Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  She considered this. “All right,” she said, then stopped him. “Wait. You said you’d found out something at Hadley and Grimes, about the accounts Madison Moncrief was handling.”

  He came back toward her. “There were three, just as he and Poindexter told me. They had been James Poindexter’s accounts before Moncrief died.”

  “That’s … upsetting.” She was only half-listening now, sleep more enticing than talking about her relatives.

  “It is. The accounts are Beaman Beaman Trevillian and Cooper, International Business Associates — ”

  “Warren Derrington’s company?” Poppy sat up, no longer dozing.

  “The same, I believe. And Sansome and Company. All very important accounts at Hadley and Grimes, according to what I’ve been told.”

  Poppy mulled this over. “Why, then, did Quentin Hadley assign them to a new member of the firm? Madison Moncrief was new there, and although he was good at what he did, and had excellent social connections, he was a novice in the company. I would have thought Hadley would have given it to one of their established partners. If nothing else, assuming those accounts were so important to the firm, you’d think they’d be in the hands of someone who had been with them for some years, not a newcomer, no matter how capable.”

  “That occurred to me, as well,” Holte said, his form growing sharper than before. “Though what you can do with it, I’m not sure. Not yet.”

  “Nor am I.” She stared at the far wall, her mind going over everything she had learned. “Saturday’s a half-day for me, or it’s supposed to be; so’s Sunday. I’ll call in tomorrow morning to say I won’t arrive until ten; I’ll do my story here and take it into the paper when I’m done. That should suffice, if the story lives up to expectations. Houghton ought to run it. If not, Lowenthal will use it for Monday’s edition.” She sat up very straight. “Ye gods. I forgot to ask Stacy when he’d be free to talk to Inspector Loring.”

  “You’ll see him at breakfast, won’t you?” Holte asked, adding innocently, “Stacy, not Loring.”

  Poppy scowled at him. “Who knows? Stacy’s pretty unpredictable.”

  “Then warn Loring. You don’t want Loring to think Stacy’s avoiding him when he’s only being spontaneous.”

  “Do you think he would?” Poppy asked in surprise. “Suspect him?”

  “Police suspect people; it’s their job.” Holte slipped toward the door. “Don’t hold it against him.”

  “Why do you go in and out doors like that? You don’t open them, do you? Can’t you pass through walls if you want to?”

  “It’s a habit, I guess, and it keeps anxiety in the household to a minimum. If I only passed through opened doors, the residents might think the house is haunted,” said Holte, and left her alone with her thoughts and her dreams.

  Poppy awoke from a fading nightmare the following morning at seven-thirty, yelped when she saw the time, and rushed out of bed to take a quick bath and then dress; her call to the Clarion was mercifully brief, and satisfactory to both Poppy and Elias Houghton, who said she wouldn’t have to report to Lowenthal until noon, provided she had pages to turn in then. She reached the breakfast room at five minutes past eight, dressed for work in a handsome spruce-green suit with an ecru blouse of crepe; she found Josephine lingering over coffee and a half-finished bowl of oatmeal; the room was filled with limpid sunlight that brightened everything in it, and there were a symphony of wonderful smells coming from the kitchen.

  “Goodness, you’re up late,” she remarked as Poppy came to kiss her cheek. “Tobias ate and left almost an hour ago. He said he was sorry he missed dinner last night.”

  “Apologies, Aunt Jo. I was more tired than I realized,” she said as if admitting to a flaw in her character. “Yesterday was a hectic day.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” said Josephine a little stiffly, ringing for Missus Boudon. “You’ll need to have a substantial meal if you plan another such day.”

  The cook appeared promptly, favoring her left leg a little. “Finally! I was afraid no one would want food until lunch, except Missus Dritchner and your brother.”

  “Sorry, Missus Boudon. I overslept. And I’m hungry.” Poppy sat down in her usual place.

  “You want more than coddled eggs, then,” Missus Boudon guessed aloud.

  “If you please.”

  “I’ve made popovers for Mister Eustace,” the cook announced. “Would you like a couple? There’re plenty. I made a double batch.”

