Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  This was the first Poppy had heard of it, but she took the news in as unruffled a manner as she could. “I hope she will enjoy the wedding.”

  “So do I.” Esther paused a moment before informing Poppy, “Since I may be in South America by then, think about whether you’d like to take on a temporary housekeeper for the time Miss Roth is gone.”

  Poppy felt startled. “Would that be necessary for only a week or two? I’d think we could rattle along well enough for so short a time, wouldn’t you?” Yet even as she asked it, she thought it might be wise for any number of reasons. There could be developments in the Pearse case, and the search for Stacy, Derrington, and Louise might heat up again, and then who would take care of the house, and Maestro—not Missus Sassoro, or Galliard.

  “I’d recommend that you have someone, preferably someone you know, take over the post for that period. Miss Roth might have someone she can vouch for, but you’ll want to interview whomever you consider for the post. It’s always wise to have an available substitute for just such circumstances as these. You’ll know best what will suit you.” She turned to stare at a large touring auto up ahead, escorted by four motorcycles ridden by men in heavy-weather gear. “What a grand vehicle that is. Three rows of seats.”

  “I believe the governor rides in one of those,” said Poppy, not as engrossed in the fine auto as Aunt Esther was. “His has a siren.”

  “That one is very imposing without the siren; I wonder whose it is,” said Esther, and sat back once more; Poppy still had the feeling that there was more to Aunt Esther’s disquiet than Miss Roth’s coming absence.

  Not quite ten minutes later, the cab drew up in front of Cooper’s Grill, and the driver asked for a dollar, two bits.

  Poppy handed this over, with a fifteen-cent tip. “Thank you,” she said perfunctorily as she opened the door to get out; a sudden gust struck her afresh, and she felt her damp hair toss. She took a firm grip on her purse and stepped up onto the curb. “Be careful Aunt Esther; it’s getting blustery.”

  “I’m right behind you,” Esther said, taking her portfolio and squirming to the edge of the seat. As she emerged from the taxi, the wind made a snatch at her hat; she once again held her hand on the crown as Poppy closed the taxi door for her.

  Cooper’s Grill had been built twenty years ago, intended to be a gathering place for local big-wigs to congregate in relative seclusion. It had ended up catering to the nouveau riche, and because of that, had gained a carefully cultivated reputation for lavish dining and discreet waiters. There were three dining rooms—one done in light-blue wallpaper with a pattern of intertwined spring flowers, one with murals of windjammers leaning through rough seas, and one of polished oak paneling set off by portraits of race horses—and a now-neglected bar turned into a smoking room in the Art Nouveau building; in addition there was a private reception room at the top of a flight of stairs, reserved for the use of politicians, merchant princes, formal receptions, and distinguished foreigners, which this afternoon was not in use. The maître d’ who greeted Poppy and Esther was on the shady side of middle-age, a man with a genial smile, a carefully groomed moustache, and a formidably genial manner; his tuxedo was slightly out of date but showing no signs of wear, and went well with the building. Bearing leather-bound menus as if carrying holy relics, he escorted the two Thornton women to one of the enclosed booths at the rear of the largest dining room, the one with the polished paneling.

  “It wouldn’t do for such ladies as you are to be seen dining without a male companion, if you’ll pardoning my mentioning it,” he informed them, as if this were new to the place.

  “Whatever you think best,” said Esther before Poppy could object, adding to Poppy in a whisper, “The booths are warmer, and we won’t be disturbed.”

  The maître d’ opened the burgundy-velvet curtain that fronted one of the booths, and a small bell jingled with the motion; he indicated the bell. “This will summon the waiter and will announce his arrival; if you have any requirements for him, he will answer your ring; it sounds in the kitchen as well as here,” he explained, then set down the menus. “Jeremy will be your waiter. He’ll be with you shortly. Enjoy your luncheon.” He stood aside so that Poppy and Esther could choose their places among the four chairs, then let the curtain drop, the soft ringing of the bell accompanying his departure.

