Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “And you wonder why I don’t like the thought of you working on such appalling material,” Mildred said.

  “You’re far more capable of mothering and family life than I am, and you do adore your children. I’m overjoyed that you’ll have another; it’s marvelous that you are getting to have it.”

  “Oh,” said Mildred, chastened. “Well, that’s different.” She could not help but add, “I don’t know how you can stand to work on something so sordid.”

  “It’s important, Milly. People need to be informed.” Poppy heard Mildred sniff. “I’m making headway, and that’s encouraging.”

  “But murder … ”

  “It isn’t pleasant, but uncovering the truth is satisfying,” said Poppy, knowing that Mildred would not understand.

  “But murder isn’t the sort of thing a lady should have to address. Leave such ugly things to men,” Mildred recommended. “Surely there are more pleasant things to report. This preoccupation you have with crime can’t be healthy. There must be other events you can report.”

  “There are, and I’ve been doing them for two years and I am bored beyond endurance,” Poppy admitted.

  “But can’t there be important events other than murder? Stories that won’t bore you?” Mildred exclaimed. “Surely covering the legislature or scientific discoveries would be important, and exciting.”

  “There are other, more important stories than Great Books and Garden Society meetings, but I want to cover crime, and that includes murder. Think about it, Milly: women get murdered as well as men. We should be aware of how such crimes are pursued,” Poppy could not stop herself saying.

  “Oh, Poppy! How are you ever going to find a husband if you keep on this way?” Mildred was almost crying with vexation. “There are times I despair of you: there really are.”

  “Ye gods, Milly, don’t carry on so, please. You know what kind of woman I am, and I hope you’re willing to bear with me, since I’m not likely to change,” Poppy responded, placating her friend. “If it’s easier for you, consider me a lost cause. I’m finally doing what I’ve wanted to do for years and years, and I’m not about to stop now.”

  “I know,” Mildred wailed.

  Poppy took a deep breath. “Look, Milly, I’ll be at your party on Tuesday night. And I’ll be on time.”

  “No matter what?” Mildred asked tremulously.

  “No matter what,” Poppy promised.

  “I’m so glad! It will be delightful to have you here to celebrate with us.”

  “Shall I bring a present?” It was the right thing to ask, and Poppy knew it.

  There was a brief hesitation, and a sense that Mildred thought this was embarrassing. “Only if you want to. Having you will be a present in your own right,” she said, and at her inadvertent pun, and repeated it in case Poppy had not got it. “You being present will be a present.” Then she did her best to chuckle.

  “I got it, Milly,” said Poppy. “Seven-thirty. I’ll be there. Word of a Thornton.”

  “Thank you, Poppy. Truly, thank you. It means a lot to me.”

  “I’m looking forward to it, Milly. And I hope you have a healthy, happy baby,” said Poppy, preparing to hang up.

  “Oh, so do I! We’ve been so lucky with Miranda and Portia, I hardly dare to hope that we do as well again. I suppose it’s all in God’s hands now.” She sighed wistfully, then continued in a more social manner. “You must be about to dress for dinner. I’ll let you go.”

  Poppy had no intention of changing clothes to dine tonight, but she accepted this dismissal gracefully. “I’ll see you on Tuesday. Thank you for your good news and your invitation. I’m honored to be included.”

  “That’s so nice of you. Have a lovely evening.” Having discharged her mission, Mildred hung up, leaving Poppy to wonder how she would tell Lowenthal that she would not be able to work late on Tuesday. She replaced the receiver in its cradle and went back up to the library with the intention of finishing her story. But when she sat down at the typewriter, all thought deserted her; she stared at the page trying to pick up her narrative thread without success, and realizing that her writing lacked concision; it was all over the place, unfocused and incomplete. Annoyed with herself, she pulled the page out of the typewriter, separated the carbon paper and set up another sandwich of pages, which she rolled into the platen; then she stared at the blank sheet, waiting for inspiration to strike. She got up from the desk and began to pace, almost wishing that Chesterton Holte would manifest himself in some way so that she could discuss this lack of concentration that had come over her. But there was no sign of the ghost, and she had to accept that he would not appear on request. “You’re procrastinating,” she chastised herself. “Get back to work.” She went back to the desk and sat down.

  “How is it going?” Chesterton Holte spoke out of the third window embrasure, and became a shiny spot in the air as he approached the desk.

  This time Poppy did not jump. “It’s not,” she answered curtly.

  “It didn’t go well with the Moncriefs’ staff?” He was immediately in front of the desk. “I thought that sounded promising.”

  “It was, and I think I can get something worthwhile out of it, but it’s not coming together well. I’m scattered.” This last admission appalled her as she heard herself speak. She decided to change the subject. “When you’ve questioned Moncrief in your ghostly dimension, has he ever said anything about wanting to resign his position at Hadley and Grimes?”

  Holte thought for almost a minute. “Not that I recall. Why?”

  “The Moncriefs’ housekeeper and Louise’s maid seem to think he was talking about it with friends.” Poppy reached for her notebook and flipped through the pages. “It was shortly before Louise miscarried. Apparently Madison had been putting in longer hours than usual at the firm, and may have found something that troubled him about one or, perhaps, more than one of his clients.”

