Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “None that said so out loud, or not where I could hear them.” Josephine sniffed to show her dismissal of such an absurd notion. “I know that he and Ralph van Rijn didn’t get along, but, of course, Ralph doesn’t get along with most people.”

  “What was the problem between them — do you know?”

  “They disagreed on financial and political issues, and Ralph wrote a harangue about it.” She made a tisking sound.

  “What does van Rijn do that his opinion would attract attention — if it did attract attention? From what you just told me, it must have led to some discussion.”

  “He’s a critic, of course. He publishes regularly in the Philadelphia Review — not that anybody pays him much attention,” said Josephine, appearing unimpressed by that distinguished monthly magazine.

  “Why did he dislike Moncrief?” Loring’s pen was poised over his notebook.

  “Ralph doesn’t approve of obviously successful men under the age of forty,” said Josephine with a gesture of disapproval. “And he doesn’t have a much higher opinion of successful men less than fifty.”

  Loring looked down at his notebook, closed his pen, nodded once, and said, “Thank you very much, Missus Dritchner; I realize this has been unpleasant for you, and I apologize for that. You’ve been most helpful. And thank you for the coffee.” He put the pen and notebook back in his pocket, rose, and took his cup and saucer back to the tray on the cabinet. “I would not have pressed you as I did if it didn’t involve a death.” His countenance was sympathetic.

  “You must do your job, of course,” said Aunt Jo, her frostiness thawing a trifle. “I’m happy to do anything I can to help discover why Madison died.”

  Poppy took her cup and saucer back to the tray, a faint smile curving her lips; she was amused by the way Inspector Loring had buttered her Aunt Jo up, and how successful that buttering had been. “Thanks, Aunt Jo,” she said as she turned away from her aunt and prepared to leave with Loring. “It was very kind of you to speak with the inspector.”

  “He’s very good,” Holte said from behind her right shoulder. “He could have been a newsman.”

  “Ye gods! Don’t do that,” Poppy whispered, concealing her jump of surprise by rattling her cup.

  “My apology,” said Holte.

  “You ready, Miss Thornton?” Loring asked from the door.

  “Yes,” Poppy said, and went to join him, going through the door he held open for her; in the corridor, she found Hawkins waiting for her.

  “Mister Eustace asked me to tell you and the inspector that he has had to go out. It couldn’t be helped; it’s urgent. Something to do with Mister Derrington. He will pick you up in an hour, when you’ll visit Missus Moncrief. He wants you to be ready on time.” He ducked his head as a sign that was all he had to say.

  Loring closed the door behind them, and turned to Poppy. “Then I’ll arrange to talk with him later. I’ll let you get on with your day, Poppy.” He seemed unflustered, but the fatigue was back in his eyes.

  “I’ll call you after we see Louise.” Poppy went with him to the front door and opened it for him. “I hope you will forgive my aunt her conduct.”

  “She thinks the police are beneath her,” said Loring, and chuckled. “I think she’s charming.” With this surprising announcement, he went out the door and down the steps whistling, at the curb he stopped, and turned back toward her. “Tell your cousin I’ll see him tomorrow.”

  “I will,” Poppy called out before she closed the door.

  TWENTY

  “THEN WHAT THE DEVIL IS GOING ON?” LOWENTHAL DEMANDED, HIS VOICE loud enough to be heard by Josephine, who had left the music room and now was in one of the large chairs in the sitting room, away from the telephone table in the entry hall; she was knitting, with Duchess curled on the floor at her feet.

  “As I’ve told you, I don’t know, boss,” said Poppy, keeping her voice low, not wanting to have to explain the conversation when she hung up. “I’ve arranged with Loring to get a briefing on Knott’s death after he interviews my cousin, which he is planning to do tomorrow. He told me the basics while we were at the Viennese Coffee House, but I’ll try to find out more. And I’ll do what I can to learn more about Moncrief this afternoon.”