  Esther chuckled softly. “This is pretty much the way I remember it,” she said, hanging her coat on the brass coat-rack next to the curtain. “They’ve put in more light fixtures, but kept with the stained glass.”

  “Are they real Tiffany, do you think?” Poppy asked as she dropped her coat over the back of her chair.

  “If they aren’t, they’re very good copies,” said Esther, sitting down opposite her niece. “Now, tell me what you think of my chances of getting an opportunity to tell the story of the Living Spectres?”

  “I can’t be certain,” Poppy said cautiously. “But if the Pearses agree to keep the reference to the Armenian refugees in my story, I think you stand a good chance of doing at least a side-bar—more if it looks like there is someone else besides Merrinelle Butterworth who’s heard from GAD since the end of July and knows something about his interest in the Armenians, which will add credibility to what you have to report.” She realized that Esther was not wholly convinced. “No one else at the paper can tell as much about them as you can, and that means you have an advantage, and Lowenthal knows it.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Esther, glancing at her small brooch watch. “How long do you think it will take Lowenthal to make up his mind?”

  “Nothing more than a day, unless there’s new information,” said Poppy, unfolding her napkin and spreading it on her lap. “If that turns up, you’ll get another twenty-four hours beyond that.”

  “Good Lord Harry!” Esther shook her head. “How do you keep up with such a pace?”

  “You get used to it, and I have to admit that most of the time I like it,” said Poppy. “I remember when I was in college, working on the weekly paper—four sheets, one of them advertising—and how rushed it all seemed. My first job, at the Pennsylvania Women’s Companion—you remember how frustrating I found it after the first month—wasn’t much more demanding, but it got me a file of stories to use with Lowenthal.”

  “Weren’t you on the society pages when you first went to work for him?” Esther asked. “You didn’t like it much.”

  “Unfortunately, yes, I was. Garden parties and book clubs, occasionally a wedding or a funeral. Aunt Jo was pleased that I was working on the respectable part of the paper. I’d probably still be there, but for the Moncrief murder.”

  “Yes,” said Esther slowly, and ventured out onto conversational thin ice. “Speaking of my sister, she phoned me about ten this morning, all excitement. It appears she may have heard from Stacy.”

  So that was it, Poppy thought. No wonder Aunt Esther was in no hurry to bring it up. “What do you mean, appears?” she asked.

  “She told me that she had a post card with what she thinks is a Brazilian stamp on it with the message: Hurricane nowhere near me. Don’t fret. E.”

  “Nothing more than that?” Poppy asked when Esther did not volunteer anything else. “No ‘Having a Wonderful Time. Wish you were here’?”

  “That’s what she told me.”

  The reporter in Poppy took over. “Has she informed the police?”

  Esther attempted a laugh. “Jo, talk to the police? About Stacy? Are you serious? She said that she would never deal with the police so long as they believed her Eustace was a suspect in any wrong-doing.”

  “That sounds like Aunt Jo,” said Poppy.

  Again Esther hesitated. “I was thinking that if we could learn a little more about where the card came from, I might be able to take a side-trip on my way up the Amazon, just make a few inquiries, to see what comes up. You never know what you’ll find if you don’t look,” she said, raising her chin.

  “I wouldn’t recommend it, not with Sta
cy. He’s dangerous. I should know.” Poppy caught her lower lip in her teeth, recalling the hours she had spent in the warehouse basement. “I’d say avoid him if you happen to come across him.”

  “Perhaps we can come up with some sort of plan,” Esther said as if this notion were new to her, but Poppy could see was not.

  “What sort of a plan?” Poppy asked, her suspicions rising. “It can’t be just a sketchy thing, not if you have Stacy in your sights.”

  “Perhaps we could get some suggestions on what might be the best strategy to use in locating him,” Aunt Esther ventured in a manner that confirmed Poppy’s sense that her aunt had worked all this out already, one she was planning to put in motion once she arrived in Brazil. “You know more about this than I do. Is there someone who can advise me how I might go about locating him? Someone you can trust.”

