Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Poindexter and Moncrief. Moncrief may have discovered some irregularities in Knott’s records that troubled him. Poindexter had done so.” He frowned. “Knott did some things for your government during the last days of the Great War, and he maintained many of the contacts he made then after the war was over, not all of them above-board.”

  “Yes, I assumed that was what you meant. I suppose that ought to surprise me, but I don’t think it does,” Poppy said, wondering how she would confirm what he was telling her, and what — if anything — she should tell Lowenthal. “Stacy has always liked getting the advantage over others. Knott doesn’t seem the type to do such things, at least not as a game.”

  “From what Poindexter said, there have been questions about Knott for some time, but most of them expressed in hints and whispers; he had been a very dangerous person during the war.” Holte stared up at the ceiling. “I should probably advise you to get out of this.”

  “You already have. But I don’t care if this is dangerous — I’m already risking my career on the story.” Poppy looked at him with strong purpose in her eyes.

  “Will you let me try to find out how far the corruption goes before you push any further?” Holte asked.

  Before Poppy could answer, Hawkins knocked on the door. “Miss Poppy? Mister Eustace is waiting for you downstairs.”

  Poppy stood up abruptly. “I have to go. We’re making a condolence call on Louise Moncrief this afternoon.”

  “Please think about what we’ve talked about,” Holte pleaded, as he followed Poppy out the door.

  “I’ll try,” she said, and hastened down the stairs.

  TWENTY-ONE

  POPPY HAD RETRIEVED HER PURSE BEFORE RUSHING DOWNSTAIRS TO FIND STACY in the entry hall, tapping his fingers on the telephone table. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Stacy,” she said as he glanced toward her.

  “Busy on your story, or so mother told me,” Stacy said curtly. He was still in his navy- blue suit with a navy foulard-silk tie over a scrupulously white shirt. He offered her a too-smooth smile and a wink. “At least you haven’t changed clothes. That spruce-green should be dark enough for a condolence call.”

  Poppy would have liked to have given him a sharp retort, but knew this was not the time to wrangle. She took up his bantering tone. “Good. My dark-grey dress with the satin collar is being cleaned, and my dull-red suit is too bright.” She had worn the dark-grey dress to funerals for the last four years and by now had no other purpose for it than that. She was glad that she had on her new, sensible shoes and that she was carrying her over-sized purse, so that she would not appear too fashionable for such an occasion.

  “Touché.” Stacy laughed, a certain quality of meanness in the tone. “You’re always good with a comeback, Coz; that’s refreshing in our family,” he said as he opened the door for her. “Warren’s loaned me his Lincoln for the afternoon, so if you will come with me, we can get under way.” He bowed slightly.

  “How nice of Warren,” said Poppy, moving quickly down the walkway. “I thought he was planning to come with us.”

  “He was, but something came up. Business.” It was obvious to Poppy that Stacy would not explain more than that.

  She took a quick look around, noticing that the clouds were fading away; only scraps of them remained, like bits of tissue against the sky. The new green in the trees now shone a bright, pale shade; a few leaves were coming open, and there was good reason to hope that winter had left the city at last. As she reached the Lincoln, she prepared to open the door, saying, “Thank him for me when you get the chance.”

  “I will,” said Stacy, stepping between Poppy and the door.

  Nonplused, Poppy asked the first thing that came into her mind. “Will he be staying here, or will he go back to New York?”

  Stacy opened the passenger door for her and held it while she got into the car. “How should I know?”

  “He’s your friend. I thought he might have said something.” She settled herself as the door closed, trying to decide if she should have worn a hat to make this call. “Since we’re not going to be in church, I decided it would be all right to — ”

  “Don’t fret about it, Coz; it’s not like the death was expected, or has a full diagnosis yet; Louise won’t expect you to be in mourning mufti,” he said as he depressed the starter on the Lincoln and was rewarded with a mechanical purr. He rolled down the window and signaled with his arm, then pulled out into the street. “Warren has good taste in cars.”

  “If this is any example, he certainly does,” said Poppy, and smoothed her skirt. “I appreciate you taking me with you, Stacy.”

