own automobile rather than spend her time standing on the curb waiting for a cab, or a streetcar. After almost ten minutes, one pulled over, took her destination address, accepted the dollar-seventy-five she paid him, and drove off into the wet, shiny night.
Poppy had dozed on the way home, the voices of the eight people she had interviewed ringing in her head loudly enough to shut out anything Chesterton Holte might try to say to her. She knew there were more ‘phone calls to come, and didn’t look forward to another two or three hours of interviews.
Hawkins let her in with a warning look as he took her coat and umbrella. “They’ve gone into dinner, Miss. I served the soup not ten minutes ago, and there’s a salad to come after. That can be delayed a little if I open another three bottles of wine. If you’d go up and change right now, you can join them for the main course; I’ll let Missus Boudon know you’re here. Fortunately, the Smiths arrived late, and that slowed things down, or we’d be getting ready to serve dessert. As it was, they sat down almost twenty minutes later than Missus Dritchner would have preferred. Mister Tobias isn’t with us, incidentally; he is dining with his student and the boy’s grandparents. You will make thirteen at table.” He shook his head in disapproval.
“Ye gods. Aunt Jo must be having convulsions. Thirteen. Do you think I’d better take my dinner in my room?”
“No, I don’t. If you want my opinion, I think Mister Eustace planned this party of his to have thirteen at table, just to tweak his mother.”
It sounded like the sort of thing Stacy would do, Poppy thought. “Thanks, Hawkins. I’ll be down in twenty minutes.” Her estimate allowed a little time to repair her hair and do something about her face as well as change into more appropriate clothes; the rain had smudged her make-up beyond tolerable limits, she was certain of it, and she’d need something to put a little color into her cheeks. Maestro was curled on the bottom stair, the end of his tail, as usual, over his nose; Duchess was sprawled at the top, snoring loudly. Poppy managed to make the climb without disturbing either animal, and was almost as far as her room before Duchess set up an alarming howl that brought Hawkins running in dismay. Poppy suspected she knew the cause, for the light in the nearest sconce flickered; she looked over her shoulder and saw Chesterton Holte there, hovering, a bit off the ground, offering an abashed shrug. “She’s seeing spooks,” she said to Hawkins. “You might want to put her in the music room.”
From his place halfway up the flight, Hawkins called softly to the elderly dog, and waited while she gave up her baying and tottered down the stairs to be led off. “I’ll see she gets her dinner, Miss. You go along and change.”
Poppy hurried toward her bedroom, wanting to accost Holte before she dressed for dinner. “Don’t say anything until we can be private.”
“I looked in on you at the office around five, but you were so busy, I didn’t stay,” Holte said, and went through the door before she opened it.
Partly relieved to see him, partly vexed at his long absence, Poppy went in, turned on the lights, and sat down at her vanity, studying her face as if it were an antique in need of major repair. “I have to go down to dinner shortly so if you have anything to tell me, it’ll have to be later; I’ve got too little time for discussion right now,” said Poppy, feeling out-of-sorts as she began a careful repair of her make-up. “Where have you been all day?”
“Various places. Most of the time I was at Hadley and Grimes. You certainly stirred up a hornets’ nest there.” He seemed unusually pleased. “Whatever was bothering Moncrief, it wasn’t a figment of his imagination.”
Poppy took a damp make-up sponge from its bowl, thoroughly wiped her face with it, and returned it to its place. Devoid of what little powder had remained, she saw the circles under her eyes and the vertical line between her brows. “Oh, dear.”
“You have good reason to be troubled,” said Holte.
“How kind,” she remarked as she reached for her complexion emulsion. “I’ll look better in ten minutes.”
“Not your face; Moncrief’s murder.” He became a bit more visible. “There is something going on at Hadley and Grimes. I’ve spent half the day trying to find out what it is.”
“Why don’t you ask Moncrief?” Poppy asked, only a bit sarcastically.
“I did. He said one of the accounts he handled was not proper, possibly more than one.”
“Not proper how? What account?” Poppy asked, selecting a light foundation and some rouge. “Was it accidental or deliberate?”
“He didn’t go into particulars.” He moved back from her, out of her line of vision. “If you like, I’ll try again.”
Poppy was using mascara to darken her eyelashes. “Do you know the names on the account?”
“Of the business, yes,” he said. “There are three accounts that may be involved. He wasn’t specific about which of the three was bothering him.”
“I’ll want to get those from you later,” Poppy said. “But right now, I’m going to change.”
“I’ll join you back here after your guests leave, if you don’t mind.”
“They’re Stacy’s guests, but yes, let’s talk then.”
“Would you like to be alone?” His tone implied that he was not quite comfortable watching her do her face.
