Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Poppy studied him, for he had spoken without shyness or hesitation, which she had never known him to do. She determined to help him out. “I can understand why you might think so; the financial men at the Clarion have great hopes for him. He’s supposed to have a real understanding about using money as a means for creating social change.”

  “Not money, if you please; I’d rather discuss crime, no matter how unpleasant, for in general, I find it less agitating than the matters of finance,” Henry Smith interjected; a distinguished professor of philosophy, he had recently published a book on the Enlightenment, and would be spending the summer in Europe, doing research for his next. “There’s too much emphasis on money these days.”

  His wife, Dolores, a third of the way around the table from him, laughed her tinkling laugh. “Oh, Henry. You know that you only think so because you have such a lot of it.”

  “Inherited, my dear. The best kind.” Henry Smith all but crowed.

  The guests echoed his laughter with titters and snickers of their own, Stacy adding, “How do you think Henry has time for philosophy? The money makes it possible.”

  “Eustace!” his mother reprimanded him.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” Stacy inquired merrily.

  “There is something in what you say, of course,” Stanton Fernald declared ponderously, ignoring Eliza, who had come in to remove the plates from the second course, a salad of chopped apples, chopped pears, walnuts, and poached, chopped hothouse asparagus, in chilled hollandaise sauce. “Everywhere we see that prosperity fosters the humanities, invention, and the arts, and its lack diminishes them. Education flourishes where there is social stability, and falters where there is inadequate cohesiveness. Nomadic peoples are kept ignorant and nonparticipatory through their lack of education, and their failure to desire to correct that lack.”

  Warren Derrington squirmed in his seat. “Is that always so?” He avoided looking directly at Fernald, as if to keep from offending him.

  “There may be exceptions,” Fernald allowed magnanimously, “but they are few, and anomalous.”

  “What a pedant you are, Ferny,” Stacy said.

  “Eustace,” Josephine said again.

  “Well, he is, Mother, and you know it.” Stacy beamed at her, and was rewarded with an indulgent smile.

  Fernald glowered at his host, his cheeks growing red. “A good education and informed opinions are nothing to apologize for, Eustace.”

  “Stanton, for heaven’s sake,” his wife Bernadette said. “No pontification, please; not tonight.”

  Watching Stacy and Fernald feint at one another, Poppy could only be glad that Tobias had decided not to attend this party, for if he had come, the verbal jousting might well have become rancorous: Tobias had a gift for setting people’s backs up. Taking a second look at Franklin Grimes, she decided to have a talk with him before the evening came to an end.

  “Hardly that,” Fernald said, self-satisfied.

  “Of course not; just a little intellectual exercise,” Eustace all but purred. “A good education is a wonderful thing.”

  “Eustace, leave Stanton alone” Josephine told them. “You’re not on the playground any more.”

  Fernald gathered his dignity, looked away from Stacy, and went back to unnecessarily cutting up his salad. “May I have some more hollandaise sauce, please?”

  Eleanor passed the bowl to him. “What do you make of the editorial in the Tribune?” she asked of no one in particular.

  “You mean that screed that claims Prohibition encourages crime?” Calvin Delacroix asked; he was Josephine’s second cousin once removed, a few years older than Stacy, a well-known critic on the arts-and-music scene in eastern Pennsylvania; he and his wife Grace had given up a night of Baroque music for Stacy’s impromptu party.

  “I think there’s some truth in it,” said Stacy.

  “Well, Madison had been drinking before he … died,” Fernald said as if the brandy might be to blame. “I would say it has the opposite effect; judge and jury, you might say.”

  “You would,” muttered Stacy.

  “Goodness, not at the dinner table,” Josephine protested.

  Hawkins came in from the kitchen carrying a platter of medium-rare baron of beef, the bone-thick slices surrounded by wedges of Yorkshire pudding. He moved between Stacy and Eleanor Croaton to place it where Stacy could tend to serving it. “Three side-dishes are coming,” he said, and went back toward the kitchen.

