Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Poppy stared at her Remington, trying to remember what she had intended to write. Nothing came to mind. She prepared a bond, carbon paper, onionskin sandwich and rolled it into the platen. There had to be something she could write about between now and when she had to meet Loring at Coulson’s Chop House, though nothing occurred to her. She started to doodle on her desk-top blotter, but even that did not help her focus on what she wanted to do. “Blast and ruination,” she said to the empty page in front of her.

  Tony, the chief copy-boy, stopped across from Poppy and handed her a note, offered her a cynical smile that did something creepy to his fifteen-year-old face, and said, “Hope it’s worth it,” and with that, ambled away.

  Poppy took the note and opened it.

  Miss Thornton,

  I am saddened to tell you that we have just received word that a portion of Nelson Hadley’s yacht, the Belle Helene, has washed up on Cabo Cruz in Cuba, severely damaged and with no one, living or dead, aboard. I fear we must consider them lost at sea. This office will provide appropriate information to be included in my employer’s obituary before close of business today.

  Sincerely,

  Clifford Tinsdale

  Poppy read through the note twice, and then picked up her phone, asking the operator to connect her to Lieutenant Ely at the Harbor Master’s Station. She would get her confirmation on the sinking and then begin work on the tragic loss. She thought over the tragic loss description and made up her mind to use it in the story she wrote.

  The operator came back on the line. “That number is busy, Ma’am.”

  “Please try again in ten minutes.” Poppy glanced at the city room clock. “And at ten minute intervals for an hour, if necessary,” she added before she hung up, and began to doodle. After five minutes of waiting for the connection to go through, she decided to check with Vital Statistics, to repay Rob Gentry for his giving her the information on Julian Eastley’s fatal accident. She signaled for the in-house operator and gave her Rob Gentry’s number, then waited for him to answer. “Gentry? Poppy Thornton here,” she said when he answered his phone.

  “Well, hello, Miss Poppy. What can I do for you today?”

  “It’s something I can do for you. I’ve just had a note from Hadley and Grimes, from Quentin Hadley’s secretary, telling me that Quentin and his cousin Nelson appear to have been lost at sea during Hurricane Sylvia; part of Nelson’s yacht washed up on Cabo Cruz in Cuba. You might want to check it out. We should be getting obituary material from Hadley and Grimes later today. For now, I’m planning on calling the Coast Guard as soon as we’re off the phone, for confirmation.” That much was true, but in the name of candor, she said, “As soon as I get confirmation from the Coast Guard, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, you may want to check with Mister Tinsdale at Hadley and Grimes.”

  “Thanks. Will do,” said Gentry.

  “One more thing,” Poppy said. “There’s no mention of bodies being recovered, just parts of the boat.”

  Gentry gave a low whistle. “Call me back after you talk to the Coast Guard, if you would.”

  “Happy to,” said Poppy, and hung up. She checked the clock again, and resumed scrawling on the corner of her desk blotter, trying not to count the seconds. By the time the call went through, twenty minutes later, Poppy had added more than four square inches of tiny drawings of unlikely plants and animals.

  “Miss Thornton?” said Lieutenant Ely.

  “Yes, Lieutenant. I was wondering if you could check on some information that just came in at the Clarion—about one of the missing pleasure boats?”

  “Do you have a name for this craft?”

  “It’s a two-masted yacht, a yawl, out of Mystic harbor, the Belle Helene. It may also be registered in Santiago de Cuba. The owner is Nelson Hadley.” She paused, wondering if he would say something; he did not. “I had a note from Hadley and Grimes that the boat was found washed up on Cabo Cruz. Can you confirm that for me, please?”

  There was a silence at the Coast Guard end, and then Lieutenant Ely said, “It appears that may be correct. We have no specific report yet, but there is a preliminary notification that was wired in half an hour ago that describes a badly wrecked yacht that sounds like the vessel you mean. Only half the name has been found, but Belle He is very likely to be Belle Helene, and from what they tell me, it is a yawl, which is the kind of craft you’re looking for. If I find out anything to the contrary, I’ll phone you as soon as I learn of it.”

