Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “But what do you think will happen?” he pursued.

  “I have no idea,” she said. “But we can’t afford another epidemic, so I think it makes sense to do everything that might work to prevent another outbreak, however minor.”

  Loring thought this over, then nodded slowly. “Cover all bases, in other words? Just in case?”

  “So long as the proposal is reasonable. Burning down the old parts of the city isn’t sensible, no matter what Reverend Towers may say, and what people in the city government endorse him.” She had read the transcript of his latest sermon, and had decided that his plan was untenable, designed more to drive out poor immigrants than to eliminate the ‘Flu. “Coolidge won’t address the issue; he’s leaving it up to mayors and governors.”

  “There we agree,” Loring said, sounding relieved. “Tower’s a fool, he likes to frighten people, and he doesn’t like newcomers.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Poppy concurred, curious to find out where this all might be leading.

  “There is a group of important men here and in New York and Boston who want to tighten the requirements for immigrants entering this country. Do you happen to know how Moncrief felt about such things?”

  “No, I don’t. If you want me to ask Stacy, I can, but I doubt he’ll give me an answer,” said Poppy, wondering if she should ask Holte to ask Madison about this.

  “And what do you think about immigrants?”

  His question took Poppy by surprise. “Well, I know all my ancestors were immigrants, and as my father used to say, the standards that were good enough for then should be good enough for now. I know we’ve had an influx since the Great War, but it’s hardly the first time that a crisis in Europe has brought more immigrants to this country.”

  “Nothing against the Irish, or the Eye-Ties? Or Polacks?” Loring’s questions had turned sharp again.

  “Nor Russians, nor Jews, nor Chinese,” said Poppy. “It’s that wretched refuse from your teaming shores promise. I don’t want to have us renege on something so basic.”

  “How do you mean?”

  She thought about her answer before she spoke. “I haven’t met many immigrants, but those I have, have been unexceptionable. That doesn’t mean I will always approve of all immigrants — I don’t like everyone I know now, so I reserve the right to take personal dislike to individual immigrants, but not whole masses of them.” She waited for him to say something, and when he did not, she asked, “Why these questions? Do they have anything to do with your investigation?”

  “Not as such; I’m curious, that’s all. Police are curious,” he said, a trace of amusement in his expression.

  “So are reporters,” she told him.

  “I’ve noticed.” He stared off into the distance, then said, “You’ve helped me out, so I guess I owe you a lead or two.”

  “I guess you do,” she said. She hoped he would supply her with information she could pursue the following morning.

  “There’s one thing that might interest you: we’re trying to locate the warehouse where Knott kept his most valuable imports. There have been questions about their authenticity, and we want to turn them over to the Smithsonian to settle the question once we find them. If Knott was dealing in forgeries, then it puts a very different slant on the motive for his murder.”

  Poppy heard him out, trying to think of a question that would keep him talking. “Does the District Attorney agree with you?”

  Loring shrugged. “He doesn’t disagree. We’re supposed to get a court order to open it as soon as we locate the warehouse, but those things take time. When we find the place, I’ll let you know.”

  “What about what you discover inside?” Poppy asked.

  “That depends on what that, or those, may be,” Loring responded.

  “All right.” She straightened up a little, her feeling of awkwardness returning. “Is there anything more?”

  He became almost bashful, not quite looking at her. “I gather you’re going to the funeral day after tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Are you?”

  Loring took a deep breath. “It’s part of my job. I need to see who attends.” He looked across the pond again, as if searching for the ducks. “Would you be willing to have lunch with me afterward?”

  She was a bit startled. “To compare notes?”

  “If you’d like to. Or we could talk about the weather, if you’d prefer.” There was a glint in his tired eyes.

  Poppy blinked in astonishment. Could Holte have been right? she thought; Loring was interested in her as more than a reporter. “I’d like that,” she heard herself say, and wondered why she had agreed, since the last thing she wanted to do was to make her reportage subject to charges of biased judgment.

  He smiled, but then his manner changed. “That’s assuming nothing significant happens at the funeral, of course.”

  “Of course,” she echoed.

