Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Holte asked, “Did it ever occur to you that you were in danger?”

  Since this was the dimension of ghosts, all three shades shuddered in sympathy. “The firm will do all it can to protect its profits, I know that, but I didn’t see that I was exposed to … retribution for what I had discovered,” said Poindexter. “I’m the unliving proof.”

  “And I,” said Knott.

  “All three of us are.” Moncrief did his best to summon up more of his memories. “When I realized what was going on, I tried to cover my tracks, as it were, but I had already been discovered. I had decided I ought to resign; Louise did not want to move, and I didn’t want this problem hanging over me. It seems strange that I would not remember an important thing like that, but it had slipped away, along with a number of other things. Something Knott said brought that back. You know how it is. Bits and pieces drift away, and there’s comfort in having them gone. But you’ve been so persistent, I’ve been doing my best to recall as much as I can, and this is what I’ve come up with. It’s something that your young lady might pursue.”

  “She’s not my young lady, not in the way you imply,” Holte said testily. “I’m responsible for her father’s death, and to recompense what she lost when he died in my place, I’m haunting her.”

  “No disrespect intended,” Knott said dimly. “It’s unfortunate that you couldn’t forget those circumstances, you might have moved on by now if you hadn’t remembered.”

  “Moved on to what, to where?” Holte countered, and felt a jarring around him as other ghosts heard his response to Knott. “When I move on, I want my slate clean.”

  “When will that be?” Poindexter asked, as if seeking the definition for an unfamiliar word. “How will you know?”

  “I’ll know when the books are balanced,” said Holte “I have a number of things to work out — being a spy does that. This is my first step in that direction, and it is just that: a first step.”

  Knott had almost vanished, but he said, “I imagine there are things I should do, and I will remember in a while. The Great War was … difficult.”

  “When will that be — that your books are balanced?” Moncrief was more troubled than the other two as he addressed Holte.

  “I wish I knew,” said Holte. “What you’ve told me may be very helpful, and I appreciate how difficult it was to face what the memories brought back.”

  “Do you think it might speed up our moving on?” Knott asked, a bit wistfully.

  “I don’t know,” said Holte. “Perhaps it will.”

  A soft kind of moan went through the ghosts who had surrounded them, and their non-presence lessened.

  “Will you let us know how it turns out?” Moncrief asked. “While we still remember.”

  “If I can,” Holte promised.

  A kind of soundless hum passed between the four, and then Holte slipped away and found himself in the darkened music room of Josephine Dritchner’s house in time to hear the hall clock strike three.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THE MORNING HAD BEEN A FRUSTRATING ONE FOR POPPY: DOCTOR WYMAN HAD cancelled their meeting, saying he was being called out on a suspicious fire in an old hotel, and then Henry Dermott, who ran the Clarion’s morgue, was unable to find the relevant files on the records of marriages in the Grimes family; she was trying to decide if she should go to the Bureau of Vital Statistics to pursue the matter, or if she should wait for Dermott to locate the missing clips, when she was called into Lowenthal’s office.

  “How’s it going?” the editor asked as Poppy came through the door. He pointed to the chair in front of his desk.

  As ordinary as that question sounded, Poppy was not fooled; she sat down, and asked, “You tell me, boss. Is there anything wrong with my story?” She made an effort to compose herself, wanting not to appear out of her depth. “Have you got anything more you want me to cover, beyond the funeral tomorrow?”

  Lowenthal gave a mirthless chuckle. “To borrow your phrase, you tell me. You’re implying a connection between the deaths of James Poindexter, Madison Moncrief, and Percy Knott, based on an unknown source. You haven’t revealed your informant, saying he believes he would be in danger if he made himself known, which could be true — so you’ll have to find someone who can vouch for what you have here, because if you’re right, this is explosive. If you can back it up, it’s a great story.” He mauled his forehead lock, an expectant smile widening. “So: can you back any of this up?”