  “So you’ve said,” was his rejoinder. “Just promise you’ll leave me out of any articles you write. I don’t want to have to answer any questions beyond the ones your inspector friend is going to ask me tomorrow.”

  “All right,” Poppy said, making a bargain that she knew Lowenthal would not approve of. “So long as you don’t keep anything back from me.”

  “It’s a deal,” he said, and turned toward the street that would, in six blocks, bring them to the Moncrief’s house. They covered most of the distance in silence, but as they neared the house on Hamilton Place, they saw a number of cars parked near the house. “Friends of yours, Coz?” Stacy asked pointedly.

  “More likely friends of yours; the society-page press have staked out this house since they heard about the death. So have the cops, I understand,” Poppy countered, looking around for an open space at the curb, and noticed that two of the cars were from the police; there was no trace of Inspector Loring’s car.

  “I’ll park in the driveway,” Stacy said, and gave the arm-signal for a left turn. “Louise won’t mind.”

  “You’re driving,” Poppy said, trying to decide how to approach Louise Moncrief; she knew it would be useless to seek Stacy’s advice on that; he would be his usual impertinent self, and that would be no help at all.

  Stacy parked, set the brake, and got out to come around to open the door for Poppy. “I’ll be there in seconds, Coz, just hold on,” he called as he came around the front of the Lincoln, pausing a moment to look over the cars in front of the house. “You’d think watching this house would be a waste of time,” he said as he approached. “It’s hard enough for Louise to manage everything that’s on her plate now: to have to do it under constant scrutiny is making it much worse for her.”

  This time Poppy opened the door before Stacy reached it, and got out of the Lincoln. “You don’t need to do the pretty with me, Stacy,” she said, trying not to sound too critical. “Most of my colleagues don’t.”

  “Do you give them the opportunity?” Stacy asked, and closed the door behind her, then took the lead going up to the front door.

  Marian Haas, the Moncriefs’ middle-aged housekeeper, opened the front door; she was dressed in black, and her eyes were red. “Mister Dritchner,” she exclaimed as she recognized Stacy. “Missus Moncrief will be pleased to see you.” She opened the door more widely. “The black wreaths will be here tomorrow,” she added, as if chagrined by this lack.

  “I’m sure it’s been a trial for you, Missus Haas,” said Stacy with an unusual air of sympathy. “No one expected this.”

  “No, no. Certainly not,” said Missus Haas. “Who would ever imagine that such a thing could happen?” She stepped aside to allow Stacy to enter, Poppy coming behind him.

  Stacy turned as soon as he was in the entry hall. “This is my cousin, Miss Thornton; she asked to come with me to extend her sympathies to Missus Moncrief.”

  Missus Haas nodded once, as if Poppy’s presence was a breach of courtesy. “The house is still in disarray. The police haven’t finished their work here, and until they do, we must leave everything the way it was when Mister Moncrief … died,” she said with great dubiety. “I’m informed they will be finished tomorrow.”

  “How inconvenient for you,” said Stacy. “Will Missus Moncrief see us?”

  Recalling herself to her household duties, Mi
ssus Haas indicated the sweeping semi-circular staircase to the upper floor. “She and Mister Eastley are in the conservatory. They’re expecting you. I’ll arrange for some refreshments to be brought up. I’m sure you know the way, Mister Dritchner.”

  “Yes, Missus Haas, I do,” Stacy assured her, and signaled to Poppy. “This way,” he said as he started up the stairs.

  Poppy took a firm hold on her purse and began the upward climb, admiring the entry hall as she went; when she had been in the house the day before yesterday, she had not had a chance to look at this place, and the few times she had been here before, it had been lavishly decorated. The entry hall, like most of the house, was a later-Federalist style, with a large chandelier with a lavish display of cut crystals to enhance its brilliance hanging in the adjoining drawing room, throwing a host of tiny rainbows into the entry hall. There was an elaborate fanlight over the front door, and above, in the ceiling, a Tiffany skylight lent its many-hued splendor to the entire entry hall.

  “That replaced the old dome back in 1887,” Stacy informed Poppy as he reached the gallery. “Take the corridor on the right.”

