Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Holding his drink in one hand and the file in the other, he sat down on the settee as if he feared it might collapse. He set his glass on the occasional table at his elbow and opened the file, reading quickly, then asked, “Do you think the investigation is stalling? You’re not breaking much new ground in this.” He tapped the file.

  “I’m not sure. The police are playing this close to the vest and — ”

  “Is your Inspector Loring shutting you out?” Lowenthal asked, less pointedly than he would have done in his office.

  “No; from what I can tell, he’s as bewildered as anyone.” She noticed that he had not touched his whiskey, so she got up, saying, “I think I’ll join you,” and returned to the sideboard to pour herself a small cognac; she noticed that Lowenthal looked relieved. “I’ve been thinking that perhaps the investigation got off on the wrong foot. I think that we’ve assumed that the cops are right, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why is that?” Lowenthal asked, taking a first sip of his whiskey and nodding his approval.

  “Well, if we were talking about the gangs near the docks, the cops would treat the killing as rivals fighting over territory. Not just Madison Moncrief, but James Poindexter — whose cause of death is still undetermined: it is tentatively considered a suicide, but it could also be a homicide, according to the coroner — and now Knott. The reason the police think these are different and distinct cases is because of who has been killed, because of the social portion of the victims, not the nature of the deaths as such. If the victims were members not of the upper class but of criminal gangs, the police would be apt to lump the events together.”

  “But what kind of territory or enterprise would people like your relatives and friends fight over? Embezzlement is one thing for folks like you, but murder is another — they don’t execute you for embezzlement. It isn’t sensible, is it?” Lowenthal wondered.

  “When is murder ever sensible?” Poppy asked, thinking of her father, and Chesterton Holte’s claims about her father’s death.

  But Cornelius Lowenthal was warming to his topic. “You got big houses, big cars, political influence, lots of mone — ”

  Poppy dared to interrupt him. “That’s the same error the police are making, if you don’t mind my saying so. They think that upper crust families are above such things, that they leave any dirty work to their underlings, that they don’t resort to the kinds of violence that are apparent in this case. But what if they do?”

  “They?” Lowenthal inquired. “Aren’t you one of them?”

  “By birth, yes, but I’m also an unmarried woman of nearly twenty-five, and that makes me an oddity. What’s worse, I earn my living in an ungenteel occupation — from their point of view. I think I’m doing something more useful than hybridizing roses and attending lectures. And I refuse to be someone’s brood mare.” She thought of her recent meal with Mildred Fairchild, and suppressed a wince.

  “Is that the only reason you’re a reporter?” Lowenthal asked as he had a second sip.

  Poppy returned to her chair with her drink in hand. “It’s the primary one.” She lifted her glass in a polite toast and tasted the cognac.

  “Um-hum.” It was Lowenthal’s version of reciprocation.

  Missus Flowers appeared in the doorway, a tray of canapés in her hands; behind her came Duchess, a hopeful wag in her tail. “Where would you like me to put this, Miss Thornton?”

  Poppy looked around her. “If you’ll bring the larger nesting table and set it between Mister Lowenthal and me?”

  Missus Flowers put the tray on the sideboard and went to fetch the nesting table. “Would you like me to close the curtains? It’s coming on to sunset.” She paused, and added, “Your aunt is planning to dine in her room tonight since Mister Eustace hasn’t returned yet.”

  “Oh dear,” said Poppy.

  “Yes,” said Missus Flowers curtly, then continued more eagerly. “It’s Fisherman’s Stew — Missus Boudon made it before she left last night, and I’m about to put it on to simmer — and some rolls into the warming oven. What would you like? I can make an omelette or a sandwich if you would rather have a light meal.”

  “If you’ll send a bowl of the stew and a roll or two up to the library in an hour or so, I’ll be happy to have it,” said Poppy, vexed at her quixotic cousin for providing so little information about his activities.

  “And the curtains?” Missus Flowers prompted.