  Primrose North, the seventy-seven-year-old mother of the man of the house across the street, a teacup of a woman, very nearly clapped with delight, and at last seemed interested in the dinner. “Oh, it looks lovely, Josephine. You do have a wonderful cook in Missus Boudon.”

  “Yes. She is a treasure,” Josephine said confidently. “And not a temperamental bone in her body.”

  This signaled the guests to offer recollections of various erratic cooks they had encountered in their lives. While they each strove to tell a more outrageous story, Hawkins returned with a large silver tray on which sat a ceramic bowl of baked potatoes in their jackets, a small, oval platter of stewed tomatoes and bell peppers, a cut- glass bowl of sweet pickles, and a basket of rolls wrapped in an embroidered towel.

  “Butter, gravy, and sautéed mushrooms to come,” Hawkins told Stacy, puffing slightly.

  The ceiling candelabra flickered; Josephine looked up at it, as if daring the light bulbs to go out. “Not another power failure,” she murmured.

  “Bring in the Bordeaux next,” Stacy said to Hawkins. “Then get the butter and all the rest of it.” He studied the centerpiece, a tasteful display of lilies and mums that was not too large for the table. “Should I move this to the sideboard? It’s a bit tall for some of us.”

  Josephine considered the problem. “It might be a good idea,” she conceded. “Yes, as soon as he returns, have Hawkins move it.”

  With the centerpiece out of the way, and the wine poured, conversation blossomed at the table, carefully and unobviously steered away from topics that could prove upsetting to Josephine and provoking to Stacy. Watching from his place on the ceiling, Holte marveled at their skill with small-talk; they were like stage-magicians, concealing their craft even as they used it.

  “We’ll be putting in another greenhouse shortly,” Josephine said to Stanton Fernald. “Something larger than the two we have.”

  “Flowers or vegetables?” he asked, not particularly interested.

  “Fruit trees, I think. Nothing large, but enough to supply the table with something other than winter pears and late apples. We do have a large enough greenhouse, if that’s necessary. The Jeffries will tell me.” She sighed. “I do enjoy seeing things grow.”

  “Yes,” said Fernald, and cut the last bit of beef from the bone.

  Dolores Smith and Eleanor Croaton were asking Franklin Grimes about his dissertation, and he was lapping up their flattering attention.

  “It’s almost done. My thesis defense is coming up.” He shuddered dramatically. “I’m trying to prepare for it.”

  Eleanor gave him a curious look. “What is your topic?”

  “It’s pretty dull, you know. It deals with the history of trade between eastern and western Europe from the Middle Ages to the French Revolution, and its effect on return from a service-based economy to a money-based one. I got the idea for it when I was in France, toward the end of the Great War; I joined up just after I finished my four years at Yale, you know, and my officers’ training took a few months, so I wasn’t there as long as some of the boys.” He achieved a kind of smile. “I’m doing the doctorate at Cornell.”

  Around the rest of the table, it was much the same: Eustace and Warren Derrington were making plans for the weekend that included visiting Louise Moncrief; Bernadette Fernald and Henry Smith were engaged in a light discussion of the influence of myths and children’s stories on culture, and its impact on theatre and film; Poppy and Grace Delacroix were taking about the emerging opportunities in the workplace for
women and cordially disagreeing as to how long it would take for these opportunities to become securely established.

  As the conversation struck one of its occasional lags, Primrose North stated quite loudly, as if responding to something that had been said, “Denton — my son, you know — says they’re all criminals.”

  “All prosecutors think that,” said Stacy in his most calming voice, in a tone that said he agreed with what she was talking about.

  “Denton says he’ll prove they’re criminals.” She clutched her napkin as if she were hanging from a cliff and it was her only salvation.

  Poppy wondered who they might be, but said nothing, as all vestiges of conversation came to a halt.

  “No doubt they are,” Josephine soothed Primrose.

  “He’ll convict them all,” Primrose said, her assertiveness deserting her. “He’s going to clean up the business.” She huddled down in her chair.