  “Whom did you have in mind?” Poppy said, deliberately taking her cue from Esther.

  “Someone reliable, who is connected to the case,” said Esther, her eyes lighting up. “Whom would you recommend?”

  “Someone connected to the case you say?”

  “Well, that would probably save some time,” said Esther with her best cherubic smile.

  Poppy frowned, trying to determine how to proceed. “This puts me in a bit of a quandary. Not simply because I’m close to the investigation, but I have… obligations.”

  “Inspector Loring—I know. He wouldn’t be able to intervene in this case, not in South America, no matter how much he might want to. Yet he could have a few ideas I could employ if I decided to search for Stacy.” Esther shook her head, as if weighing the options for her journey. “In a pinch, you could talk to Lowenthal about it, couldn’t you? I’m sure he has contacts in South America through the press, and could put me in touch with som—”

  “And how could I corroborate what you’ve told me when I ask his advice? Aunt Jo wouldn’t confirm the post card even existed if the police ask her about it; what makes you think that she would discuss it with—” She broke off to order her thoughts, then resumed, “And if Aunt Jo isn’t talking to the police, she surely won’t say anything to anyone with the press, including me. Especially me, since she thinks it’s my fault that Stacy’s a suspect.”

  “You could mention it to Loring, or to Lowenthal, as a supposition. Either one of them ought to be able to make suggestions, hypothetically,” Esther persisted. “Bring it up theoretically, or use some other, similar device that would not let them in on what has actually happened.”

  “I suppose I could,” Poppy said. “I ought to tell Loring, whatever else I do; I know that. But there isn’t much to hang on it for Lowenthal.”

  “It’s worth a try. He seems to have a good opinion of you and your work,” said Esther.

  Poppy chuckled. “News to me. He was probably trying to get on your good side.”

  “I don’t think so. He called you plucky, and seemed to be proud of what you did on the Moncrief murder investigation.”

  “Which is still open,” Poppy reminded her as she opened the menu, then asked the question she knew her aunt was hoping for. “What do you recommend? Not about the food, about the card.”

  “I just thought you’d want to know about the card.” Her mask of innocence slipped a bit. “There’s been no progress in finding Stacy, and this might be a lead. You know the case has bogged down, and I presume you would like to see it active again. So now you know about the post card. What you do about it, if anything, is up to you.” Esther picked up her menu and squinted at the page. “I really must get new reading glasses; I’ll call Doctor Sawyer later today,” she murmured as she strove to make out the elegant script. “The Buttered Cod Baked in Parchment sounds good.”

  “What about the Veal Cutlets?” Poppy asked. “In Italian Herbed Cream Sauce?”

  “Sounds pretty rich for lunch—you might not be hungry by dinnertime,” Esther said. “But if you’re hungry now, don’t let me stop you.”

  “I won’t,” said Poppy. “A pity there’s no wine on the list.”

  “Um,” Esther agreed. “I wonder if the Lamb Chops with Leeks and Mushrooms is good? I don’t recall what their version tastes like.”

  “Try it and find out,” Poppy suggested, and heard the bell tinkle as the curtain was drawn back.

  “Would you prefer coffee or tea to start with? We serve water with the meal, but if you’d like some now, I’ll bring it, if you like?” the waiter asked with slightly overdone courtesy.

  Poppy and Esther exchanged glances and said at the same time “Coffee with one sugar and a little cream,” and “Black tea with a teaspoon of milk—Assam, if you have it.”

  “We have English Breakfast,” the waiter told her, “And some Russian Caravan, which costs ten cents more per pot.”

  “It’ll do,” said Esther. “The Russian Caravan.”

  The waiter nodded smoothly, and repeated their order. “Would you prefer crescent rolls or bread?”

  This time aunt and niece agreed on crescent rolls.

  “I’ll bring them directly, and will take your luncheon order then, if you’re ready.” He whisked himself away.

  “Well?” Poppy asked. “What do you think of the place?”

  “It’s not the same as it was,” Esther said, and went on briskly, “But so little is, and in any case, memory can play tricks about the old days.”