  “Eustace and his popovers,” sniffed his mother.

  “That would be wonderful. With cream cheese and your ginger preserves,” said Poppy, “and a pot of tea, and if you have them, some of those duck-and-pork sausages.” Just saying the words ignited her hunger and she had to stop herself from asking for more, knowing she would be unable to eat such a large breakfast.”

  “Tea will be in in five minutes, the rest in ten,” Missus Boudon pledged, nodded to Josephine, and left the room.

  “She’s limping, though she tries to hide it,” said Josephine as soon as the cook was out of the breakfast room. “I keep thinking that there ought to be something someone could do to protect her from that lout she married.”

  “Yes,” Poppy agreed.

  “He’s not worthy of his wife.” Josephine reached for the copy of the Constitution lying open next to her place at the table. “Eustace and Mister Derrington are still abed.”

  “We all had a late night, thanks to your planning,” said Poppy, feeling a faint pang of guilt. “Except Missus North.”

  Josephine drank a little more coffee, and reached for the tall pot to refill her cup, her eyes focused on the middle distance. “Primrose has these spells from time to time. It comes with her age, you know. She’s seventy-seven; she admits to seventy-two, but she’s seventy-seven. What can you expect.”

  “Is she that old?” Poppy asked, a bit shocked. “I hadn’t realized. I knew she must have been getting along in years, but seventy-seven!”

  “Her son told me at Christmas that he’s thinking of hiring a practical nurse for her.” Josephine pursed her lips, indicating that she thought the plan was a necessary one.

  “It’s probably a good idea,” said Poppy, unfolding her napkin and putting it in her lap.

  “I believe I told Denton that,” said Josephine, and would have enlarged upon her remark when the hall door opened and Stacy came in, perfectly groomed in a navy-blue suit, a white shirt, and navy-blue a silk tie. “Eustace. You’re up.”

  “Warren’ll be down in fifteen minutes.” He went to kiss his mother good morning. “You’re looking spritely today.”

  “No thanks to you,” she said, trying to sound severe and instead sounding besotted.

  “In my own defense, I have to tell you that I didn’t expect the party to last so long. The Smiths were here until close to one.”

  “Do you have anything scheduled for today?” Josephine asked as she reached for her coffee cup again.

  “I thought I might go ‘round at the Moncrief’s this afternoon; Warren’ll come with me. Do a sympathy call, you know. Best to get it behind us. I don’t want Julian Eastley to be the only man to show concern for Louise.” He glanced at Poppy. “Care to accompany us, Coz?”

  “Yes, please, if it’s after two-thirty. I’ll be back from the Clarion by then, and wholly at your disposal,” Poppy said at once, so pleased with the invitation that she didn’t ask herself why Stacy had extended it.

  Missus Boudon brought in a small tray with a round crockery pot and a cup-and-saucer on it. “Here it is, Miss Poppy. Cream and sugar are on the table.” As she set the tray down in front of Poppy, “And before you ask, Mister Eustace, there are popovers aplenty in the kitchen. You’ve only to tell me what you want with them, and how many. I have some of those duck sausages you like, and some thick-sliced bacon as well as fresh-delivered butter.”

  “You’re a darling, Missus Boudon. I’d like four popovers to start with, with soft butter and honey. Can I have some of your b
lueberry jam, too? And four rashers of that thick-sliced bacon. There’s coffee here already, and I can take a cup from the sideboard.”

  “Mind you take a saucer as well. I don’t want to have Missus Flowers spending the day rubbing heat rings out of the finish, and complaining about the extra work. And there are coasters in the far left drawer of the buffet. If you want more than eight popovers, tell me now so that I can make more batter and get the pans in the oven.” Her scolding was as dire as his mother’s attempted reprimand.

  “Word of honor, Missus Boudon,” he said as the cook returned to the kitchen, and crossed the room to collect the cup and saucer. He chose the place on Josephine’s right, sat down, and reached for the coffee pot. “Do you mind?” he asked as he was pouring. “I don’t know how you can function in the morning without coffee.”

  “Please,” said Josephine.