  “No need for you to close them, Missus Flowers, thank you; I’ll manage it when it’s needed.” Poppy moved in her chair in order to face Lowenthal a bit more directly. “In the meantime, perhaps a pot of coffee to accompany the stew — I’ll be working late tonight.”

  “Very good,” said Missus Flowers, placing the nesting table where Poppy had asked her to, and then went to get the canapés from the sideboard. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the old staff common-room; Missus Boudon said she saw mice in there yesterday. If they are in there, I’ll have to ‘phone the exterminator in the morning.” She tried to conceal a shudder. “I hate the thought of rodents in the house.”

  “Why not turn Maestro loose?” Poppy suggested. “He’s been known to present Missus Dritchner with dead mice.”

  “Mice hide in the walls,” Missus Flowers reminded Poppy. “Maestro might enjoy torturing a mouse or two, but I need to find how they’re getting in in the first place, and stop them.” She nodded once and left the sitting room, whistling to Duchess to follow her; the spaniel paid no attention, but wandered toward the table on which the tray of canapés had been set, a conjectural wag in her tail.

  “So places like this get mice,” Lowenthal said with the beginnings of a satisfied smile. “Just like the rest of us.”

  Poppy chuckled. “Mice are no respecters of social position.”

  Lowenthal took a deeper drink of whiskey. “I guess not.” The canapés were small cups of puff pastry filled with smoked baby oysters, cream cheese, and a morsel of candied ginger, all dusted with sweet paprika. Lowenthal reached out and took one. “Looks pretty nice to me, even without caviar and lobster,” he said before he ate it.

  “Missus Boudon — our cook — does much fancier appetizers. Missus Flowers is the housekeeper, and she has a limited repertoire when it comes to cooking. My aunt prefers it when Missus Boudon prepares the food; she always has a variety of offerings.”

  “But this is her day off?” Lowenthal guessed, his words muffled by the canapé.

  “Yes. Sundays and Wednesday afternoons, unless a formal dinner is planned.” Poppy took a small sip of cognac.

  He gave this information his attention. “Is that the usual arrangement in establishments like this one?”

  “Most servants have one day off — Sunday is the most usual — and a half-day at another time during the week. Missus Flowers has Monday and Thursday off, so that the staff remains fairly constant; she lives in, as the butler does: Hawkins has his half-day on Sunday morning and his full day on Monday, though he occasionally switches them.” She would have liked to know why he was asking, but was not willing to make it appear she was denigrating his standing in society.

  “Do the Moncriefs have servants who … live in?” Lowenthal asked. “You might get some information out of them, if they do.”

  “They have a housekeeper — Missus Haas, I think — who lives in, and, as I recall, a handyman as well — he takes care of the repairs around the house and looks after their two autos. Their cook — who is also Missus Moncrief’s personal maid — comes six days a week — Missus Reed, or maybe Reedly. I don’t know the handyman’s name, but Stacy should.” She slapped the arm of her chair. “Ye gods! You’re right. I should talk to them both, shouldn’t I?”

  Lowenthal shrugged and reached for a second canapé. “You might want to have a word with the housekeeper, at least.”

  “I’ll have a word with Stacy, as well.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why didn’t he suggest it? talking to the servants.”

  “He might have a blind spot
, the same way the police do, but in reverse; your cousin probably doesn’t have a high opinion of servants,” said Lowenthal, drinking down the last of his whiskey.

  “It’s possible. But I didn’t think of it on my own, so I need to think about my own blind spots — they’re shortcomings, and I ought to be rid of them.” She sipped at her cognac, and helped herself to a canapé. “This truly is turning into a complicated story, isn’t it?” She gave him no chance to answer. “I think that Missus Reed or Reedly will be inclined to talk to me, but I don’t know about the handyman, or the housekeeper. They’re likely to keep their talk in the household.”

  “You going to give it a try?” Lowenthal was watching her intently.

  “If I can.” If Inspector Loring had spoken to the servants, why had he said nothing about it to her? She had no answer that she liked.