  “That’s what I’m working on, boss.” She smoothed her trumpet-cut skirt as she gathered her thoughts. “My source is good, but, as you know, he doesn’t want to be identified, for fear of reprisals.” This was not accurate, she thought, but the explanation made more sense than to reveal that she had a ghost for her source.

  “Given what you have here, I’ll take your word that your man has good reason for his decision to remain unknown,” said Lowenthal, “but I can hold off on his identification only for forty-eight hours. Either you find some printable confirmation, or I’ll have to put someone else on the story with you, to help you uncover more cooperative informants, and leave out the parts of your story that include your guesses — because that’s what they are without verification — when we go to press.” He could see that she was shocked, and so he offered his version of a soothing assurance. “I’m going to cut the last three paragraphs of your story until you can supply me a recognizable source, or offer some other hard evidence. Same as I do for the rest of the reporters here.”

  Poppy swallowed. “I’m working on that, boss.” It was true as far as it went, but she knew it was not enough. “I know my source is good, and that I can’t reveal him. I’ve tried to get back in to Hadley and Grimes, but no one will book an appointment with me. And, remember, I’ve been warned away from there; at the time, I thought it might have been a little melodramatic, but after all that’s happened in the last week, I’m not so sure. And I have to tell you that my cousin and his friend aren’t about to tell me anything that might be compromising for their business, or distressing to their families, most of whom I know. If it turns out that Moncrief was killed because of his discoveries, you said yourself that I could be in danger. That note I was given — ”

  Lowenthal was nodding. “And putting someone like you at risk could have nasty repercussions. I know that.” He steepled his fingers. “Look, I’m going to have Jonathan Mullen have a look at your information. If anyone can find something askew in the financials, it’s Mullen. I think the money aspect of this story — if there’s anything to your speculations — should come from one of our money reporters, and Mullen knows more about the international markets than anyone else at the Clarion.”

  “You’re working to convince me about Jon Mullen,” said Poppy. “You don’t have to. I agree he knows his stuff.”

  Lowenthal almost sighed. “Good. That’s sensible. If Mullen finds any fire in your smoke, I’ll tell him to pursue it, and give you a partner to follow up what you uncover. To get more solid commercial information, I’ll have to borrow someone from the Constitution, assuming we can’t turn up anything in the next thirty-six hours.” He gestured to demonstrate how unlikely that was. “So if you can give your notes to Mullen, I’ll have him dig into it.”

  Poppy sighed. “If that’s what you want, boss.” She wanted to scream, but she kept her voice level. “I’m going with my cousin Eustace this afternoon. He tells me he has information that has to do with all this, and that he’s willing to tell me what he has learned, as soon as he’s got enough to substantiate his suspicions. I’d like to wait until then before giving anything to Mullen. To avoid rumors.”

  “Well, that sounds encouraging.” Lowenthal twiddled his hair again. “Tell you what: I’ll give you until tomorrow morning to hand over your notes, but I expect them to include whatever useful you learn from your cousin, and if that breaks the story open, you and Mullen will share the byline. How’s that?”

  It was better than anything she had dared to hope, but she
masked her relief, saying, “That sounds fair to me.”

  “Good girl.” Lowenthal smiled ferociously. “I’ll tell you again — you’ve surprised me.”

  “Even though I’m a woman?” The words had come before she could stop them.

  “Like your Aunt Esther; it must run in the family,” Lowenthal countered. “Oh, yes. I know all about her. The National Geographic Society has a treasure in her.” He laid his hands flat on his desk. “Go get your lunch. It sounds like you’re going to have a busy afternoon before you head off to your … engagement.”

  “Thanks, boss,” she said, rising. “Do you want me to say anything to Mullen before I go?”

  “No,” said Lowenthal. “I’ll call him in a little later. But on your way out, tell Miss Stotter that I need her in here in ten minutes.”

  “Ten minutes it is,” said Poppy, and left Lowenthal’s office feeling not vindicated but at least granted a stay of execution, a final chance to prove herself. She went to the work-stall where Miss Stotter sat, sorting through a stack of memos and ‘phone records. “The boss wants you in ten minutes, Miss Stotter.”