  Holte swung in the air in a way that appeared to be like pacing. “I’ll ask him, if you like.” He waited for her to answer, and when she did not, he continued. “Have you talked to anyone, other than the servants, who heard him say anything about resigning?”

  “I was planning to call some of the Moncriefs’ friends a little later this evening, after I’ve had dinner with Aunt Jo. Lowenthal will want at least two sources on this, and he won’t count both servants as independent sources, and he’s probably right.” Poppy leaned back in her chair, beginning to feel worn out. “I need a short break.”

  “Not surprising,” said Holte. “You’ve been working quite steadily these last several days.”

  She nodded. “And I’m starting to get ideas I don’t like.”

  “About the case?”

  “What else?” She sighed and straightened up again.

  “And what ideas are those?” Holte asked, and before she could answer, suggested, “Proving yourself?”

  “That’s part of it,” Poppy allowed. “But I’m beginning to think that Stacy is mixed up in this more than he has admitted to being.” Now that she said it, she felt both better and worse.

  “I see,” said Holte. “That is troublesome.”

  “It’s necessary,” Poppy responded. “If I’m going to do my job, I have to admit that Stacy appears to be part of whatever crime is at the heart of these murders.” She stared at the filmy outline that was Chesterton Holte. “If you can learn something from the ghosts that could point me in the right direction, I’d be grateful.”

  “And that would be good?” Holte inquired, although he knew the answer.

  “It would help my career, at a time when a little help could make a difference.” She shoved her chair back from the desk. “And I’m ashamed of myself for putting my career ahead of my cousin’s interests.”

  “Why?” Holte asked. “I doubt he would put your interests ahead of his.”

  “That’s a wretched thing to say,” Poppy protested. “I’ll grant that Stacy has a host of faults, but …” She thought of some of
the things she had said against Stacy, and suddenly flushed with embarrassment.

  Holte became a bit more visible. “Be careful, Poppy.”

  She heard something in his words that demanded her attention. “How do you mean? Why do I need to be careful?

  “You know why,” Holte told her. “You’re worried that your cousin is involved in at least one of the murders in some way.”

  Poppy felt her face redden. “And?”

  “It’s how I’ve been trained to look at things,” he said.

  “But why should I look at Stacy that way?”

  Holte did not answer directly. “Keep in mind that I was a spy, and I because of that, I have a very untrusting nature: I think you’re right about your cousin — that he’s somehow caught up in these murders. I’d be surprised if he’s the primary miscreant: he doesn’t seem the type to get his hands bloody, or to take such risks. It seems more probable that he connects to them indirectly, but I feel he knows more than he’s telling you, or anyone else; he’s hiding his knowledge behind his claim of professional confidentiality.”

  Poppy watched him, her expression of shock not entirely convincing. “Thanks,” she said, watching him rise into the air.

  “You don’t mean that,” said Holte.

  “No, I don’t,” she admitted. “But I have been thinking that I was inventing trouble where there was none, imagining tigers in the dark. After all, everyone in our class knows everyone else, and we all keep secrets. So I haven’t wanted to believe that he is connected to these killings, no matter how indirectly. But it looks much too likely that he … might have had something to do with them. ” She hesitated. “I don’t see what could be the link, or what he could get out of such an association.”

  “Do you think he is capable of blackmail?” Holte suggested, his manifestation growing a little brighter. “Perhaps he’s withholding information because someone is paying him to keep silent?”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say!” Poppy exclaimed.

  “Does he need money?” Holte pursued.

  “Not that I know of,” Poppy replied, but reminding herself that Stacy did not often discuss his financial affairs, and when he did, it was in the broadest generalities. “He certainly doesn’t live as if he needs funds.”

  “But it is possible,” said Holte.

  “I guess it could be,” Poppy said, feeling increasingly troubled. “People tell him things, and he might — if he were in trouble — take advantage of what he knows.”

  “Do you believe he might extort money from someone, based on his knowledge?” Holte dropped back down to floor-level, watching Poppy intently.

  “I wish I could say no, but I can’t. I don’t want to suggest that he … would take advantage of a friend, but if he looked at it as a game … ” She bit her lower lip. “If he’s really entangled in this mess, I think he should get out of it as soon as he can. But I’d need to talk to him directly, try to persuade him to go to the authorities and make a clean breast of it.”

  “Would he take your advice?” Holte did not apologize for his directness. “Or would he do the opposite of what you recommend?”

  “He hasn’t paid much attention to anything I’ve said in the past, but then, people he does business with have not been dying violently before now.” She shrugged. “I suppose I ought to try to convince him to talk to … not the police — he wouldn’t do that. But he might talk to Denton North; he’s an assistant District Attorney, and our neighbor’s son.”

  “There’s one thing you might want to know,” said Holte, more slowly. “Knott told me that Warren Derrington’s mother is a cousin of Montague Grimes.” He paused, then hurried on, “I don’t know if this has anything to do with the case, or Derrington’s disappearance, but I thought you might find it useful.”

  “Ye gods, yes, I want to know,” said Poppy. “You’re right — it may be nothing, but that kind of connection might turn out to be important.”