  Lowenthal set his glass aside and prepared to rise. “When you turn in your work tomorrow, I’d like to see something from the Moncriefs’ servants. Do you think you can manage that?”

  “I’ll do my best,” said Poppy, and got to her feet, reaching for Lowenthal’s glass. “Would you like any more?”

  “I certainly would,” he said, picking up her file, “but I have to get your story into the paper shortly, so I had better leave. Besides, you have work to do, don’t you?” This nudge was far from subtle, and Poppy knew what Lowenthal wanted to hear.

  “You’re right, boss. I’ll call the Moncrief house in ten minutes and see what I can arrange for the morning.”

  “Atta girl,” Lowenthal approved. “Give my regards to your aunt.”

  “I will. You give mine to your wife, please.” She walked him to the front door and turned on the porch light. “Mind the third step on the walkway — it’s a bit uneven,” she recommended, and watched him make his way to his Dodge Brothers sedan; closing the door, she debated going back into the sitting room, but changed her mind and started up the stairs, trusting Missus Flowers to go in and remove temptation from Duchess’ reach.

  The library was a mass of shadows, and in an hour or so, it would be chilly. Poppy went to light the small fire laid in the fireplace, watching as the kindling winked into flame. She took a notebook from the desk and made notes to herself about calling the Moncrief house. It might be best to wait an hour to call, for that would be time for the servants’ dinner, and in the intervening hour, Stacy might come back to his mother’s house and provide some suggestions as to how she might best approach her latest assignment. While she waited, she composed the questions that she would ask the Moncriefs’ staff, assuming they would speak to anyone from outside the household. When the clock in the corridor struck five, she looked around with a start. “Get to work, Thornton,” she said aloud. At last she could demonstrate her perseverance and initiative, she thought, as she prepared to go down to the entry hall to the telephone, and the next stage of her investigation.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  MISSUS HAAS, HER RAW-BONED FRAME DRAPED IN SHAPELESS BLACK CREPE, WITH her brown-going-grey hair done in a severe bun at the back of her head, sad eyes, a knob of a chin, and posture that revealed fatigue, gestured to Poppy to come in. She closed the front door before looking Poppy over suspiciously, saying, “You were here with Mister Dritchner.” There was no cordiality in her manner; she fixed her gaze on some point three feet beyond Poppy’s head.

  “Yes, I was; it was a condolence visit. Today I’m here as a journalist.” She faced Missus Haas. “I believe I can be of some help.”

  “Help in what way?” Missus Haas asked.

  “My cousin has told me that Missus Moncrief is being dogged by the press. A good story on her situation could help lessen that.” She waited a moment, then added, “My cousin asked me to look into it.” This was partly true she thought, salving her conscience.

  “Your cousin isn’t here. He left over an hour ago,” Missus Hass said, prepared to dismiss Poppy from the building.

  “I’m sorry I missed him; he would explain my intentions better than I can,” Poppy fibbed. “But he isn’t why I’m here, because I don’t want to intrude directly on Missus Moncrief; I would like to talk to you and to Jeanine Reed — ”

  “Missus Reedly,” Missus Haas corrected.

  Poppy nodded. “Thanks for telling me. I’d like to speak to you both about the events surrounding Mister Moncrief’s death.”

  “Why speak to us?” She mulled the possibilities, and went on, “And why should either of us tell you anything?”

  “Because I believe you may have information that is important to the investigation, and I think you may be able to shed light on what happened to Mister Moncrief on his last days,” Poppy said, with more confidence than she actually possessed.

  “You’re a reporter, aren’t you? Missus Moncrief doesn’t want us to talk to reporters,” said Missus Haas, her manner becoming frostier.

  “I understand, and I wouldn’t want you to go against your employer’s instructions. You won’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but I hope you may have some intelligence that will help remove the suspicions gathering around Missus Moncrief. She has enough to deal with without that, hasn’t she?” Poppy kept her tone bland and her demeanor helpful. “It won’t take long.”

