Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  TWENTY-FOUR

  AUNT JO WAS IN THE MUSIC ROOM AT THE PIANO, MEANDERING HER WAY through a Mozart Sonata, humming the melody-line as a kind of guide for her fingers; two floor-lamps provided the illumination for her instrument, and three wall-lamps imparted a gentle glow to the area beyond the piano. She looked up as Poppy came into the room, and used that as an excuse to stop playing. “So you’re back at last.” Anticipating dinner, she was dressed in a puce dinner-dress, one with a beaded belt and bead-edged bolero.

  “I am,” said Poppy. She pulled up a chair and sat down. “The cab was cold. I should have taken a coat rather than a jacket.”

  “Did it go well, dear?” She accented her question with a languid arpeggio.

  “Better than I feared,” Poppy admitted. “Has Stacy come back yet?”

  “No, not yet.” Josephine reached up and closed her sheet music. “Eustace can be the most aggravating boy.”

  “That’s nothing new,” said Poppy. “He’s been up to antics of this sort since he was child; I remember those days well: he’d make plans and then do something else entirely. But this time he has the excuse that his friend has been murdered.”

  Josephine shuddered. “Would you please not use that word? Killed is bad enough, but murdered! Are they sure Madison was killed by violent means?”

  “They are. Doctor Wyman himself told me. Poisoned and hanged.”

  “I don’t know how you can bear to talk to such persons.”

  This stung Poppy. “Ye gods, Aunt Jo: you talk to Archibald Wyman at the Symphony Gala every year, and at the July Fourth Croquet Match.”

  Aunt Jo summoned up all her self-regard and declared, “Well, of course I do, but never about his work. Those are charity events.”

  Poppy shook her head. “If you say so,” she remarked, thinking of the many guests at those events would seek out Doctor Wyman to learn all the juicy details that he was willing to reveal. Then she saw a movement in the corner, and stared, in case Holte had joined her, but it was only Maestro, who had been curled up on one of the upholstered chairs lined up against the wall. “When do you expect to sit down to dinner?”

  “How should I know?” asked Josephine. “Whenever Eustace and Mister Derrington come back — that is, if Mister Derrington hasn’t decided to return to New York.” She made a gesture expressing hard use. “The way young men act these days. I just don’t know.”

  “Would you like me to go up and change?” Poppy asked.

  “You might as well remain as you are. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.” She held out her hand to Maestro, who recognized the offer of affection for what it was, and came over to the piano, his tail in full plume, his purr growing louder as soon as Josephine’s expert fingers touched his ruff. “There, there, my sweet.”

  Poppy sighed, but kept her thoughts to herself. “What do you plan if Stacy doesn’t return? He and Warren may well dine out tonight.”

  While she continued to pamper her cat, Josephine thought for almost a minute. “I think I’ll order dinner for eight-thirty, whether or not Eustace is here. You’re right, Poppy — he and Mister Derrington may dine out, and it would be just like Eustace to forget to call me to let me know.”

  “Then I’ll join you in the sitting room at eight.” Poppy rose from the chair.

  “I’ll order drinks for us. I’ll have sherry, and you can tell Hawkins what you’d like before you go up to work.” Her voice went cold on the last word, but she achieved a slight smile, and added, “You truly are your father’s daughter.”

  To Aunt Jo’s astonishment, Poppy said, “You’re sweet to say that,” as she went out the door. Baffled by Poppy’s remark, Josephine resumed bedeviling Mozart, pausing now and again to stroke Maestro, murmuring endearments to the preening cat.

  Hawkins was in the dining room, and looked up when Poppy slid the left side of the pocket-door open. “Has Missus Dritchner decided how many to set places for?”

  “So far as I know, it’ll be just the two of us. At eight-thirty. Drinks in the sitting room at eight, if you please. My aunt will have sherry, and I’ll have cognac, the choice of the finger-food can be made in the kitchen.” Poppy saw the dejection in Hawkins’ eyes. “If you hear anything from Stacy, will you tell Aunt Jo? She’s worried about him.”

  “Of course, Miss Thornton,” Hawkins said.