  “Cal, you’re next to her; pour her some more wine,” Stacy recommended.

  Calvin Delacroix complied, saying, “Have a little more, Missus North.”

  She blinked, and chirped, “Why, thank you, young man,” and took her glass; three dainty sips later, she set it down again.

  Delacroix put the wine bottle back on the coaster, one of four on the table for that purpose, as Eliza came in to clear away the main course; slowly the buzz of conversation resumed.

  After dessert and coffee, the party moved into the sitting room — at Josephine’s request, Hawkins had escorted Primrose North across the street to her own home and the stewardship of her son — where bottles of brandy, bourbon, and Benedictine had been set out, with beautiful cut glasses on the coffee table, next to a jar of candied violets.

  “We also have fresh-squeezed orange juice. Florida oranges,” said Josephine as she took her place in her preferred chair, though most of the party remained on their feet as Stacy poured out the requested drinks.

  A flicker from the nearest wall-sconce told Poppy that Holte had come into the sitting room. She asked for Benedictine in a very small glass, lifted it in what she guessed was Holte’s direction, and moved away toward Franklin Grimes, who was leaning on the arm of the sofa, a glass of brandy-and-soda in his hand.

  “It’s been a long time, Frank,” she said, holding out her free hand to him.

  He took it. “It has. I can’t quite place it — after the Great War?”

  “And before the ‘Flu struck in earnest. The victory celebration at the Signers’ Club; the old building, in the Grand Salon,” she said, pleased that she had been able to recall that meeting. Then he had been thin and nervous; now he was sleek and confident. She estimated his age at twenty-eight or twenty-nine.

  “That’s right,” he said, his narrowed eyes sizing her up. “You were in college then, weren’t you?”

  “My sophomore year,” Poppy told him, and trying to encourage him to say more, added, “Did I hear you say that you’re completing a doctoral degree?”

  “I hope. My faculty advisor is pressing me to turn in my dissertation before the end of May. It’s the defense that’s bothering me.” He touched his glass to the rim of hers. “So, Poppy, here’s to reacquaintance,” he said with the kind of automatic smile that meant nothing.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, then added, “This must be a particularly difficult time for your family. My condolences.”

  “If you mean Moncrief, that’s Hadley’s side of the business. Father’s keeping well out of it. Murder’s such a tawdry crime, isn’t it?” He flashed another smile, one that was supposed to be charming but on him seemed callous.

  “It is an unfortunate one,” Poppy said carefully.

  “That’s what we’re all supposed to think,” Grimes said. “But there are times it’s impossible to see it that way.” He drank, taking a generous amount of his brandy-and-soda. “I don’t mean Moncrief’s case is one of those, but I do think this insistence on mourning everyone who comes to a violent end is much overdone.”

  Poppy kept her expression neutral; perhaps, she thought, he was a little drunk, or he was more upset than he wanted to admit. Perhaps he feared he had said too much — but if he had, too much about what? “I suppose it depends on the individual,” she said.

  He slapped his forehead. “Your father. I forgot. I’m sorry if I sounded … indifferent.” Before he could say anything more, Derrington came over to the two of them.

  “Don’t mean to intrude,” he began clumsily. “I need a little of your time, Frank. There are a few matters we need to discuss.” Without waiting for a response, he took Grimes by the elbow and pulled him to the other side of the room.

  Watching them go, Poppy asked herself, now what was that all about?

  SIXTEEN

  POPPY SAT ON THE CHEST AT THE END OF HER BED, LEGS TUCKED UP UNDER HER, her bathrobe snuggled around her; her bedroom was lit by the small Tiffany lamp on her nightstand but otherwise it was dark; the house was almost quiet, the guests either departed, or off to their rooms for the rest of the night, giving Poppy a chance to review the party and discuss it with Holte, who appeared to sit at her vanity, his outline as firm as she had ever seen it; in the mirror he showed as a shimmer more insubstantial than a moonbeam.