  “Okay.” He stood up abruptly. “I’ll look forward to seeing you.”

  Poppy watched Loring striding away, and wondered what she ought to do now.

  THIRTY-TWO

  “STACY WILL BE IN AFTER WE’VE DINED, PROBABLY FAIRLY LATE; HE DECIDED against going back to New York until after the funeral. He’s joining Louise Moncrief and Julian Eastley for dinner at The Town House tonight, something to do with her investments, and the opportunity to cheer Louise --- she’s been so dejected, and the Town House is her favorite restaurant. Some may think it unseemly for Louise to appear in public so soon after her husband’s death, but Stacy assures ne that it is in Louise’s best interests. ” Aunt Jo informed Poppy as she arrived shortly after five in the afternoon; the day was closing in, and Hawkins was busy turning on the lights in the entry hall and the stairwell. “You and I will be served in the library at seven. I want to talk to you about your work.” She was occupying the largest chair in the sitting room, Duchess lying at her feet, snoring. Josephine had the butler’s tray on its cart in front of her, six bottles of illegal European spirits out in plain view; the gin bottle was more than a third empty.

  Poppy halted in the doorway into the sitting room. “All right,” she said, trying to conceal her alarm. What on earth could Aunt Jo want to know? She had given her coat and her briefcase to Hawkins when she had come through the front door, and had a panicky moment that left her feeling a bit tipsy as she tried to make up her mind if she should ask for her briefcase in order to show her aunt what she did. “I didn’t realize that my reporting interested you, Aunt Jo.”

  “It doesn’t, as such, but Primrose North told me this afternoon that Denton is looking into Eustace’s business activities, in case there may be some remote connection to Madison Moncrief’s untimely demise. I’d like you tell me what you know about the whole dreadful affair.” The sniff in her words told Poppy that her aunt was greatly displeased and much troubled. “You may have learned something useful that we could pass on to our attorney, in the unlikely chance we will need to consult him.”

  Poppy faltered in reacting, and when she did, she felt that she had disappointed her aunt in some indefinable way. “I’m following leads, Aunt Jo, and there isn’t much I can tell you, beyond what the Clarion has published. So far my leads are just leads, and that means little more than gossip; you know how outrageous rumors can be. So I’m sorry, but since I haven’t very many hard facts to work on, I don’t know that I can be much help to you.”

  “I still want to know as much as you can tell me.” For once, Aunt Jo seemed formidable, and Poppy did not want to have the evening end in confrontation. “I realize you have an obligation to the public, but I would think you have more responsibility to your family.”

  Poppy mulled this over. “I’ll tell you what I can, Aunt Jo, which isn’t very much, but right now, I need to put on something more comfortable. My feet are killing me, and I know my hair is a mess. Let me put on my lounging slacks, and a loose blouse and get out of these shoes. And I don’t mean anything … off-color.”

  “Certainly not.�
� Aunt Jo sighed in a spirit of ill-usage. “Do what you must. I will expect you to return here in … shall we say, twenty minutes. I’ll pour you a cognac, as a restorative. You do look a trifle bedraggled.” She reached for the bottle of gin and topped off her glass with more of it. “Go on, then.”

  “It’s been a difficult day,” Poppy reiterated, knowing that Josephine was not entirely attentive. She withdrew from the sitting room and made for the stairs, doing her best not to trip on Maestro, who accompanied her, stropping himself on her shins as she climbed, ignoring her protests and threats to fall on him if he dared to trip her. As she entered her room, she turned on the lights only to have them blink. “So you’re back,” she said to the empty air even as Maestro laid back his ears and hissed.

  “Briefly,” spoke Holte from the top of the chest of drawers. “I have something I want to look into.”

  “Pressing business among the ghosts?” Poppy asked as she peeled out of her wool-crepe jacket. “Or is there more you’re working on?”

  “I believe there is more that I can learn,” he said.

  “My, aren’t we oblique tonight,” she marveled, feeling too harried to be minimally polite.

  “You’re being brusque, which is unlike you,” he said without any indication of having taken offence. “I learned something that might be germane to your story, and I want to follow it up. I’ll tell you what I find in the morning.” He hesitated. “Would you like me to turn away while you change clothes?”