  “I’ll be upstairs, trying to pound out a couple of pages.” Poppy stepped back and slid the door closed once more; she lingered a moment, wondering if the lights would flicker. As she reached the top of the stairs, she noticed that Duchess was pawing at the library door. “What now?” she asked the air, and twisted on the lights along the corridor before going into the library, feeling reluctant to enter so dark a room. The spill of light from the hallway provided enough illumination to help her find the way to her desk and turn on the lamp behind the typewriter.

  “You handled yourself well with Lowenthal,” Holte said from the alcove behind her. “Accommodating, but not subservient.” His voice, which had sounded distant at first, was now loud enough to cause Duchess to whine.

  She kept from jumping, but she swung around and stared into the darkness. “Ye gods! Can you stop doing that?”

  “Doing what?” he inquired politely as he glided toward her.

  “That!” Poppy almost yelled. “Just coming out of nowhere.”

  “What would you rather I do?” He sounded genuinely interested.

  “I don’t know,” she said in exasperation. “Announce yourself, or materialize in the same spot, or make a sound … no, that won’t work. You’d upset Duchess and Maestro. I gather Duchess was aware that you were in here?”

  “Probably,” Holte admitted. “She was aware of me when I first arrived.”

  “Well, at least we’ve established that.” She pulled out the chair and sat down. “I’m going to do some work so I don’t have to scramble tomorrow.” Removing the cover from the typewriter, she opened the second drawer down on the right side and took out ten sheets of paper and two carbons, sandwiched the carbon between two sheets and rolled them into the typewriter. Without waiting for Holte to speak, she began typing.

  “I didn’t get much information from Poindexter, Moncrief, and Knott.” He hesitated. “I wish I had something of substance to offer you, Poppy.”

  “When you say you didn’t get much information, what do you mean?” She stopped typing to stare at him.

  He gathered his thoughts. “This may be a little demanding; words don’t exist that really describe the state, so bear with me.” With that, he made a noise that might have been a clearing of his noncorporeal throat, and began. “Ghosts who don’t deal with the living on a regular basis often forget what they were like before they became ghosts. Poindexter is a little more forgetful than Moncrief, but he’s been dead longer. And Knott is still in shock, from what the other two said; I didn’t get to speak with him. I hope he realizes what has happened soon, so that I might be able to learn who killed him. He must know, or be able to describe his murderer.”

  “That would be useful, though I don’t know how to account for having that kind of information.” She typed a line.

  “Policemen don’t much sympathize with talking to ghosts,” Holte agreed. “You need to maintain credibility with them, for your own sake.”

  “I’m glad you understand,” said Poppy, a bit surprised that Holte realized the awkwardness of her position.

  “I’ll try to learn more in a day or two.” Holte sought out the sofa near the fireplace and extended himself over it and appeared to prop his heels on the arm.

  “Are you resting?” Poppy inquired.

  “In a manner of speaking,” said Holte. “Ghosts don’t sleep, but we do run low on energy. Just keeping partly visible takes concentration and stamina. I’ll vanish in a few minutes, and will work to restore myself.”

  “Then you might as well make yourself comfortable. I hope my typing won’t bother you.”

  “Type away.” He appeared to close his eyes
, and hovered an inch or so above the sofa seat; on the rug in front of the fireplace, Duchess whimpered in her sleep. “Don’t worry, old girl,” he said to the dog.

  Poppy began typing, working as steadily as she could. She found Holte’s invisible presence a bit of a distraction, but would not disturb him, for fear that she would not get sufficient work done before dinner if they started talking again. By the time the mantle-clock chimed eight, she left her pages in the typewriter, put on its cover, turned out the lamp, and went to the door, where she whistled quietly to Duchess, snapping her fingers to summon the liver-and-white spaniel. “Suppertime,” she called softly, and waited for the old dog to toddle over to the door and out into the hall before Poppy closed it, reminding herself that Holte could pass through it when he wanted to leave the room. She went ahead of Duchess down the stairs, and nodded to Missus Flowers, who was just going into the kitchen. “Good evening,” she said, and mustered her thoughts for apologizing to Aunt Jo for being tardy; Aunt Jo was a stickler for punctuality, and would expect some kind of expression of regret for this lapse in courtesy.