“Yes, please.” She rose and went to her closet. Something fairly impressive, she thought, but somber in color.
“The dark-turquoise silk evening dress should do,” Holte recommended, as he began to fade from the room. “You can wear your new shoes.”
It was aggravating to agree with him, but the dress was elegantly understated and surprisingly comfortable to wear, both of which were irresistible to her this evening. She began undressing, putting her clothes in the cleaning hamper before she took the dress from its hanger and worked it over her head. This, she told herself, then her hair and lipstick, then her shoes, a touch of scent, and she would go down to dinner.
FIFTEEN
CHESTERTON HOLTE DIDN’T MIND WAITING: HE DRIFTED INTO THE LIBRARY AND looked over the many titles on the shelves, stopping at one by B. Oliver Thornton, Changing Hopes; not a very original title, he thought, but he might have liked it better if he had been able to turn the pages to read it. He wished he could pull that one out, but his noncorporeality made this impossible, and he decided to ask Poppy to read him some of her father’s work at a later time; he felt he owed B. Oliver Thornton that much. He decided to wander down to the dining room and laze along the ceiling, the chandelier flickering a bit as he settled in. The dining room was looking splendid, he decided, the oak wainscoting newly polished, the silver and china gleaming on the mahogany table that had been lengthened with the insertion of two leaves to accommodate the thirteen places set around its graceful curves. The evening appeared to be going well.
Arriving in the dining room some fifteen minutes before Holte did, Poppy made her excuses for being late. “I’m very busy at work just now. Thanks so much for understanding.”
“You may sit down between Henry and Grace,” Josephine told her in her best entertaining-at-home manner. “It’s a pity the table is so unbalanced, but there’s no hope for it, though why Eustace decided on this seating arrangement, I can’t tell you. How inconvenient of Tobias to be away tonight.”
Poppy took her seat and repeated the demands of work had made her late.
“Do you mean your efforts at the Clarion?” asked Stanton Fernald, an old friend of Stacy’s who now worked on The Monthly Story Bag, a periodical for grammar school students that encouraged good behavior, respect for elders, admirable personal habits, honesty, cheerfulness, and Christian values, all wrapped up in moralistic little adventures in which virtue always triumphed and misconduct inevitably came to a sticky end.
“I’m afraid so,” Poppy answered and was immediately peppered with questions from the ten other guests about the murder. “Since I’m working on the … the death of Madison Moncrief, which I suppose most of you know.”
“Isn’t it a bit ghoulish to talk about it tonight?” asked Josephine, her demeanor quelling. “Most of you would have been at their fête tonight if this terrible thing hadn’t happened. Let us all respect the dead, and not do anything to remind us of what happened.”
“It worries me,” said Warren Derrington. “How did it happen?”
<
br /> Speculation was rife about who could have done such a terrible thing, which Aunt Jo eventually ended by announcing that murder was hardly a suitable topic for dinner table conversation. “And it’s rude to Franklin,” she added, addressing another of Stacy’s fraternity brothers, the second son of Paxton Grimes, of Hadley and Grimes.
“Nothing to do with me, Missus Dritchner; that’s father’s and Emory’s business, not mine. I have no reason to be involved with Hadley and Grimes, much as it might appear otherwise.” He saw that Poppy was staring at him speculatively. “It’s the diplomatic corps for me, when I finish my doctoral degree. Emory will replace father at the firm.”
“You can’t blame us for being curious, Mother,” Stacy protested, smoothing over the awkwardness, leaning a bit to look around the centerpiece. “Had things turned out differently … ” His words trailed off.
Derrington nodded to second this, and said, “Not a good thing, though; your mother’s right about that.”
“Then in the sitting room, over brandy, later, after all this unpleasantness is settled; tonight would be too early,” Stacy predicted with a wink. “You know how we all want to speculate, and we have Poppy to guide us, though she may be constrained by ethics.” He said ethics as if it were some sort of mental aberration.
“Stacy,” Poppy warned him.
Eleanor Croaton, one of Josephine’s oldest friends who had been a kind of spare aunt to Stacy through his youth, the widow of a prominent banker, made her contribution to shift the subject. “I was interested to see that Charles Dawes has announced that the commission on the dreadful German inflation is making progress on arriving at a plan that can bring it to an end and to stabilize the economy there.”
“Yes, he has,” Warren Derrington said, his expression suddenly brightening. “My company is very pleased that Dawes is on that commission, of course. Everyone is, I think. They need some good, old-fashioned American common-sense on that panel, and Dawes is the very man to provide it. The Europeans are still too caught up in issues of the Great War to be able to arrive at a reasonable solution.”