  “I think it went well,” she began, her voice low; the evening had been judged a success as far as Aunt Jo and Stacy were concerned, but Poppy had some reservations. “For the most part,” she added.

  “I’d agree,” said Holte. “Your aunt entertains well, and so does your cousin, though his style is different.”

  “Stacy has a bit of the gadfly in him,” Poppy said. “And he is most likely to tweak his mother, unless Hank — his oldest brother — is around. He and Hank fence conversationally for hours. I think they both enjoy it.”

  “Is Hank the one Josephine calls Galahad?” Holte asked.

  “Yes; poor Hank. He’s never liked the name. Aunt Jo went through an Arthurian phase when she was first married. My father said she was taken with the whole idea of the Round Table. She bought an old suit of armor for the entry hall. Cosmo was her Greek phase. She was in her Anglophile stage when Reginald and Eustace were born. Her husband left the naming of her children to her.”

  “Strange. Most men want to name their own sons.”

  Poppy nodded. “He was something of a cypher, Uncle Alfred was; he spent a great deal of time away from home.”

  “Doing what?” Holte swung around to face her, rising six inches above the seat as he did. “Or was that part of what made him a cypher?”

  “He dealt in antiques and fine art, fairly large scale. He was recognized as an expert in several fields of antiquities. As I recall, his doctoral degree was in history with an emphasis on art and architecture, or so says Aunt Jo. He often worked on commission from universities and museums, authenticating their acquisitions. They relied on him to verify the provenance on questionable pieces. When he got older, he opened a shop, dealing in mostly European antiques, though he also handled Chinese pottery from time to time: very successful, very exclusive. Percy Knott took over his business; he’s made quite a success of it.” She shook her head. “Aunt Jo adored her husband, in a distant sort of way.”

  “Did he ever work for one of those international companies, the kind Moncrief worked with?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Poppy, suddenly very careful. “If he did, it wasn’t directly.”

  “What about Percy Knott?” Holte asked.

  “I don’t know; there weren’t very many of those international businesses before the Great War, not the way there are now, and the antiquities market wasn’t nearly so active,” said Poppy. “I think it unlikely that Uncle Alfred did, except as orders from customers at his shop who wanted good antiques for their offices and homes.” But even as she said it, she wondered. “He might have had commissions from businesses from time to time. He made a good living, in any case. Aunt Jo once said that he often earned over twenty-five thousand dollars on his transactions, but I have only her word for it; sh
e may have been boasting. It wasn’t the sort of thing he talked about.”

  “How well did he know Knott?” Holte asked the question as if it came out of the most idle curiosity.

  “It was more professional than social, but they were often in contact with one another,” Poppy said, trying to decide what he was fishing for.

  “Men with business in common — that sort of thing?”

  “Yes; all those dealers do that, I think, like all manner of other professions. Like Knott, Uncle Alfred was pretty tight-lipped. I think that’s why Uncle Alfred was willing to sell to him.”

  “Nothing like Stacy.”

  “Not very much, no.” Poppy smothered a yawn with her hand. “But Uncle Alfred was never very much involved with his sons.”

  “By the way, what is it that Stacy does, exactly?” Holte waited for her answer.

  “I don’t know, exactly. It has something to do with real estate or commercial ventures — funding, I think — and he has interests in the petroleum industries. He’s part of International Business Associates, which deals in antiques and antiquities, among other things. He doesn’t like to talk about his specific business when he’s home; he’s like his father in that way, at least, and looks more like Uncle Alfred than Aunt Jo. By the way, she encourages Stacy not to let his work interfere with his family life, which he regularly disregards.” Her face grew more somber as she strove to keep herself from indulging in guesses about her cousin. “I know he uses a great many of his university contacts in his work. He often jokes about it.”

  “I think I should follow him when he goes back to New York, just to get that settled. I don’t like having so many unanswered questions about him.” He smiled. “Spying, you might say.”

  “Just to keep your hand in?”

  “Of course,” he answered, and floated a little closer to her. “You’re tired. You ought to get to bed.”