  “So what did you worm out of the Inspector over your chocolate and coffee? And is that all he was willing to buy for you?” He laughed ponderously, then got back to business. “Do they see any connection to the Moncrief murder? Knott isn’t quite the same, but there are enough things in common about both men that you can mention them in your report, at least that’s what Constable Bachus told me half an hour ago.”

  Constable Bachus was known to be a primary source for most police cases, and was well rewarded for his dependability; Poppy was not surprised to learn that Lowenthal had already spoken with the cooperative constable. “I’ll ask Loring,” she said.

  “Well, see what more you can get him to tell you. After all, you’re doing him a favor, aren’t you?”

  “What would you like me to include?” Poppy asked, trying not to sound tired.

  “Anything that seems to be the same about the cases. Not just in the deaths themselves — those are different — but there may be some commonalities that we can hang a group of articles on. For example: were there some missing objects at the scene? If so, what? What about the state of the body? How much did the cop tell you about that?” Lowenthal asked. “By the way, how was the food?”

  “The cream-puff was the size of a cantaloupe, and yummy. I was just sorry we had to talk about murder while I ate it.” She took a more serious tone. “As to the murder, I have nothing concrete so far; the autopsy hasn’t been done yet. Percy Knott was found dead in his home, bludgeoned to death, nothing about it suggestive of suicide, which was the case with Moncrief, though it’s clear that Madison didn’t kill himself. The police are searching for clues to determine how he was killed. He may have been drugged, but that hasn’t been confirmed. When Loring questioned my aunt, he confined himself to background on Madison Moncrief; neither of us said anything useful to either of us about Percy Knott, or if we did, I’m not aware of it. And before you tell me to try to find out more, Inspector Loring wouldn’t be more specific than I’ve already told you. The coroner hasn’t been much more forthcoming. Inspector Loring has assured me he still needs my help, so I should have something more concrete later today, after my cousin and I call on Louise Moncrief. I’ll try to make the evening edition if I get anything worthwhile. If I can’t get anything tonight, I’ll have something tomorrow.”

  “Pity, with two ts,” said Lowenthal.

  “Dreadful business,” Josephine sniffed as she stopped to count her stitches; she had been listening to Poppy’s side of the conversation. “I don’t know whether you should be involved in any part of it.”

  Poppy resisted the urge to respond to her aunt, and said to Lowenthal. “Do I report to you on this, even though it’s the weekend?”

  “You report to me,” he snapped. “You get some kind of solid information to me, and I’ll make sure it’s posted, so no one else gets assigned to the story. But you’ve got to perform for me. It’s hard enough to keep the owners from ordering one of the regular crime reporters on the case without you skimping on material. If you don’t turn in a piece I can use, I’ll have to hand the story off to someone else.”

  There it was: the threat of being sent back to the Society page. Poppy swallowed her indignation as best she could, and concentrated on trying to keep her assignment. “Why do that, when I already have my foot in the door with the people involved. So far I’ve been able to talk to people most of your reporters can’t reach. I think I can run with this, if you don’t keep me on too close a leash.”

  Lowenthal grunted. “You got a point there, Thornton. You’re right. Stay on your story, but keep me informed at every turn. No wildcat ventures. Your advantage cuts both ways: if anything happens to you, your entire upper-crust will slam the doors against us. You got that?”


  “Thank you, boss,” She said, keeping her sarcasm in check; then she paused, not wanting to rouse Josephine’s indignation. “So you do want a piece for Monday morning in addition to the story for this evening? By the way, thank you for the extension of my deadline. Once I talk to Louise, I’ll have a better story for you. I should be able to have the Monday story to you by tomorrow afternoon. If nothing else, this evening I can do a couple hundred words on Louise’s state of mind in the wake of Madison’s death.”