  “Much appreciated, Lieutenant,” said Poppy, and as soon as she had hung up, she called Vital Statistics to relay the unofficial identification to Rob Gentry.

  “Something hot, Thornton?” Gafney asked, his question filled with doubt.

  “Nothing that would interest you,” Poppy shot back. “Shipping news.”

  Gafney laughed and lit another cigarette.

  Poppy spent the next half hour putting together a short piece on the missing yacht and then went to hand it in to Lowenthal.

  “Doesn’t look like either Hadley made it,” Lowenthal said after he had skimmed the report. “You’ll have to do an expanded piece when you get the final word from the Coast Guard. This is enough for now.”

  “That’s encouraging,” said Poppy, thinking that it was strange to be satisfied with writing up a few hundred words on the loss of a ship at sea. “I’ll be back by one.”

  “You leaving early?” Lowenthal asked, his brows rising in surprise.

  “Loring requested it. I think he wants to get ahead of the regular lunch crowd, so we can have some private conversation; he may have new information that’s a bit…touchy. He’s interviewed two of the Pearse girls and he may have something more about the latest situation with the family.” Listening to herself, she thought this sounded pretty lame, but she saw Lowenthal nod, and felt relief at that sign.

  “So long as there isn’t anything that will set off Mister Pearse’s temper, it’s good enough for me.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “If you need until one-thirty, I won’t mind. Just make sure that you take the time to get the whole story.”

  “You know I will,” said Poppy, and went out to put on her coat and pick up her purse and brief-case.

  “Another outside job?” Gafney asked at his most snide.

  “Yes, not that it’s any business of yours,” Poppy countered, and made her way out of the city room and down the stairs.

  Arriving at Coulson’s Chop House, Poppy found a parking slot in the lot behind the restaurant. She set the hand-brake and got out of the auto, her purse and brief-case in her right hand. After locking the Hudson’s door, she went into the Chop House, and looked around the somewhat darkened interior of the dining room; only three of the tables and one of the booths were occupied. She saw Loring seated in the booth on the far side of the room, to the side of the kitchen doors; she waved and started toward him.

  “Ma’am?” said a young waitress hurrying up to her.

  “I’m meeting with the inspector. You needn’t seat me,” Poppy said in the way she imagined Aunt Esther would say it; she kept walking in Loring’s direction, leaving the waitress to go back to the reception stand to gather up menus for them. Sliding into the seat opposite him, she set her brief- case and purse on the bench next to her, after she removed her pencil and notebook, and asked, “So what did you think of the Pearse girls?”

  “Hello to you, too.” Loring took his tone from Poppy. “Stay seated, won’t you?” He did not wait for her to do it, but launched into the reason he had asked her to join him. “Regarding the Pearse girls: I liked Genevieve; she’s a very self-composed girl for sixteen, and she’s forthcoming without being effusive. By the way, she told me that GAD had a terrible crush on you when he was thirteen and fourteen. Did you know?”

  “Not really; I’ve only heard about it recently,” Poppy answered, wondering what—if anything—this had to do with what Loring wanted to know about the Pearses. “I used to listen when he talked about his creatures and his fascination wi
th nature. He seemed bright and a little out of step with his family, something I could understand. But there’s six years difference in our ages. I never thought of him as anything more than a kid until last year, when I came across a letter to the editor in the Constitution. The idea that he had had a crush on me never entered my mind. Is that important?” She glanced up as the waitress came up to them to hand them menus.

  “Who knows?” Loring replied, then kept silent.

  The waitress took this as her cue. “The special today is meatloaf with a baked potato and celery root. It’s one sixty-five with coffee or cider.” She was practicing sounding enthusiastic at the high price. “There’s Vermont cheddar cheese in the meatloaf.”

  “Thank you,” said Loring. “We’ll have some cider now and order a little later.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be back with your cider in ten minutes,” said the waitress before turning away and going back to her post near the reception desk in anticipation of the noon-time crowd.

  “What else did Genevieve tell you?” Poppy asked him, the menu lying unopened in front of her, her pencil poised over her notebook.