  Miss Stotter put a paperweight atop the largest of the stacks and glanced at the clock on the wall. “Ten minutes. Minus two.”

  “Sounds likely,” said Poppy, and went to her desk to retrieve her jacket; she was a bit sorry not to find Chesterton Holte hanging about her desk, but she did her best to shrug this off, and went off to lunch.

  Sitting at the counter at the Liberty Bell Café, a block away from the Clarion, Poppy found Denton North devouring a roast-beef-and-cheese sandwich, a cup of coffee at his elbow. He was formidable in his pin-stripe navy-blue suit and regimental tie; even his horn-rim glasses gave him an air of importance. Glancing up as Poppy started toward a table, he said, “Good afternoon, neighbor. Why not join me?” He patted the empty stool on his left.

  Poppy considered, then put down her briefcase and sat on the stool next to Denton. “Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.”

  Denton offered her a smile. “I’ve been following your work in the Clarion. Interesting stuff. You’ve got your teeth in this, don’t you.”

  Poppy studied Denton for a few seconds, wondering if this meeting were wholly coincidental, and concluded it must be; Denton was clever and ambitious, but not psychic, and had no way of knowing she would be here, since she had only made up her mind five minutes ago. “How are you, Denton?” she asked politely, neither thanking nor questioning his praise of her work. “I haven’t seen you since … was it Thanksgiving?”

  “Some time around then, I think. We’ve been busy at the District Attorney’s office. You probably know that.” He took another predatory bite of his sandwich.

  “Your mother’s mentioned it, and so has Aunt Jo,” said Poppy, and took the menu card from behind the salt-and-pepper-shaker stand. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Not that I’m here often.” She read through the menu, and decided on the chicken salad sandwich, and a cup of the beer-and-cheese soup.

  His lunch muffled his response. “I could say the same of you.” He took a swig of coffee and swallowed. “I just gave a briefing to Edward Daly at the Constitution, about the current state of our investigation into the importing fraud case, and its international implications — as much information as I’m at liberty to provide, that is.” This last sounded more smug than apologetic.

  “That must have been a brief meeting,” said Poppy with just enough of a vocal jab as she could without offending him.

  He chuckled. “A hit, a very palpable hit.” He took another bite, and went on as he chewed. “From what I’ve read, you’ve stumbled across some of the same people we’re investigating. I can’t help but hope if you discover anything that needs the District Attorney’s attention, you’ll report it.”

  “If it involves criminal activities, and if I can prove it, I know my obligations.” Poppy signaled to the counter waitress and gave her order to the harried woman, then turned to Denton, “Leads can take reporters strange places, just as they can for Assistant District Attorneys.”

  Denton raised his brows in amusement. “You’re getting fast on the uptake, Poppy.”

  “Part of the job,” she said, and nodded her thanks to the waitress, who brought a mug of coffee to her.

  “Un-huh,” said Denton, and set down his sandwich. “Anything you can pass on to me now?”

  “Not really,” she said, adding a little sugar and cream to her coffee. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Well, keep me in mind when you’re free to talk. Things are getting pretty hot in the office, and we’ll remember the people who help us.” He drank most of the coffee remaining in his mug and signaled for a refill. “For ten cents a mug, they should give at least one free refill,” he said with a smile as the waitress poured out a mugful.

  There was an outburst of laughter from a nearby table; both Denton and Poppy looked around.

  “They’re from Mayes’ Brothers,” said Denton, referring to the fashionable fabric-and-furniture store in the next block. “I took mother there last week; she likes expensive, high-quality things, and the staff caters to her. You know salesmen.” He took another swallow of coffee. “They come here frequently, or so I understand.”