  “Yes, I want something as soon as you can get it to me — say, about five hundred words, if you can get enough information out of the police to fill up the column with substantial information beyond the widow’s grief. Make sure you confirm as much as you can. Two sources, always. People like the Moncriefs will sue if you get anything wrong, so keep your speculation to a minimum, and identify it for what it is. If you can find anything on the money factor, that should help. People like to read about money; don’t go looking for scandal unless you have impeccable sources for reporting it.” He said this in a calmer voice, and added almost appreciatively, “I hate to make you work on Sunday, with family and all.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Poppy, noticing the table lamp trying to sputter on; she wondered what Holte might be able to find out about Beaman Beaman Trevillian and Cooper, or Sansome and Company, or Hadley and Grimes. She wanted to find a way to get Stacy to talk about International Business Associates.

  “When do you see the police again?” His question was sharp.

  “Later today, or at least we’re supposed to talk. Tomorrow we’ll probably meet when he comes to talk to Stacy.”

  Aunt Josephine sighed, and began another row of knit-one-purl-two. “I wish you didn’t have to talk to that dreadful man.”

  Which dreadful man, Poppy asked herself: Inspector Loring, or Lowenthal? “Sorry, boss,” she said to the receiver. “I didn’t hear that last.”

  “I said, are you certain that this guy is being square with you?”

  “I believe so, since he’s looking for information from me as much as I am from him. He knows if he isn’t forthcoming with me, I won’t be with him.” She rubbed her eyes, feeling frustrated by the whole morning.

  “Call me after you talk with Moncrief’s widow, and after you talk to Loring; I’ll want to hear everything you find out,” Lowenthal told her. “Between her and the cop, you should have something useful by then.” He made a kind of growl, meaning he was thinking. “We’ll work out how to take the next steps.”

  “Yes, sir,” Poppy said, “I’ll call you before four.”

  “Damn right you will,” he said, and hung up.

  Poppy set the telephone back on the table, then turned to her aunt. “Sorry.”

  “I suppose it can’t be helped. But what a rude man he is.” She sniffed and once again took up her knitting.

  “He certainly can be,” said Poppy, and got up from her chair.

  “I don’t understand why you put up with his behavior.”

  “He’s my employer,” Poppy explained. “And I like working for him, in spite of his manner.”

  “But you don’t have to — ”

  Duchess got to her feet, growling softly at an empty place in the room, her hackles rising.

  “Oh, lie down, you foolish creature,” Aunt Jo told her dog. “There’s nothing there. You’re as bad as Maestro.”

  The lights flickered again, this time near Poppy’s aunt. Duchess woke up and began to bark and bounce on her front legs.

  “I don’t know what’s got into her. She’s been on the verge of hysterics for nearly a week, barking at nothing and carrying on. I suppose I should take her to the vet — she probably needs worming.” Aunt Jo went back to knitting. “Pets can be such a trial.”

  Poppy could not help but feel embarrassed on behalf of Duchess. “She isn’t doing this to annoy you — she’s protecting you, Aunt Jo. Do you think she could be hearing something we can’t?”

  “Hearing what?” Aunt Jo asked, sounding perplexed.

  “I don’t know. I can’t hear it. But dogs have keener hearing than we do.” Poppy was doing her best to sound rational. “Cats, too,” she added, thinking of Maestro’s response to Chesterton Holte’s presence.

  “Duchess! Lie down,” said Aunt Jo to her spaniel; Duchess continued to growl at the empty air. “I don’t know why I bother — she never minds.”

  “You could let Noah Bemis train her,” Poppy suggested. “Missus Collier swears by him, so does Lydia Gradissen.”

  “Iona Collier has an Italian cook, and as for Lydia — well!” Aunt Jo declared, dismissing the idea of a trainer for Duchess.

  Duchess calmed down, made a yap of satisfaction, sniffed the air, then toddled back to Josephine’s chair and curled up again at her feet.

  “Whatever it was, it’s gone now,” Poppy said, and gave her aunt a faint smile. “I have to get some work done before Stacy gets back — he’ll probably want to leave at once.”

  “He probably will; he’s always been impatient,” Aunt Jo declared fondly, then sighed. “Of course, if you must, you must.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Jo,” said Poppy. “But, yes, I must.” She blew her aunt a kiss and left her to her knitting. As Poppy climbed the stairs, bound for the library, she heard Holte speak in her ear, his voice so low she could not make out the words. “What do you want?” she whispered.