  “She said that GAD did have some kind of understanding with Merrinelle Butterworth, but had not mentioned it to his parents, for fear of their interference with him. He was worried that if he and Merrinelle became engaged now, there would be an uproar that would mean that they would have to wait to marry until he had graduated from his university at the least. He was worried that Merrinelle might not like that long a delay, but he could not think that it would be a good move to elope. Too much of a scandal.”

  “Not surprising,” said Poppy while she made a couple of notes.

  “When I asked her about what she thinks is going on with GAD, she didn’t sound troubled. She told me that she believes that he is doing just what he said he would do, which is a change from what Merrinelle said to the Tattler.” Loring lowered his voice. “Genevieve also mentioned that in the last two days, her father has received five demands for ransom for GAD’s safe return, and he’s furious. He blames Merrinelle for the new demands.”

  “Five ransom demands?” Poppy repeated. “From the same person or group?”

  “No. According to Genevieve, all are from different postmarks, all make different claims about GAD’s condition, and the amounts they’re demanding vary from twenty thousand dollars to half a million.”

  Poppy wrote this down, saying as she did, “No wonder Mister Pearse wanted to avoid publicity.”

  “No wonder,” Loring echoed. “The thing that bothers Genevieve is that one of those demands might be real, but there’s no way to be sure.”

  “Missus Pearse must be beside herself,” Poppy said. “She’s been imagining horrors ever since GAD dropped out of sight, and five ransom demands won’t lessen her anxiety.” She took a moment to think. “Did any of the demands originate from outside the country?”

  “Genevieve didn’t think so; she didn’t see any foreign stamps on the envelopes, but that doesn’t mean that a letter from Austria wasn’t sent here and remailed; that would take time, and unless the ransom demand was sent over a week ago…” Loring shook his head. “I’d like to have a look at those letters, but Genevieve told me that Mister Pearse has been fit to be tied about the ransom demands, and wants to tear them all up. Missus Pearse won’t let him, or so Genevieve told me. Tatiana had another view of the situation.”

  “No doubt.” Poppy thought about the state of the Pearse family, and frowned. “I can phone them, to ask about the ransom demands, or find an excuse, but I don’t think that would be a good idea. Knowing Sherman Pearse, he would think that I was taking advantage of my association with the family.”

  “That’s likely,” Loring admitted, signaling Poppy to be quiet as the waitress brought their ciders, saying to her as she set down the tall, beer-glasses. “Give us another ten minutes, if you would.”

  “The lunch crowd will be starting to arrive by then,” the waitress warned.

  Poppy opened her menu and looked over the possibilities. “Let’s tend to this now. I’ll have the corned beef sandwich, with the pickle and potato salad,” she said.

  Loring handed his menu to the waitress. “And I’ll have the special, and a cup of your beef-and-barley soup.”

  The waitress had taken out a notepad and began to write with a broad-tipped pencil. “Anything else?”

  “Not for me,” said Poppy, surrendering her menu.

  “Same here; don’t put a rush on them,” Loring told the waitress, and watched as she opened the nearer of the two kitchen doors. Once that swung closed, he leaned forward. “Can we get back to Tatiana?”

  “I wasn’t aware we had begun,” said Poppy, smiling to take the sting out of her remark. “What did you make of her?”

  “I don’t really know. She’s a peculiar mix of sly and mercurial; I’m still guessing about half of what she said to me. One of her comments bothered me: she said she was certain that GAD was faking his kidnapping to get money for those Living Spectres of his.”

  “That sounds like something Tatiana would do, not GAD,” Poppy said,

  One of the parties at a table in the middle of the room—a group of three middle-aged men—got up and went to the reception desk to pay; the tallest of the three left two bits on the table for a tip.

  “Why do you say that?” Loring inquired. “Not that I doubt you, but you have to admit that it is a possibility.”