  “It really is a lovely house,” said Poppy. “I’ve only been here four times before, and the time before this doesn’t count.”

  Stacy chuckled softly. “Had other things on your mind, did you?” He entered the corridor and went along it at a brisk walk. “I don’t know how Louise will be, so wait until you get a sense of her state before you pepper her with questions.”

  Stung, Poppy said, “Thanks for the warning, or I might have begun at once.”

  “So earnest,” Stacy said, obviously amused. “You do always take the bait.” He was almost to the end of the corridor; the conservatory glowed ahead, a large, high-ceilinged room with slightly milky walls of windows and a great number of plants on shelves and tables. Wicker furniture in the center of the room was painted as white as the shelves and the cabinet of what Poppy decided must be for gardening supplies.

  There were two people in the room: on a Mayes Brothers chaise lounge, a beautiful woman with a mass of loosely dressed blonde hair and an extremely fashionable dress of layers of black organza reclined, like a woman in one of Degas’ paintings, every lineament of her posture expressing sorrow; in the chair beside her, a tall, lean figure of a man with an eye-patch and a moustache was rigged out in a black three-piece suit, a dove-grey shirt, and a black tie, his whole demeanor somber, which for him was not unusual.

  “May my cousin and I join you, Louise?” Stacy asked from the door, a suggestion of mischief in his voice.

  Louise Moncrief glanced up, and her face transformed with a smile. “Oh, Stacy! Yes, please, come in. And your cousin, too.” She rose gracefully from the chaise and drifted toward him, her widow’s weeds fluttering around her. “These last two days have been so ghastly.”

  Stacy took her hands in his, kissing first the left, then the right. “I can’t imagine what you must be enduring.”

  “It’s been dreadful. Everything has been melancholy, until you arrived. I depend upon you to lighten the gloom.” She sighed, then glanced at Poppy. “Oh, yes. I remember you. You were at one of our parties, weren’t you?”

  Poppy decided not to take Louise’s hands. “Yes. Two, in fact. I had a lovely time.” Even to herself, this sounded inane, so she tried again. “My sympathies, Missus Moncrief. This must be a most difficult time for you.”

  “That it is,” Louise said, turning back to Stacy. “That’s why it’s such a pleasure to see you, my friend. Thank you so much for coming.”

  Julian Eastley had risen from his chair, and now made his way toward Stacy. “Dritchner. How kind of you to come. Louise has been looking forward to seeing you for the last hour and more.” His voice was low and hoarse, a reminder of the gassing he had taken during the Great War. “And your … cousin?”

  “Poppea Thornton. Poppy,” she said, holding out her hand to him. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Captain, although this is such a sad occasion.”

  “Oh, no more captain. I’m Mister Eastley now.” He hesitated, then shook her hand. “Yes, this is a most sad occasion. I don’t know that I’ve encountered anything so distressing since the Great War.” He turned to Louise. “Won’t you sit down again, my dear? You are not to exhaust yourself.”

  “Oh, Julian, I won’t. Stacy quite invigorates me. He’s so much droller than you are.” She punctuated this by laying her hand on Stacy’s arm. “You must help me to my chaise, Stacy, if I become faint.”

  “Of course, Louise.” He grinned briefly. “Missus Haas said that she will have some refreshments sent up, so Poppy and I will linger a while.”

  “That’s sweet of you,” she said, floating back toward the chaise. “Is there any news, beyond Madison, that is?”

  “Hasn’t Neva kept you abreast of the gossip?” Stacy inquired lightly.

  “All her gossip is from Baltimore and Washington — isn’t there anything local?”

  “There’s nothing nearly as engrossing as Madison’s death, I’m afraid, and you’ve already said you don’t want to talk about that any more.” Stacy gave Louise an arch look. “Would you like me to make something up?”

  “It’s tempting,” Louise admitted as she sank back down on the chaise, leaned against the back cushions, and lifted her legs in a single, graceful motion, onto the extension of the chaise. “But it probably wouldn’t be very tactful.”

  “No, probably not,” said Eastley with a lugubrious shake of his head. “It would be attributed to a lack of grief, not an expression of it.”

