Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Business? No. There’s no reason I would know. But it couldn’t have been too bad; he had acquired some Egyptian chairs, and he had a pair of very fine Louis XV pieces that have been on display since January. They’ve attracted a lot of attention.”

  “What about Egyptian chairs? I assume they’re antiques, but what makes them special?” Loring asked, sounding confused.

  “You know; thanks to Howard Carter and King Tut everyone is mad for ancient — and not so ancient — Egypt. Everyone wants something with a Rameses or a Thutmoses on it. There’s a lot of junk floating around out there, but Knott has some authentic pieces and is proud as a — ” She stopped. “Has something happened to Percy?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Loring.

  “Not another so-called suicide?” she burst out, feeling offended.

  “No; this time it’s clearly murder. I’m just trying to work out the connections — if any — to the Moncrief and Poindexter cases, or case, if they’re actually tied.” Loring honked his horn at two large trucks. “You’ve got to admit that three murders in your stratum of society is pretty strange.”

  “Ye gods, yes,” said Poppy quietly. “Put it that way, and it’s damned odd.” She made no excuse for her language. “What’s happening?”

  “That is what I hope we can work out together; nobody in the department knows much about the antiques trade,” said Loring, slowing to a crawl to make his way through a cluster of delivery vehicles, half of them horse-drawn, that lined the street. “They have a parking lot in the rear,” he said as he caught sight of the Viennese Coffee House.

  Poppy nodded, watching while two muscular men wrestled large barrels down a ramp angled from the rear of their van. “They really work hard, don’t they?” she asked inconsequently.

  “Until their joints give out,” said Loring. “My grandfather was a stevedore; built like a bull, but rheumatism got hold of him, and he was finished a year later.”

  “You mean he died?”

  “Yes. Nine years ago.” He shrugged, extending his arm out the window to signal his right turn. “If you don’t want to go into the coffee house, we could talk in the car.”

  “Oh, no, Loring,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “You took me away from my second popover and I expect compensation for such a loss,” she said as he parked his Hudson. It was tempting to let herself out and remind him that way that this was a business conversation, but she sensed he would be offended by such a gesture, so she waited for him to come to help her. She got onto the running board and took his hand for the step down to the graveled lot.

  As his fingers closed on hers, he said suddenly and bashfully, “I want you to know I’m really grateful to you for all your help, though I probably show it badly. You see, usually when something happens with you high-class types, you close ranks and we can’t get through the barriers to find out what really happened, try as we might. This time, we may actually be able to solve these crimes, thanks to you, and get the culprit instead of some poor schnook who gets thrown to us so we can save face.”

  Poppy blinked in astonishment. “You’re welcome, I hope. But I don’t think of myself as a high-class schnook.”

  “No; high-class schnooks don’t,” he said, releasing her hand and starting toward the restaurant, not bothering to see if she was coming with him.

  Holte spoke in her ear. “I told you he liked you,” he reminded her in a smug tone.

  “He’s got a strange way of showing it,” she said softly, and frowned as she added, “If you’re right.”

  “Just think of him as a six-year-old boy — if he wants to make friends, he comes up and punches you on the arm.” Holte laughed reminiscently.

  “Hey! Thornton!” Loring was holding the restaurant door open for her, looking perplexed.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I had a little pebble in my shoe.” As improvisations went, she thought, this wasn’t half bad.

  The restaurant was more than two-thirds filled, though this was not a busy time of the morning. The waiters moved busily through the place, handling trays with the practiced grace of matadors handling capes. Clusters of lamps hung from the ceiling, looking very much like the gaslights of the last century, as did most of the decor of the place. The aroma of baking bread, vanilla, and nuts hung on the air in a warm, mouth-watering fog.

  “Do you have one of your booths free?” Loring asked the maître d’.

  “Of course, Inspector,” he said with a supercilious gesture. “Follow me.”

  “You’ve been here before,” Poppy observed, not expecting an answer.