  Holte did something that might have been a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Poppy.”

  “For being willing to suspect my cousin of being part of a capital conspiracy?” She wanted this to sound sardonic, but it came out indignant.

  “For being prudent,” he said. “If you should end up in danger, there isn’t very much I could do to help you.”

  “Noncorporeal. I know.”

  “And I want to keep you out of danger, not put you in the middle of it.” He wavered, then wafted over to the wing-backed chair.

  “You’ve explained that already,” she said, wanting to change the subject.

  Holte became a little more defined. “You’re full of pluck, but you’re delving into some very sinister doings.”

  “Good of you to say so,” she said, her nervousness returning.

  “I want to help you keep out of trouble,” he insisted.

  “So I gather,” she responded.

  He stretched out his semi-visible legs and crossed them as if his heels were resting on an invisible hassock. “I hope you still think that by the end of this investigation.”

  She chuckled angrily. “No more than I, Holte, I promise you,” she said, and returned to her typewriter. “Lowenthal’s sending a courier. I’ve got to finish this.”

  “Then I won’t intrude on your work,” Holte said, and vanished.

  THIRTY

  POPPY REACHED THE CLARION TWENTY MINUTES LATE ON MONDAY MORNING, the call she had received from Inspector Loring still ringing in her mind; this had come as she was hurriedly getting dressed and had taken almost ten minutes to complete, a delay that threw her off as much as her lingering fatigue. Feeling mortified at this tardiness, she hurried to her desk, put down her briefcase, and removed the file that contained her story for the next day’s paper; she had been up past one finishing it, and would have overslept if not for Missus Flowers tapping on her door. Now that she had arrived at the paper, she felt a little groggy, and was sorry she had skipped breakfast; she was irritable and had the beginning of a headache.

  Around her, the city room was in full activity — copy-boys walking quickly to and from the composition room where the typesetters labored, reporters pounding on their typewriters or talking on their ‘phones in preparation for the evening’s edition. Even though she was late, Poppy felt proud to be a day ahead of her assignment, and trusted that Lowenthal would give her credit for her efforts. She dropped her coat over the back of her chair and made her way to Lowenthal’s office, her file clutched in her right hand, rehearsing in her mind what she would tell him to account for her late arrival.

  The door to Lowenthal’s office was open, and the man himself sat behind his desk, scowling portentously at the sheet of paper he held in his hand. As Poppy tapped on the doorframe, he looked up. “So you got here at last,” he grumbled. “Come on in and explain yourself. It’s not like you to be late.”

  “Sorry, boss. I missed my streetcar. Hawkins drove me in.” She did her best not to sound chagrined.

  “Pity, with two ts,” he said.

  “I’ve got tomorrow’s story for you,” she said as bravely as she could.

  He looked mildly curious. “It’s already done? Does that mean that the case is bogging down, and you don’t expect any more news between now and midnight?”

  “If there is any, I’ll do the story over, or write you another four inches,” Poppy assured him. “But the next major event will be the funeral on Wednesday afternoon; the coroner doesn’t have the report on the poison used on Moncrief yet. I’m planning to cover the funeral, and to report on the state of the police investigation before they tell the press about it.”

  “That’s thinking ahead,” said Lowenthal.

  “And I’m in contact with Inspector Loring,” she added.

  “Even better.” He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers atop his chest. “Anything more from the coroner? Anything we can use?”

  “He’s going to make a statement about Percy Knott later today.”

  Lowenthal nodded.
“And you’re planning to be there?”

  “I am.” Poppy sat a little straighter in the ladder-backed chair. “I still think there’s a connection between Moncrief and Knott, and I’m going to spend most of tomorrow digging into that.” She offered him a smile to conceal her doubts. “I tried to get another appointment at Hadley and Grimes, but no luck so far.”

  “I’ll let you have another two days to find the connection, and then, if you don’t deliver, I’ll hand off the Knott murder and the search for Overstreet to Westerman — he’ll be back tomorrow, he tells me.” He stared toward the window, not seeing the spring day outside.

  “I’ll get on it just as soon as I talk to Loring,” she assured him.

  “So how are you marking time?” Lowenthal gave her a challenging stare.

  “I did what you suggested — I talked to the servants, and I boiled down their comments about the Moncriefs. Not just backstairs gossip, but a few observations that suggest that Madison was worried about something more than his wife’s health.” Poppy took a deep breath. “I’m going to talk to the police about what I’ve learned.”

  “Probably a good idea. What a cock-up this is turning out to be. It’s never a good sign when the upper crust is in the middle of a case. Too many closed doors.” Lowenthal cleared his throat. “You having any trouble with your relatives over this?”

  “Nothing beyond the usual; at least not so far,” Poppy said, and was not inclined to explain, so she went on more briskly. “I think you’ll like what I have for tomorrow’s edition.” It was the most positive thing she had ever said directly to him, and it left her feeling a little giddy. She handed him the file folder.

  He took it from her without comment, but prior to reading what she had written, he motioned her to the straight-backed chair, then opened the file to read the two sheets of typewritten text it contained. “Not bad,” he said when he was finished. “You may have a talent for this job.”