  “I’ll wait until we’re alone.” The voice was a bit louder, but still hushed.

  “You tell me no one can hear you but me,” she reminded him.

  “That’s true, but once the library door is closed, we can talk more readily, and a little louder.” His voice faded.

  “Have it your way,” Poppy said as she reached the top of the stairs and made the turn toward the library. She knew she should begin work on the piece about Louise Moncrief, filling in the basic information about her before the coming visit, but she wanted to find out what was on Holte’s mind, so as soon as she opened the door to the library, she went toward one of the three occasional chairs near the fireplace rather than take her place at the desk. She selected the wing-backed one, and sat down, addressing the room as she did. “All right. What do you want to tell me?”

  Gradually Chesterton Holte materialized, more or less sitting in the nearest of the other two chairs. “It’s about the Knott killing. It looks like you’ve got yourself into a situation.”

  “What kind of situation?”

  “A dangerous one,” said Holte somberly. “You could be poking a hornets’ nest, Poppy.”

  “Oh.” Poppy was startled, as much by his demeanor as by what he was telling her. “What do you know about it?”

  “A fair amount, but I don’t know how much will be useful to you.” He stared at the stove. “This is a very tangled problem, far more than I originally supposed.”

  “You mean the Hadley and Grimes connection — if there is one?”

  Holte faltered. “That’s part of it. Those three companies are … troublesome.”

  It was going to be one of those conversations, Poppy thought. “How do you know this? Is it one of your dubious sources again?”

  “If you want to call them that, since I can’t provide any confirmation in any form that your editor would accept, but that doesn’t lessen the risk you’re taking; there are higher stakes emerging than I anticipated,” he admitted, then launched into his news. “James Poindexter told me about doing business with Knott, and not in antiques, or not directly.”

  “How was it indirect, then?” she asked him.

  “The antiques were tangential to his real work,” Holte said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Poppy asked, becoming intrigued.

  Holte looked over his shoulder as if he expected someone to interrupt them. “It was the nature of Knott’s work that he traveled with a fair amount of money, in cash, and occasionally he did this for some of his friends as well, under circumstances that won’t tolerate close scrutiny. Your cousin is one of those w
ho has used Knott’s accesses to make deals with some of the men in the oil business and the covert antiquities trade in the Middle East. There are other transactions we’re starting to check out. His antiques business was legitimate, but it wasn’t his only occupation. The same might be said of your cousin.”

  “Stacy, involved in something shady?” Poppy asked, more curious than alarmed.

  “Do you think it impossible?” Holte asked with more sympathy than Poppy had expected. “I don’t know the extent of his activities, but Poindexter swore it was true. Knott admitted as much, as well, in general terms.”

  “And what would he — oh, yes, the financial records, and contracts.” Poppy made a gesture of her understanding. “He would have access to such things, wouldn’t he? Poindexter would.”

  “And so would Knott,” Holte concurred.

  “Is Stacy deeply involved, or on the fringes?” Poppy made herself ask.

  “I’m not sure. Neither was Poindexter. Moncrief wouldn’t discuss it.”

  “Knowing Stacy, he would regard the whole thing as a game; he sees most of life that way,” Poppy said, giving a tight little nod.

  “That wouldn’t astonish me. He strikes me as someone who likes matching wits with others,” Holte said. “Your cousin would make a good spy.”

  Poppy tried to smile without success. “You would know.”

  “Yes, I would.” His admission was more morose than smug. He dropped a little lower in his chair, his arms floating above the arms of the chair like a water-strider on the surface of a lake. “According to both Poindexter and Moncrief, Knott always found ways to account for the money: the antiques market is volatile, and there are number of ways that documentation can be altered without raising many questions for doing it.”

  “And you say Poindexter told you this? Moncrief, too? In the dimension of ghosts?” Poppy inquired, trying to decide what credence, if any, that she should give to these revelations. “How do I get confirmation on this? Where do I start?” She waited for him to answer, trying not to chafe while she did.