  They threaded their way through the tables to a booth tucked into an alcove; the tables on either side of the alcove were vacant. The alcove itself was a handsome little place: the walls were padded and tucked, the table was glossy, the napery was pristine ivory, the flatware was shiny enough to be sterling.

  “Thank you, Claude,” said Loring, as he helped Poppy to slide into her bench; the maître d’ nodded and went back to his reception desk. “Do you want anything more than coffee, Miss Thornton?”

  “Do I? With the pastries they make here, of course I want more than coffee,” said Poppy with the assumption of indignation.

  “We’re going to be talking about a pretty brutal murder: you sure about wanting something to eat? Murder is never pretty, and this one was brutal. Not a very good sauce for breakfast.” His eyes were looking old and tired again, so Poppy took his inquiry seriously.

  Poppy hesitated. “We’ll start with the coffee. I’ll have a cheese-puff later, perhaps.” She chided herself inwardly for being cowardly.

  “Okay,” he approved and looked up as the lamp above them flicked off and back on. “Bulb’s going.”

  “Or needs to be tightened in the socket,” said Poppy, thinking that it was very like Holte to include himself in this meeting; she wondered where he was: hanging from the light-fixtures? sitting on the table like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland on his mushroom? floating above them like an invisible cloud? She brought herself to attention, removing her notebook from her unfashionably large purse, and taking out a pencil. “So tell me what happened to Percy?”

  “Last night, sometime between midnight and six a.m., someone broke into his house, bludgeoned Knott to death with a blunt instrument, and it would appear, stole a number of valuable pieces of furniture from his basement storeroom.”

  This news was shocking, and she made no effort to disguise her astonishment. “Are you sure?”

  Inspector Loring shrugged. “There are places where there is no dust on the floor.”

  “Is that why you say it would appear that pieces were stolen?” she asked as she spread her napkin on her lap.

  “Dust circles on cabinets, as well as the floor,” said Loring. “The dust was minimal, but there was enough of it to show that until very recently, something was there that isn’t there now. We have a couple guys over there comparing Knott’s inventories to what actually remains.” He signaled to a waiter. “Coffee for me, and for — ” Deciding at the last moment to splurge, Poppy said, “Hot chocolate for me, and a menu.”

  “Yes’m,” said the waiter, and sped away.

  “Hot chocolate, not coffee, or even tea?” Loring mused. “I wouldn’t have thought a tough girl reporter like you would like that.” He very nearly smiled, but it did not last. “Are you sure you want something so sweet?”

  “Yes; I don’t drink it often,” she said. “But it seems right for today.” She leaned forward to speak softly. “About Percy?”

  “Well,” Loring said, getting back to the business at hand. “There was a lot of blood, all over the place, sprays and spatters and smears. There was even some on the ceiling. By the looks of it, Knott went down hard. Bruises on his forearms and abrasions on his hands show he put up quite a fight.”

  She steadied herself, reminding herself that this was why she was here. “Do you know anything about the attacker? Where did the attack take place? I gather it was in his home, but w
here in his home?” Before he could answer, she went on, “I know you’re supposed to ask the questions, and I’m supposed to answer. I’ll do what I can to answer you, but I can’t not ask, now can I?”

  He chuckled. “No, I suppose not. So tell me what you know about Knott, and I’ll try to give you some information.”

  “Percy’s … was a very private person, good socially, of course, but secretive. His private life was very private.”

  “What kind of secretive?” Loring watched her consider her answer.

  “How do you mean?” she countered.

  “Was he mysterious, or sneaky, or all gloss and no substance? You say he kept his private life private — does that mean his business and private lives were separate, or that he made a point of not allowing his associates to know what he did in his spare time?”

  “Well, when it came to business, he kept confidences, the way most antique dealers do. I’ve been told he was tough in his dealings, but always provided value for money. He didn’t haggle very much. You paid his price or you didn’t get his wares. Uncle Alfred approved.”