  “If you would, please,” she replied, unbuttoning her heavy linen blouse; this she threw into the hamper at the edge of her closet. “It may be silly, but I’d prefer you do not look.”

  “Of course,” said Holte, his voice fading a bit.

  Poppy hung her jacket up and unzipped her skirt, stepped out of it, and secured it to another hanger. Then she pulled her slip over her head and put it into the top drawer of her chest, and went back to her closet to take down a long, drapey blouse in pale lilac silk; she shrugged into it, and removed the charcoal lounging slacks from the clipped hanger and tossed them onto her bed, then bent over to remove her shoes. That done, she drew on the slacks, and zipped them up. “All right. You can turn around now.”

  Holte became something like a pencil sketch on the air as he complied. “That’s a very nice outfit,” he remarked as he almost reclined on top of the chest-of-drawers. “The silk is particularly flattering.”

  “It’s comfortable, which is more important than fashion right now,” Poppy informed him as she took a pair of low-heeled slippers from the rack at the end of her bed. “So what have you come to tell me this time?”

  “Overstreet is in Montreal, at a hotel under the name of Morris Otterman. The name is close enough to his own that he will be able to respond to it quickly, and the initials will match his new name, and the brand on his luggage.” He drifted a bit nearer to her, watching as she combed her hair back into a kind of order. “Knott searched him out, and summoned me to inform me of what Overstreet has done.”

  “Why did he do this?” Poppy wanted to know. “I mean Knott.”

  “Because he thought I might be interested,” said Holte blandly. “He would like to have his murder solved, and who can blame him for that. He is of the opinion that Overstreet knows the identity of his killer.”

  “And are you — interested? in what he may tell you?” Poppy inquired as she studied her reflection in the vanity mirror. “I guess this will do,” she said, tweaking a wayward tendril on her cheek. She reached for a pot of lip-rouge and its brush, and restored a bit of brightness to her mouth. Satisfied with her efforts, she took a tissue and blotted the color. “There.”

  “Your aunt will approve,” Holte assured her.

  “That’s the general idea; she’s pretty discomposed just now,” said Poppy, bending down to scratch Maestro’s ruff; the cat was vociferating his disapproval of Holte’s presence. As she straightened up, Poppy looked toward the place in the air where there was a shiny haze. “I’m sorry — I’m tired and I’m worried, and that makes me snippy. I shouldn’t take my annoyances out on you.”

  “I do understand,” said Holte. “I used to be a bear if I went more than five hours without eating. It was inconvenient in my work.”

  “Thank you,” Poppy said, and saw the shine vanish. She shook her head once, and looked down to address the cat. “Come on, Maestro. The fun’s over for now.”

  Maestro yowled, but went toward the door, his tail lifted, his whiskers fanned out as if he expected to find Holte’s scent somewhere in the room.

  Poppy closed her door behind her, and went back down to the sitting room, two stairs behind Maestro. As she reached the bottom step, Missus Flowers appeared, and said, “Good evening, Miss Thornton. Did Missus Dritchner tell you that dinner is going to be served in the library this evening?”

  “Yes, Missus Flowers, she did. Thanks for the reminder,” said Poppy.

  Missus Flowers glanced toward the sitting room, saying to Poppy in a lowered voice. “If Missus Dritchner should need a little help up the stairs, you may call on me. I’ll be in the kitchen with Mister Hawkins for another hour, having our supper.”

  “That’s very good of you, Missus Flowers,” Poppy said. “How long has she been … tippling?”

  “Since about three this afternoon, just after Mister Eustace went out,” said Missus Flowers. “I suspect he said something that upset her.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Poppy. “That’s unfortunate.” She wanted to say that it was typical of Stacy to be so insensitive, but kept silent.

  “And sad,” said Missus Flowers.

  “True,” said Poppy, and steeled herself to deal with her aunt as she went toward the sitting room. At the door she paused to give herself the opportunity to size up Aunt Jo’s state of inebriation, then she coughed gently. “How are you this evening, Aunt Jo?” she inquired calmly.