  He reached for the sugar bowl and creamer. “Thanks so much for indulging me last night, Mother. Throwing such a dinner together on short notice can’t have been easy, especially at a time like this.”

  Josephine beamed at his praise, but said, “It’s Missus Flowers and Missus Boudon you should be thanking, you wretched boy. They did the bulk of the work. All I did was make ‘phone calls. And thank Eliza while you’re at it.”

  “Oh, I will,” he promised, and grinned. When Missus Boudon brought Poppy her breakfast, he rose in protest. “Hey, how does she get popovers before I do?”

  “She was here first, and I offered them,” said Missus Boudon, doing her best not to be charmed by him.

  “That’s no excuse,” Stacy said. “Poppy, give me one of your popovers; I’ll give you one of mine when mine arrive.”

  Missus Boudon shook her head, smiling at Stacy’s antics. “I’ll be back directly,” she said as she went through the swinging door to the kitchen.

  There was a muted sound of the ‘phone ringing in the front of the house; it was ignored.

  “I know you,” Poppy accused him jokingly. “You’ll claim you never made such an offer and you’ll keep all your popovers.”

  “I probably will,” he agreed, then his eyes narrowed and for an instant there was something very unpleasant in his face. Then the genial smile returned.

  “All right. Have one.” She handed it to him, using her napkin. “I can always ask Missus Boudon for another dozen, so you won’t have to part with any.”

  “Clever, clever, Coz,” Stacy said, and winked at her. “Thanks.” He picked up his knife and reached over to scoop a dollop of cream cheese from the small bowl that Missus Boudon had brought Poppy.

  “No fair,” Poppy said.

  “Don’t be greedy, Eustace,” said Josephine, looking up from the pages of the Constitution.

  “I’m not greedy, Mother; I’m hungry, and the butter in the ramekin is hard; my honey-and-butter isn’t here yet.” Stacy pulled the popover apart and spread the cream cheese over half the interior. “Heaven,” he declared.

  Poppy wanted to offer a rejoinder, but decided against it; Stacy was having too much fun.

  “It says here,” Josephine announced as if she hadn’t heard the last, “that Judge Stephanson is retiring. About time.”

  “Oh, Mother, I didn’t mean anything slighting by asking for — ”

  Josephine overrode him. “This isn’t the kind of behavior I expect from you, Eustace, and it troubles me when you don’t behave as you’ve been trained. Please try to be courteous while you’re in this house.”

  “Sorry, Mother,” said Stacy, just as Missus Boudon brought him his popovers. “Thank you, thank you, Missus Boudon,” he said. “We were about to come to blows.”

  “Eustace!” his mother exclaimed.

  “I’ll make it up to you, Poppy,” he said without a hint of remorse.

  Poppy was about to express her doubts when Hawkins came to the breakfast room door. ‘Sorry to interrupt. There’s a ‘phone call for you, Miss Poppy.”

  SEVENTEEN

  POPPY SAT DOWN ON THE STAIRS NEXT TO THE ‘PHONE TABLE IN THE ENTRYWAY, hoping to have a little privacy while the conversation played out. “Poppy Thornton here.”

  “Miss Thornton, it’s Inspector Loring.” He was speaking softly, as if he were trying to keep from being overheard; there was an irregular buzz of conversation in the background of the call. “Are you free to speak?”

  She found his tone of voice disquieting, but said, “For the moment, yes. Should I get my notebook?”

  “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Stacy, my cousin,” she said. “Making plans for the day.”

  “Would he eavesdrop?” The bluntness of the question suggested that it was an important issue.

  “He might,” she said, providing no other clues that a listener could follow; she listened for static on the line, and heard none. She decided that Holte was not about, and felt both relieved and regretful that he was not with them.

  “Then perhaps we should meet somewhere where we can discuss this more privately,” he said. “The walls might have ears where I am and you are.”

  “Where would you like to meet?” asked Poppy, greatly intrigued.

  “Do you know the Viennese Coffee House? It’s about four miles from your place. If you like, I could pick you up.” This last was suggested as if it had just occurred to him.