  “Oh, yes; this is conveniently located for them, as it is for me, though I usually do lunch in our cafeteria,” said Poppy, wondering why Denton should be here, his interview at the Constitution seeming to be a tenuous explanation, now that she had a little time to think about it; she took a napkin from the dispenser; the fabric was flimsy and there were hints of old stains on it, but it was clean and its folds were neat. “Speaking of information, do you have any that you could pass on to me, about Hadley and Grimes? It might have a bearing on Madison Moncrief’s death, and I’m covering his funeral tomorrow.”

  Denton shrugged. “Nothing specific. They have clients we’re looking into, but nothing’s concrete yet.” He tasted his coffee and set the mug down again. “Too hot.” He was studying Poppy out of the tail of his eye.

  “Better than too cold,” said Poppy, and saw the waitress approaching with her cup of soup, a broad spoon in the saucer under the small bowl.

  “You got that right.” Denton went back to demolishing his sandwich. “At least they aren’t stingy with their portions.”

  “A good thing, if they’re going to charge eighty-five cents for a sandwich, they need to make it a substantial one, or offer pâté and caviar,” said Poppy.

  “Yes. And they have a captive audience for lunch, though not so much for supper.” He offered her as much of a smile as he could while he chewed. “Still, they’re open until midnight, so the night shift has a place to come.”

  “True enough,” said Poppy, and smiled at the waitress as she set Poppy’s sandwich next to the cup of soup. “Thanks.”

  “Pleasure,” the waitress said automatically. “Anything else, counselor?”

  Denton shook his head. “No, thanks, Hilda.”

  This exchange startled Poppy, who had been under the impression that Denton North rarely ate here but if he were on familiar terms with the staff … She kept her reflection to herself as she began to spoon out her soup, trying not to eat so fast that she spilled any of it onto her pebble-crepe suit. She finished the soup and set the saucered bowl aside in order to bring her sandwich nearer to her. “They make their own mayonnaise here,” she remarked. “Every morning; it’s very good.”

  “Yeah, and horseradish sauce, too; they use heavy cream.” Denton dropped fifteen cents on the counter as he rose, picking up his briefcase in the process. “I’d buy your lunch, Poppy, but with you writing on what may be an aspect of my present case, well, you understand.”

  “Yes, I do,” said Poppy.

  “Perhaps when this is all over?” The offer was more conciliatory than ardent.

  “Don’t worry about it, Denton,” said Poppy.

  Denton nodded. “I’ll see you around? My regards to your aunt.”

  “And mine to your mothe
r,” said Poppy, watching him as he went to the cash register to pay for his meal. She decided that she might ask Lowenthal if she ought to talk to Denton about his case, since it might touch on whatever was going on at Hadley and Grimes, but would wait until she covered the funeral, tomorrow, when she could link the request to those attending the service. Her sandwich was tasty enough, but she paid little attention to it, her thoughts on what it might be that Stacy was going to tell her. She left fifteen cents for Hilda and paid her seventy-five cents to the young man at the register before she returned to the paper to continue her hunt through the maze of files in the paper’s morgue.

  At ten minutes to three, she gathered up her things, donned her jacket, and climbed the stairs to the ground floor. Poppy went out to the curb to await Stacy’s arrival. To her amazement, he was already drawn up in front of the Addison Newspaper Corporation building, the engine of the Duesenburg idling, the suggestion of a satisfied smile on his handsome face. Poppy went to open the door herself, and settled herself on the passenger side.

  “Good afternoon, Coz. I hope you’re having a good day,” he said, engaging the clutch and putting the auto into first gear, his arm extended out the window to indicate his intention to enter the flow of traffic.

  “It’s going well enough,” she said, putting her briefcase between her calves to keep it from sliding.

  “How dreary that sounds,” he said, glowering at the hoot of a delivery van’s horn. “I don’t know how you endure it. That ten thousand a year your father left you could keep you comfortably enough.”

  “I like what I’m doing,” she said, prepared to argue if necessary.

  “Well, I think it’s a waste,” he said, and signaled for a left turn. “You’d be a treasure to any man worth his salt. You could get your husband into the Senate, if you set your mind to it.”