  Josephine was in the sitting room, a glass of straw-colored sherry in her hand, and a plate of crackers topped with baby clams in cream cheese, pickled onions, and celery sticks stuffed with paprika-flavored mayonnaise. She gave Poppy an impatient glance, and said, “Your cognac is on the sideboard in a thistle-glass. Hawkins suggests that we dine in the morning room, and I agree.”

  “I’m sorry for being late, Aunt Jo.” Poppy went to get her cognac, then settled on the other end of the sofa, well within reach of the appetizers. “And I may give Stacy a piece of my mind when he finally shows up.”

  “Let me attend to that,” said her aunt with an air of great indignation. “It may be that this is Mister Derrington’s doing; he doesn’t know much about the way we manage things in this household.”

  “Stacy does,” Poppy observed.

  “I’m sure Mister Derrington is over-riding Stacy’s good manners,” Aunt Jo announced in a tone that brooked no opposition. “Eustace is many things, but he is never rude — Mister Derrington is.”

  Unable to see how either of these things could be possible, Poppy tried to change the subject; she lifted her snifter, and said, “To your good fortune and good health, Aunt Jo,” before taking another sip. “I know you’d never drink your own toast.”

  “That’s nice of you; no, I would never drink a toast to me — it’s such dreadful luck to do so, and such abominable manners,” Josephine said, a little vaguely, her eyes distant. “That son of mine. Why does he have to be so secretive? I’m not inclined to gossip, particularly about my own family. Eustace refuses to understand: I don’t want to intrude in his life, but I would like to know where he’s been.”

  Poppy did her best to soothe her aunt. “This is hardly something new, Aunt Jo. Everyone knows it.”

  “He’s lively and easily bored, so he thinks up tricks,” said her aunt with great conviction, wanting to come to her son’s defense. “But it occasionally causes him to be inconsiderate. I don’t doubt that Mister Derrington encourages him in this.”

  “It seems to me that Stacy doesn’t need much encouragement,” said Poppy, a bit more acerbically than she had intended. “I’m not saying anything against Stacy, just that he’s been prankish and secretive his whole life.”

  “Do not disdain your cousin, Poppea. Have a little compassion.” She finished her sherry and reached for the crystal bottle to refill her glass. “He felt the loss of his brothers very keenly.”

  This remark was so wholly unlike what Poppy had experienced with Stacy from the time they were in grammar school that she took a little while to summon up something to say that would not contradict Josephine’s vindication of her son. “He … he doesn’t always think about the consequences of his actions, Aunt Jo, no matter what else he may do — except, I gather, in his business dealings. There he’s as canny as an owl.”

  “That may be,” Aunt Jo conceded. “It’s the dare-devil in him, don’t you know.” She had another sip of her sherry. “He’s not irresponsible.”

  “I suppose,” Poppy said, and took a cracker from the platter. To her amazement, she discovered she was hungry.

  “Are we going to have that policeman here in the morning?” Josephine asked abruptly.

  This sudden change in topic startled Poppy, until she mentally reviewed Aunt Jo’s train of thought: Stacy to the Moncriefs, the Moncriefs to the murder, the murder to Inspector Loring, or, she told herself, something along those lines. “That’s my understanding. Inspector Loring told me that he does need to talk with Stacy, to help him fill in some of the gaps in Madison’s personal background.” Poppy finished her cracker and took another.

  “I don’t see why that should be necessary. The poor man’s dead — let him rest in peace.” She finished her sherry, and once more refilled her glass. “Least said, soonest mended.”

  This troubled Poppy, who rarely saw Aunt Jo drink so much before dinner. Taking another judicious sip of cognac, Poppy realized that her aunt was worried, but could not bring herself to admit it; Aunt Jo, being Aunt Jo, could not accept that she was troubled, and so was masking her worry with sherry. “The police are doing their best to find out what happened to Madison; they’re sure to have an answer in time.”

  “In time,” Josephine echoed with scorn. “Those sorts of men! No grasp about people of quality. But how could they grasp our way of life, dealing with scoundrels and hooligans as they must do every day.” When she refilled her sherry glass once again, she almost spilled it as she carried it to her lips.