  “Sorry, but he doesn’t seem the type, you know what I mean? I mean, you say he sang in his church choir — that’s not usually a hazardous thing to do,” Loring said. “Can you tell me more?”

  EIGHTEEN

  POPPY TOOK A COUPLE SECONDS TO THINK WHAT SHE SHOULD SAY, AND BEGAN tentatively, “He moved his antiques around almost every day, changing what was being featured. He wasn’t a weakling, in spite of the glasses. He swam regularly. I’ve heard it said that he was something of an outdoors-man — sailing and fishing — but that’s second-hand at best.” It was strange to think about Percy in the past tense, she realized, and immediately decided to ask Holte to find out what happened, and just as quickly decided against it. There was too much on her mind already.

  “One of those wiry types,” said Loring. “He looked to be quite fit. His home is remarkably neat. Most bachelors aren’t so fastidious.”

  She nodded. “He is … was very much a gentleman, but there was something about him that made me think that his beautiful manners were a veneer more than with most people. I can’t be specific, because he was polished enough to be — ”

  “You’re saying he was slick?”

  “More smooth than slick,” Poppy told him. “Percy was very intelligent, and classically educated, with an encyclopedic knowledge of his field; he was doing graduate work in Europe when the Great War broke out and the Department of State got hold of him.” She sat back a little, concentrating on what she was telling him. “After the war, he gave a series of lectures at All Souls Methodist Church on the histories of individual prized pieces in his collection, explaining how he was able to establish provenance for them. I went to one. My Aunt Jo attended them all.”

  “Do you think she’d talk to me?” Loring asked. “Maybe after I talk to your cousin?”

  “I’ll ask her when we get back. Why don’t you come in with me? I’ll introduce you and you can find out then if she’ll talk to you.” Poppy paused, then continued, “It’ll be harder for her to say no if you’re standing right in front of her.”

  The waiter appeared with his expertly balanced tray, deposited the two cups on the table, handed Poppy the menu, and went off.

  “To your good health, Miss Thornton,” said Loring as he picked up his cup.

  “And to yours,” said Poppy, doing the same. Her hot chocolate smelled wonderful, and although it was quite hot, she drank it enthusiastically. When she had consumed half the large cup, she put it down and said, “For someone in his position, there was very little gossip about Percy.”

  The light over their table flickered again.

  This time Loring paid no attention. “The man who works for him — Miles Overstreet? What do you know about him?”

  “Less than I know about Percy,” Poppy replied. “He has a Masters of Fine Arts. He comes from Delaware, or perhaps Maryland.”

  Loring regards her skeptically. “Perhaps?”

  “I told you I don’t know much about him. I don’t think I’ve met him more than twice, both times at Percy’s shop when Aunt Jo went there; she used to call in every few months, as a kind homage to Uncle Alfred. She likes … liked Knott in spite of his reticence. He’s not one … was not one to encourage conversation beyond a discussion of the pieces for sale.” She had a little more of the hot chocolate. “Miles Overstreet usually worked in the office and didn’t have much to do with commissions and customers. I don’t want to mislead you, Inspector.”

  “Thanks; I don’t want to be misled.” He added a little cream to his coffee and took a sip. “Do you think Overstreet might have reason to attack Knott?”

  “Ye gods, no,” she exclaimed. “Miles Overstreet’s probably the last man who would want to do Percy an injury.”

  Loring gave her a bemused stare. “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, for one thing, Percy paid him very well,” Poppy said.

  “Did they get along, or don’t you know?”

  “I think they must have — Percy left the business in Overstreet’s hands when he went on his buying trips. That suggests trust, if not affection. Do you mind if I make notes?”

  “For the moment you may.” He let her get herself set up and then asked, “Might there have been affection between them, beyond the usual sort that happens with associates?” He asked without any show of emotion one way or another, and he studied her response to his question.

  Poppy took a little time to weight her answer. “People always think that about a bachelor who is cultured, don’t they?” she countered, trying to maintain her aplomb. “I never saw any indication of it, but that isn’t unusual for such persons, is it? Such alliances are against the law, aren’t they?”