  “Because Tatiana has always been surreptitious, and she’s become capricious. She’s not above being deliberately misleading, and taking pride in being so. GAD’s the opposite. If he wanted money for his Living Spectres, he would ask for it directly, not create an elaborate scenario that could backfire. That’s not his nature, but it certainly is TRA’s.” Poppy took her glass of cherry cider and tasted it. “Not bad. In fact, pretty good.”

  “I’m pleased you like it.” He looked around the dining room; the patrons at the other occupied table did not appear to be ready to leave. “Then you don’t put much stock in her suspicions.”

  “No, I don’t. As you say, they might be true, but it’s more likely just TRA’s—Tatiana—stirring the pot.” She looked down at her half-page of notes. “I have some news for you, by the way.”

  “Okay,” he said warily. “What now?”

  THIRTY

  “I HAD A NOTE FROM QUENTIN HADLEY’S ASSISTANT THIS MORNING, INFORMING me that Quentin and his cousin, whose yacht they were sailing, are missing and considered drowned in the hurricane.” Poppy saw that Loring was startled. “The wreckage of Nelson’s yawl, the Belle Helene, washed up near Santiago de Cuba. The Coast Guard has given provisional confirmation of the loss.”

  “Quentin Hadley is dead?” Loring asked, as if he had not heard what she said.

  “It certainly looks like it. The yacht he was on broke up and sank.”

  “What about his cousin? And Miles Overstreet?” Loring asked, gathering his thoughts.

  “It seems likely that they’re gone, too. So far as anyone knows, they were all on board.” Poppy felt abashed for her fib; she took a sheet of paper from her brief-case and held it out to him. “This is a copy of the note I had.” She had typed it out shortly before leaving the Clarion, anticipating this moment.

  Loring looked over the text, shaking his head slowly. “I’ll have to check this out. Thanks for the warning.”

  For some reason she could not identify, Poppy felt warmth rising in her face. “We did agree to share information. I’m just doing my part,” she said, determined to hide her confusion.

  “For which I am grateful,” said Loring. “This is going to throw the District Attorney’s and the federal government’s investigation into a cocked hat with those men dead, and no actual witnesses to confirm it. Maybe they’ll turn the case back over to the police and leave the heavy- weights out of it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Loring shook his head. “Because it means that they’ll have to shift some of their focus to
other members of the firm, and none of them want to do that, not when they were getting their ducks in a row. That shift alone will slow down the speed of the District Attorney’s and the Attorney General’s inquiries, and that will give Hadley and Grimes more time to cover their tracks, which could mean that there will be even more heat on Stacy and Derrington. Not that there’s anything we can do directly.” He took another sip of his cherry cider. “I’d like to find one or the other of them, and soon. We need a lid on this.”

  “But why? Wouldn’t you rather have the lid blown off?” Poppy stared at him, trying to discern his reasons for such an unrealistic desire.

  Loring stared down into his glass of cider as if attempting to read signs in it. “There are too many rich and powerful people who have their hands in this, one way or another, and such men are well connected, which could open even more locked doors to public scrutiny, and that means that whatever is there to be found won’t be there long. I don’t want to end up spinning my wheels.”

  “In other words, politics,” said Poppy with a cynicism that was almost equal to that of Dick Gafney’s. “That could be a problem.”

  “We’re feeling pressure already, and that’s a strong indication that it can only get worse. So far, the District Attorney is prepared to continue his search for Stacy and Derrington, but he’s cooling on Louise. If Hadley and Grimes can sweep their activities under the rug, then I’m not certain that there will be much effort spent in tracking down your cousin and his friend.” His expression turned apologetic. “I don’t know how much more they’ll let me do, Poppy, if Hadley and Grimes manage to slide out from under this.”

  A spurt of anger went through Poppy as she considered what the implications of this could be. “There have been three murders for sure in this case, and two questionable deaths. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  “It won’t if there are no culprits to drag into court, and the way things are going, that’s not impossible. They’re already starting to run for cover.” Loring’s eyes had taken on the exhausted look they had had when he and she first met. “I wish I could say something less disheartening, but if we can’t find a lead…” He turned one of his hands palm up, then blinked. “Three murders? What three murders? Do you mean Poindexter, or have I miscounted?”