  “Have a cracker, Aunt Jo. They’re quite good.” Poppy watched her uneasily, realizing that her aunt was getting drunk. “Or the celery. I know you like stuffed celery.”

  It took Josephine several seconds to answer. “I don’t have much of an appetite,” she said indistinctly, and then added, “In fact, I’m tired. I believe I’ll have my dinner in my room.” She put down her glass, shoved herself to her feet, and tottered from the room, Duchess following after her.

  Poppy watched her go with mixed emotions; she admired Aunt Jo’s conclusion that Stacy was still the high-spirited boy he had been in his youth, but it bothered Poppy that there was more to Stacy’s behavior now than a simple desire to amuse himself. In the last ten years he had become cynical and manipulative, and both those traits troubled her. She took another sip of cognac, then set the glass aside, got up from her chair, and made her way into the morning room to have her solo meal accompanied only by her unrewarding thoughts.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  STACY CAME DOWN TO BREAKFAST HALF AN HOUR LATER THAN WAS HIS HABIT IN an unusually surly mood, his robe on over pyjamas instead of shirt and trousers, his hair negligently combed, and his eyes slightly red. He glared at Missus Flowers when she asked him if he preferred tomato or orange juice. “What I’d like is two aspirin and a cup of strong coffee, if you can manage it. I’m afraid I indulged myself more than usual last night.”

  Josephine, who was in her dressing gown gave her son a look of umbrage that only Maestro could improve upon, for though she was willing to defend him to others, she reserved the right to disapprove of him to herself. “You came in very late, I understand. Another sign of over-indulgence, perhaps. Perhaps we should both go to the one-o’clock service at Holy Family?” She had departed from her usual breakfast and was having poached eggs on a bed of corn-meal mush, and she would have a baked apple to follow; there was hot chocolate in her cup instead of tea. She, too, was looking a little haggard, a silent testament to a largely sleepless night.

  “Spare me the demands of piety,” Stacy declared. “Warren and I had a … dispute about the way I’m handling his dealings with … well, that’s not important. Business confidentiality, you know. We argued during dinner, and he went to a hotel for the night, or he said he would. I haven’t spoken to him this morning. I don’t know if he’s going to remain an associate of mine, and he said he would take his business elsewhere
before I left. We were both a little … indulgent, and I think it likely that he will reconsider once he is himself again.” He sniffed as if he had encountered a noxious odor.

  “What time did you arrive?” It was clear that Josephine expected an answer.

  “I’m not sure,” Stacy answered, and added, “It was some time after three, maybe as late as three-forty.” He yawned hugely and suddenly. “If he keeps to what he said last night, Warren will be by later, to pick up his things — unless he changes his mind, and stays in Philadelphia for the whole weekend and into Monday, which I hope he will: he’s an intelligent man, and there was nothing we disagreed upon that can’t be negotiated.” With a slow shake of his head, he fixed his mother with a stare. “We dined late, at Henry’s, in the upstairs room, and parted company about midnight.”

  “How did you get home? Did you call a cab?” his mother asked as she poked at the yolk of her eggs with a fork.

  “Couldn’t find one. I walked most of the way.” He coughed. “There were a couple of sprinkles during my walk, and my coat got soaked. I hung it in the mud room so it wouldn’t drip all over the house.”

  At once Josephine was distressed. “You didn’t get wet, did you? It would be horrid if you took si — ”

  “I won’t take a cold, Mother,” Stacy assured her, sounding bored. “The ‘Flu is long gone and no one catches it because of a little rain.”

  “You know best, I’m sure,” Josephine said in a tone that implied the opposite. She drank a little more chocolate.

  Stacy gave a tired chuckle. “Don’t be such a goose, Mother. You know I’m rarely ill.” He looked up as Missus Flowers came into the morning room. “Will you be good enough to bring me some strong, hot coffee, black? And then will you bring me French toast and sausage? Thanks, Bertha.”

  Unfazed by Stacy’s cavalier behavior, Missus Flowers put down a small pot of hot chocolate for Josephine. “Directly, Mister Eustace.”