  “That doesn’t stop them from occurring,” Loring remarked, once again watching her closely.

  “What’s your sense of those two?”

  “No, it doesn’t stop them, but — How do I say this? My cousin is of the opinion that Knott … was a ladies’ man, but prefers … preferred … ladies of the evening. No need for emotional ties.” Now Poppy felt awkward; to cover this, she opened the menu and read through the extensive list of pastries. “That’s Stacy’s opinion, not mine. He tends to assume that everyone keeps secrets, you see, and likes to discover those secrets. If you want to know more about that, you’ll have to ask Stacy.”

  “I might, at that,” said Loring. For a short while he said nothing more, his manner distracted, then, “The body was … messy. He’d been bludgeoned and stabbed. Blood was everywhere. I said that already, didn’t I?” He looked away from Poppy. “I can’t figure out if Knott knew his killer or not. Wyman is going to have a look at him this afternoon and let me know his primary impressions tomorrow morning.”

  “Is that going to be difficult? the autopsy?” She assumed that it would be, but wanted to draw him out some more.

  “It isn’t going to be easy. The injuries are too extensive.” He looked away from her. “The whole thing is about the worst I’ve seen in a homicide, and that’s saying a lot. It was almost as bad as the trenches were.” He put one hand to his eyes, which was more distressing to Poppy than anything he had said.

  “When you can tell me what Wyman says, will you?” She knew she could be pushing her luck, but it was important to make the most of her opportunities.

  He stared at her. “I’ll tell you whatever I can, so long as I can keep some of it off the record.”

  The sincerity of this pledge took her by surprise, and she faltered. “Oh. That’s good of you, Inspector. Thank you.” To cover her sudden awkwardness, she signaled for the waiter and asked for a cream-puff, although she was not sure she could eat it — Loring had been right about that.

  “And bring me one of those twisty doughnuts,” Loring added to the order as if to make this easier for her.

  The waiter nodded, picked up the menu, and hastened off to bring their selections.

  “I hope the pastries
are as good as this place smells,” Poppy said, wanting to make their discussion less troubling than it had been.

  “Oh, better. You’ll like the cream-puff, I’m convinced of it.” He did not quite smile, but his eyes crinkled.

  A silence fell between them, and when it stretched out too long, and Poppy decided to venture a new topic. “So, will you want to come in and meet my aunt and my cousin when we’re done here?”

  “It’s a little irregular, but so’s this meeting,” Loring answered. “It could be useful to talk to your relatives; it could even provide me an entré to the upper crust, so I guess I’d better. I hope I make a favorable impression.” He drank more coffee and then held it out for a refill as the waiter returned with their pastries.

  “I think it’s likely that you will,” said Poppy, pleased that he would be so sensible.

  He shrugged. “Not everyone wants to deal with the police. We’ll see how it goes.”

  “Do you want to know anything more?” Poppy asked, as the waiter set a salad plate in front of her with a cocoanut-sized cream-puff before her, whipped cream atop it as well as within.

  “Yes, but just now, I want to have breakfast.” His doughnut was the size of a pie plate and it glistened with a sugar glaze. He used his fork to cut a wedge out of it.

  Poppy took her cue from him, and used her fork to cut into the cream-puff; the filling oozed out in several directions; she scraped it up with her fork and tasted it. “Marvelous,” she said as the sweetened, vanilla-flavored whipped cream spread over her tongue.

  “Better than your breakfast popover?” Loring asked, glancing up at the flickering light once again.

  “I wouldn’t say that, but this is excellent, and different from breakfast pastries at home.” She bit into the morsel she had cut away, and tried to think of what to ask. By the time she swallowed the piece of cream-puff, she was ready. “May I file a story on Knott as well as your current investigation of Madison Moncrief’s death?”

  “Not yet. But I’ll give you the go-ahead before nightfall.” He concentrated on cutting up the doughnut.