  “That’s so,” Poppy said, wishing she knew what Aunt Esther was actually referring to, and doubted it was the change in selections on Cooper’s Grill’s menu.

  “I must say, they’ve kept the place up well,” Esther said as a kind of compensation for her possible lapse in memory.

  “Did you come here often, when it was new?” Poppy asked.

  “Three or four times a year, as I recall,” said Esther. “I think I will have the lamb.”

  Poppy gave the menu a last, thorough perusal. “And I’ll have the Beef Rib in Pan Gravy with Shredded Cabbage and Pine Nuts,” Poppy decided.

  Esther reached out to ring the bell. “Let’s tell Jeremy.”

  Poppy nodded agreement, knowing that it she would get nowhere pursuing the matter of the post card now. “Yes. Let’s. I’m hungry.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  POPPY HAD BEEN BACK AT HER DESK FOR TWENTY MINUTES WHEN LORING returned her call. After the most terse of greetings, Poppy asked, “Have you talked to Hank yet, or would you like me to phone him first?”

  “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Whether or not I want you to smooth the way with your cousin for me?” Loring inquired. In spite of his pleasure at the sound of her voice, he was tired and a bit peevish; he offered his version of an apology. “It’s been a rough day, and I’m out of sorts.”

  “Asking about Hank was an earlier question. I have more to tell you now.” She took a breath and waited for him to interject whatever he liked, then, when he remained silent, she said, “Aunt Esther told me over lunch that Aunt Jo had a post card from Stacy, most likely in the early post.”

  “Oho,” said Loring, his tone guardedly interested. “Do you know where it came from? Can you tell me more?”

  “No, not very much; I can only tell you what Aunt Esther told me over lunch. Judging from what she said, the card would have had to have come this morning, in the early post, probably because Aunt Jo did not receive it yesterday, morning nor evening. From what Aunt Jo told Esther, the stamp on the card is Brazilian; the message on it let Aunt Jo know that the hurricane was not near where he is.” She waited again, then went on, “It’s nothing more than a couple sentences, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Did he give any indication where that might be, beyond the stamp?” There was genuine curiosity as well as a little skepticism in his voice.

  “Not that I know of,” Poppy replied carefully; she studied her desk-lamp to see if it flickered—a sure sign of Holte’s presence—but its shine remained steady.

  “Have you seen the card itself?” Loring pursued.

  “No,
I haven’t. Neither has Aunt Esther, but she reported that Aunt Jo called her this morning to tell her about the card. If there was anything more to their conversation, Aunt Esther didn’t mention it.” Poppy went quiet while she pondered what else to tell him. “I could ask her if Aunt Jo told her anything else.”

  “Would it do any good?” Loring made no effort to hide his doubts.

  “Do you mean with Aunt Esther or Aunt Jo?”

  “Ultimately, Aunt Jo,” said Loring.

  Poppy had a prompt response. “She’s not likely to talk to me about it if I called her; she still blames me for Stacy’s troubles.”

  “Do you think she’ll let you see the post card if you asked her?” Loring asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Poppy admitted.

  “Me, too,” he conceded, and abandoned the topic of the post card. “What was the other thing you wanted to tell me?”

  “I called Hadley and Grimes. Quentin Hadley isn’t in the office today and isn’t expected back soon. He’s sailing with his cousin, bound for Cuba via Jamaica, according to his secretary, a fastidious fellow named Clifford Tinsdale, who was surprisingly talkative for a man in his position, and I don’t quite know what to make of what he said—he told me more than I expected without coaxing. I think it might mean that he’s worried, with the hurricane and not yet hearing that Nelson and Quentin have arrived in Jamaica, or anywhere else, for that matter.”

  “Not a good time for sailing. Hurricane Sylvia savaged that part of the Atlantic, and could still damage the Carolinas, though the Weather Service says it’s dying.” He paused, and when he spoke again, he had lowered his voice. “Am I to assume that Hadley and Grimes have not heard from Quentin?”