  “I am well enough, thank you,” said Josephine, her words a trifle too crisp. “That color is quite becoming on you. Come in. I have your cognac poured.” The room was sunk into shadows as the last rays of sunset lit the wisteria trellis outside the windows. “Will you be good enough to turn on the lights?”

  Poppy did as her aunt bade her; when the room was lit again, she pulled the draperies across the windows and went back to the settee. “How kind of you,” she said, indicating the snifter after sitting down, smiling brightly so as not to disturb Josephine; she reached for the small snifter and lifted it toward Aunt Jo. “Your health.”

  Josephine raised her almost empty glass in response. “To yours.”

  Maestro had taken up most of the hassock in front of Aunt Jo’s wing-back chair, and now dropped his front paw over his eyes and pretended to sleep; Duchess was lying on the rug in front of the fireplace, snoring audibly.

  “How has your day been, Aunt Jo?” Poppy asked after she tasted her cognac.

  “Oh, you know how a day goes. I had a light luncheon with Primrose North around one in the afternoon — all she could talk about was Denton’s current case, you know, the one involving some kind of massive fraud in the importing market — and afterward I played in the music room for an hour or two.” She took a last drink and refilled her glass. “Eustace was here for a little while, and told me about his evening plans. He promised not to be out past midnight.” She sounded desperate at this last.

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean to be a bother,” said Poppy mendaciously.

  “No doubt, but I had planned to … ” She dabbed a lace handkerchief to her eyes. In the next moment, she pulled herself together. “I apologize, Poppea. I’m not quite myself just now, and every little thing upsets me.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve been disappointed,” said Poppy, setting her snifter down; this looked to be shaping up for a tricky evening.

  Josephine gave a shaky laugh. “You know Eustace: always concerned for his friends.”

  “Um-hum,” said Poppy, who knew no such thing.

  “It is kind of him to help Louise Mo
ncrief with her plans for Madison’s funeral; it can’t be easy for her so soon after her loss of a baby. She has unexpected fortitude, but she is still a woman, and in need of a stalwart man to support her through this difficult time.” She stifled a yawn. “I can’t imagine that Julian Eastley is much help, he’s such a lapdog. Eustace has a keen sense of what is appropriate on such occasions as this one, and what will suit Louise. No doubt Louise is depending upon him in her current ordeal.” She put the stopper back in the gin bottle and took hold of her glass with unusual tenacity.

  “It’s good of him to help her,” said Poppy, wanting to ease her aunt’s distress.

  “Yes, it is; she has always been a special friend of his,” said Josephine, and added with a version of acquiescence with what Stacy was doing, “It is my duty as his mother to respect his decisions.”

  “It’s to your credit that you do,” said Poppy, knowing what was expected of her.

  “Missus Flowers will bring us some finger-food shortly,” Josephine said abruptly. “Missus Boudon made crab puffs.”

  “That should be lovely,” said Poppy, trying to decide how to find a way to bring up Warren Derrington before Aunt Jo lapsed into incoherence.

  “I know you like them, as do I,” Josephine went on before taking a generous sip of her gin.

  “It’s one of the niceties of a well-run home, to have delicious finger-food.” She daubed at her eyes again. “If only Eustace were here to enjoy them.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be sorry to have missed them.” She put down her snifter and rose. “If you don’t mind, I’ll light the fire. This room is a bit chilly, don’t you think?”

  “By all means, do,” said Josephine, with a wave of her handkerchief for emphasis. “Now that I think of it, the room does feel — ” She stopped speaking in order to have a little more gin.

  “It will warm up shortly,” Poppy said, smoothing the front of her blouse.

  Josephine raised her glass. “This will warm me up.”

  Poppy went to the fireplace, taking care not to disturb Duchess, who had moved there from Josephine’s feet, and selected a wooden match from the box on the mantle, struck it alight on the small iron rasp provided for that purpose, and bent to move the fire screen. She gathered her thoughts and ventured a question as if it had only occurred to her at this instant. “You haven’t mentioned this: has Mister Derrington come by to pick up his things?”