  “Don’t be a wet blanket, Julian,” said Louise petulantly. “I’ve been weeping for two days solid, and I need to stop. You have no idea how fatiguing it is to grieve.” She gave an artful sigh. “It’s not that I didn’t adore Madison, and I’m desolated that he died, but I can’t end my life because he ended his.”

  “No, you can’t,” Stacy said with more genuine compassion than Poppy had ever heard from him. “But you can’t drop sorrow like an old pair of shoes, Louise. It doesn’t work that way.” He sat down on the end of the chaise lounge, just beyond her feet. “You’ll feel better if you let yourself cry some more, when you want to.” He patted the thick cushions that upholstered the chaise. “You can’t remain in seclusion forever, but it would be fitting that you do for now, at least until after the funeral.”

  “You always think of me, Stacy.” She stared up at the shining ceiling. “I know you’re right, but just now, I’m so weary of it all. It’s bad enough that Madison is dead, but having the police here makes it so much worse. I feel as if I were an animal in a zoo, and everyone is peering at me. And all those reporters!”

  “They’re all doing their jobs, Louise,” Stacy reminded her; Poppy, who had sat on the most distant of the wicker chairs, winced at how Louise would feel if she remembered that Poppy was a reporter, and at that moment, intercepted an ironic glance from Stacy.

  “Once the police finish their investigation, you’ll have a private life again, Louise,” Eastley promised her.

  “And when will that be?” Louise demanded, and began to cry.

  “You could go to Baltimore, stay with Neva and her family; most people would understand,” Stacy said soothingly.

  Louise shook her head, using her lace-edged handkerchief to wipe her eyes. “I can’t stand it. I simply cannot stand it,” she sobbed.

  “Louise,” Eastley exclaimed, and came to her side to clasp one of her hands in both of his, his face rigid with emotion.

  Stacy was more bracing. “Missus Reedly will be coming up with refreshments in a couple minutes, unless Missus Haas deigns to bring them herself. Do you want her to tell your staff that you’re coming apart at the seams?”

  Poppy resisted the urge to squirm, and hoped that no one would pay her any attention.

  “Dritchner?” Eastley challenged him. “What are you doing? Can’t you see you’re distressing Louise.”

  “Whatever it is he’s doing, I wish he would do more
of it,” Missus Moncrief said.

  “I’m sympathizing. If you don’t think that the staff is talking about Louise’s state of mind, and Madison’s death, you’re more of a dunce than I think you are. At least they know to keep it in the household,” Stacy told Eastley in his most blighting manner. “Louise doesn’t need her people telling everyone that she is a perfect wreck, and you can be sure that that’s what her staff will be saying among themselves if they aren’t already; Madison’s death is too juicy to be ignored. Do you understand what I mean, Louise?” To Poppy, this last sounded almost threatening, but it served to bring Louise back under control.

  “I do know,” said Louise faintly. “You’re right. I’ll do my best to maintain my decorum.”

  “That’s wise of you,” Stacy approved.

  “Yes,” said Eastley, in sudden agreement. “You’re a brave girl, Louise. You’ll silence all the talk, I’m sure you will.”

  Louise had a black-edged handkerchief in the hand that Eastley was not holding, and she was using it to wipe her eyes. “Speaking of those observing my grief, what must your cousin think of me?” she said a bit wildly to Stacy. “You told me that she works for the Clarion, didn’t you? She could say … anything.”

  “Don’t worry about her. She won’t talk out of turn, will you, Coz?” He turned toward Poppy, a warning look in his eyes.

  Poppy shook her head. “No; I’m not one to gossip,” she said, reminding herself that there was a difference between gossip and reporting — or she hoped there was. “I’ll respect your privacy,” she added, knowing that she was fibbing again, but promising herself not to expose Louise Moncrief to more rumor-mongering than was absolutely necessary.

  There was a tap on the door; Louise blotted her tears and stretched out on the chaise again; Eastley released her hand and took his place in his usual chair; Stacy got up and went to the largest set of shelves and looked at the plants in the pots there. Louise called out, “Come in, Jeanine.”