  “I know the place; if you’re in a hurry, it might be best if you come by for me, otherwise I’ll have to beg a lift from Stacy.”

  The sconce-light flickered and Holte said, “Developments?”

  “Possibly,” said Poppy, then told Loring, “Sorry; we have house guests as well as relatives staying. You’re right. We should talk about this away from here.”

  “Ten minutes,” Loring said.

  Maestro appeared at the top of the stairs, back arched, tail flouffed, his whiskers abristle, muttering imprecations.

  “Yes, I know,” said Poppy.

  “You know?” Loring asked her.

  “I’m talking to the cat; he’s taken umbrage at something invisible. Appropriate apologies.” She sighed. “Ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  With more optimism than certainty, she said, “I’ll be ready.” As she hung up, she wondered what it was that had Loring so willing to speak with her, but not, it would seem, with anyone else. She hurried up the stairs and to her room, pulling out a spring-weight coat — a new one with a dropped waist and a fur collar — and her larger handbag. She made sure she had pencils as well as her notebook, and then hurried to go downstairs to depart. She had a momentary twinge of ruefulness at not getting to finish her popovers, but that passed almost at once.

  “Whither away, Coz?” asked Stacy from the door to the breakfast room, where he had been standing for a minute or so. His expression was ambiguous, half-smirk, half-suspicious.

  “I’m going to have coffee with a policeman,” she said. “The same one who wants to talk to you later on this morning.”

  “What fun for you,” Stacy said flippantly. “Why in the name of everything tasteful, would you rather spend time with a policeman than your nearest and dearest?”

  “My nearest and dearest is Toby, and well you know it,” she said. “Do you want to spend time with Toby?” She had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.

  “Given that choice, I’d take the policeman,” said Stacy. “Why does he want to talk to you, or you to him?”

  “It will help me in my job, and him in his,” she said, offended that he should denigrate her work because he knew it would annoy her. “It pays for reporters to stay on as good terms as possible with the police, especially when covering a crime.”

  “Then by all means, go off with your cop.” He executed an ironic bow and went back into the breakfast room.

  Hawkins, who had been watching this exchange, came to open the door for Poppy. “When shall we expect you back, Miss Poppy?”

  “Probably before noon, since I’m pledged to make a sympathy call with my cousin after two-thirty,” she
said. “If I’m going to be later, I’ll call.” She smiled to show she was not bothered by Stacy’s needling, then went out onto the front steps and looked about for a police car.

  What arrived was a year-old Hudson, the windows partially rolled down; there were no police markings on it, or other paraphernalia to distinguish it from any other car on the street. Inspector Loring waved to her, pulled to the curb, set the break, and got out to go to open the door for her. “Thanks for doing this.”

  “I haven’t done anything yet,” she said as she got in. “But you’re more than welcome; you’re helping me, too, you know. Tell me what this is all about.”

  “Let’s get underway first.” He closed the door and went back around the car to get into the driver’s seat. As they pulled away from the house, he said, “Do you know anyone named Percy Knott?”

  “You mean the antiques dealer? Yes, I do.” She paused, thinking that Holte had asked about Percy Knott the night before — one of those odd coincidences that made her skin crawl if she thought about it. “Not very well, of course, but well enough to talk to at parties. Knott bought my Uncle Alfred’s business some years ago. A … friend and I were talking about him just last night.” She managed an uneasy chuckle. “What about him?”

  Deflecting her question, he asked one of his own. “What do you know about him, beyond his decorating business?” He double-clutched as he moved into third gear.

  “He’s somewhere between thirty-five and forty. Poor eyesight kept him out of the Great War, or so he claims, though there are rumors about him. He did something for the Department of State during the Great War. He wears very thick glasses. In spite of that, he’s reckoned to be a good athlete. He sings second tenor in his church choir. He’s a Presbyterian. I’ve heard he is temperamental, which wouldn’t surprise me, but I’ve never seen any sign of it. He’s single and has always been. He travels a lot, mostly for his business. He moves in the best social circles and dines out frequently. Why?”

  Loring didn’t answer her, which was an ominous sign. “Do you know how business was going for him recently?”