  “I don’t know … I ought to ask Mister Eastley.”

  Poppy was certain that Julian Eastley would put the kibosh on the interview, so she said, “Do you think that he would be willing to let me talk to him?” as if that would be a welcome development.

  “I don’t think so,” said Missus Haas, but there was a hint of umbrage in her manner that Poppy would prefer to talk to Mister Eastley rather than to her. “He’s keeping close to Missus Moncrief, in case she should need him.”

  “Sadly, his devotion may be contributing to the gossip,” said Poppy. “You and I know his conduct never crosses the line, but others do not see it that way.”

  Missus Haas nodded. “So your cousin has cautioned her. It is a most unfortunate development. When you think about what Missus Moncrief has been through — ” She turned a hard stare on Poppy. “Why do you bother with us when you can talk to your cousin? Mister Dritchner must know more than we do.”

  Poppy did not let this throw her. “He does know a lot, but he isn’t aware of the daily atmosphere in the house, as he doesn’t live under this roof. You know how it has been here, day to day, and that should tell me a great deal.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Missus Haas said thoughtfully. “We do have a … perspective that many others would lack.”

  “You see? You could help the public to understand how grueling the last few days have been for Missus Moncrief. You can show that she’s been distraught, and that she needs peace and quiet in this dreadful time.”

  Missus Haas blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that. I see your point.”

  Poppy took advantage of this opening. “Could you spare me ten to fifteen minutes, then? I don’t want to have to tell my editor that no one here is talking. With so much gossip spreading, and all the attention the press is giving Missus Moncrief, you could do much to silence all of that. I believe my cousin would agree with me on this. He has been most consistent in his condemnation of the way the case is being handled.” She offered a sympathetic smile before adding, “My editor might think you had something to hide, or that you’ve been forbidden to say anything to anyone if you’re unwilling to speak with me.”

  Missus Haas brooded. “I’ll ask Missus Reedly if she would have any objection to talking to you, and if she says it’s all right with her, I’ll join you.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” said Poppy mendaciously.

  Missus Haas made her decision and marked it with a small, single nod of her head. “I’ll show you into the front parlor. If you’ll wait there, I’ll have a word with Missus Reedly. She’s doing the cooking tonight; Missus Reedly is here on Sunday afternoons. She’s a very good plain cook.”

  “Not surprising,” said Poppy, wanting to sound in accord with the dour housekeepe
r. “Our cook is gone on Sundays. Our housekeeper cooks when our cook is out.”

  Missus Haas escorted Poppy to the front parlor, although she knew where it was. “There, Miss Dritchner — ”

  “Thornton,” Poppy said almost apologetically.

  “Oh, yes.” Missus Haas agreed. “Miss Thornton. If you’ll take a chair, I’ll tell you what we decide in the next ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, Missus Haas,” said Poppy, going to a grandmother’s chair away from the door and sinking into it, trying to keep from showing her eagerness for the interview.

  “Ten minutes,” Missus Haas repeated, and left Poppy by herself in the elegant room.

  Being alone, Poppy could not help but think of the next-to-last time she was in this house, with the police looking around the dining room, with the air of subdued hysteria filling the place, with Madison Moncrief’s body lying next to the dining table, a sheet over his lower body and a handkerchief covering the upper half of his face, the ruined chandelier dangling above him. The discomfort of the condolence visit of yesterday paled beside that dreadful beginning to this case; the image of Madison Moncrief lying on the floor became uppermost in Poppy’s thoughts. She resisted the urge to rise and go into the dining room, to have a look at it now that it was empty. It was nerve-wracking to wait.

  “Miss Thornton,” Missus Haas said from the doorway. “If you’re willing to come to the kitchen, Missus Reedly and I will give you fifteen to twenty minutes; we can’t spare much more than that. I hope it will suffice. All we ask is that you do not identify us by name in anything you write.”

  “That’s very generous of you both; I’m very appreciative,” said Poppy, and followed Missus Haas to the kitchen.