Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  She realized he would not be worn down with questions, so she had some more of the cream-puff. “May I be present while you talk to my aunt? She’s more likely to cooperate with you if I join you.”

  “Let me think about it while we eat,” he said, and turned his attention to his doughnut.

  “All right,” said Poppy, and dug into what remained of her extravagant cream-puff.

  By the time they left the Viennese Coffee Shop, a certain camaraderie had been established between them; the drizzle had slacked off and there were patches of sky showing through the clouds. They went out to his car; he let her in the passenger door then went around to the driver’s side, let himself in and prepared to engage the engine. “It’s good of you to help me on this case. I don’t know how I would be able to get through the social tangle without you.” As he drove out of the parking lot, he turned to her before he went onto the street. “No matter how things go with your family, I want you to know that I’m grateful to you.”

  “I’m glad to do it,” Poppy said, doing her best to sound confident.

  “And if you’ll promise you won’t interject questions, I’ll let you be present while I talk to your aunt — assuming she is willing to talk to me at all.” He double-clutched down as he neared the intersection ahead. “That should reassure your cousin.”

  “We’ll see,” Poppy said after thinking over his offer.

  “You’ve got to do better than that, Poppy,” Loring said.

  “You haven’t met Aunt Jo, and although you’re clever, Stacy will take pride in outmaneuvering you.” She folded her arms and stared out the window at the cloudy day, and the passing traffic, trying to make up her mind about her planned call on Louise Moncrief that would happen in the afternoon, and how much she should tell Lowenthal in advance.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Loring said as he turned onto Poppy’s street, and began looking for an open place to park.

  “I’m just trying to sort out a couple of things. I need to turn in a story today.” She looked at him, and saw a fixed look in his eyes. “What is it?”

  “That story of yours — you’ll have to be careful what you say in it.”

  “I understand that. I’ll be heedful.”

  “Okay. But there’re a lot of things that you’ve heard that you shouldn’t report yet.” He drew up in front of the Dritchner house and parked.

  “Well, I’ll do my best,” she said, and prepared to get out of the car as he set the hand brake. “But Aunt Jo can be very protective of her youngest son.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Poppy sighed. “She doesn’t want anyone to speak the least ill of Stacy, or even to question his activities. If she thinks that’s what you’re doing, she’ll be difficult.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Let me get the door,” he said, and opened his. “I don’t want your aunt to think that I’m a complete barbarian.”

  Poppy smiled, and waited until he had opened her door to say, “That’s probably past praying for. She thinks all policemen are barbarians.” She took his proffered hand and got out, holding onto her purse. “I’ll make sure Aunt Jo knows that you’re trying to solve a crime that was committed on one of her social circle. That may help.”

  As they went up the walkway, Poppy was aware of someone watching them from the front parlor; after looking at the size of the figure behind the curtains, she assumed it was Stacy and felt a twinge of upset. She used the knocker instead of the doorbell, which had been on the fritz for the last few days, and waited to see who would open the door.

  NINETEEN

  “GOOD MORNING, MISS,” SAID HAWKINS AS HE PULLED THE FRONT DOOR OPEN. “It’s good to have you back.” He glanced at Loring and raised his brows.

  “This is Inspector Loring, Hawkins. He’s investigating the circumstances of Madison Moncrief’s death. I’ve asked him to come with me so that he may speak with my aunt and my cousin.” She stepped into the entry hall ahead of Loring, and looked about. “Would you tell me where my aunt is?”

  “She’s in the music room,” said Hawkins, so neutrally that Poppy wondered what had happened while she had been out. “Would you like me to escort you and your … guest to her?”

  “I know the way,” said Poppy, stating the obvious.

  “Of course, Miss,” Hawkins said, and stood aside.

  “I assume my cousin and Mister Derrington are still in,” Poppy added over her shoulder as she started toward the corridor that went toward the east wing of the house.

  “They are. Mister Derrington is in the study; I’m not sure where Mister Eustace is.” Hawkins nodded and moved off in the direction of the dining room.

  A wall-sconce light in the corridor flickered as Poppy approached it, and she winced. What was Holte up to now? she wondered. “The music room is at the end of this corridor, and takes up the whole of one side of the wing to the other.” It had occasionally been the setting for private concerts, as well as small dances, but they had not had one of either since the ‘Flu had struck. “It isn’t used much, these days.”

  “Have you had trouble with the power?” Loring asked as he followed her down the corridor.

  “Hasn’t everyone?” Poppy responded, trying to discover what Chesterton Holte was up to now. “The house is old; that probably has something to do with it.”

  “It’s all this late rain,” said Loring, and paused a step behind Poppy as she knocked on the door on her left.

  “Aunt Jo? May I come in?” Poppy asked, hearing some soft, inexpert strains of Haydn coming through the door.

  The playing stopped. “Certainly you may,” Aunt Jo called out.

  Poppy turned the doorknob, and motioned to Loring to come with her. “I have someone with me,” she said as she entered the music room, moving slowly and quietly.

  There was a Chickering square grand piano on the north wall, and Josephine was sitting at it, a dull-red silk shawl around her shoulders over a Prussian blue woolen dress with a broad lace collar and cuffs; the room was somewhat chilly, and the floor heater had not been turned on. Duchess was curled up on a near-by footstool, snoring gently. “Who have you brought here, Poppea?” her aunt asked without turning. Since the room was large it echoed a little, making her voice sound hollow.

  “I have Inspector Loring of the Philadelphia Police Department with me, Aunt Jo. He would like to … talk to you about the Moncrief — ”

  “Oh, dear,” said Aunt Jo, turning on the piano bench enough to be able to see her niece and the policeman.

  Poppy went over to the ornate heating grate in the floor. “I’m going to turn on the heat,” she announced, and knelt down to turn the key. “How can you stand to have it so cold, Aunt Jo? I don’t see how you can play.”

  “I haven’t paid attention,” she said grandly, then sighed. “But you’re probably right. A little more heat wouldn’t hurt us.” She turned to Loring. “I suppose I should welcome you to our home.”

  “Good morning, Missus Dritchner,” said Loring, coming forward, and waiting for Aunt Jo to offer her hand. When she did not, he took a moment to remove his notebook from his inner jacket pocket, and with it, a Parker fountain pen. “I hope you will not object if I make a few notes.”

  “I imagine you’ll do it whether I agree or not.” She gave him a baleful stare and folded her arms.

  This was not a very promising beginning, Poppy thought, as she pulled up a pair of upholstered chairs. “Why don’t we all be more comfortable? The room will be a bit warmer in a matter of minutes.”

  Loring kept his eyes on Josephine. “Do you mind, Missus Dritchner?”

  “If you must.” Aunt Jo turned to Poppy. “Is that necessary?”

  “For me, it is,” said Poppy brightly. “It’s sit or pace.”

  Aunt Jo sighed, and nodded her permission. “Is this going to take long?”

  “That is more up to you than to me,” said Loring respectfully as he went to sit down. “I know this is unpleasant — violent death always is — but wi
th your help, we can have an opportunity to solve this mystery with as little upset as possible.” He sat down, sitting very straight in his chair.

  “What is it you want to know, Inspector? I will do my best to give you a complete and truthful answer. I know my civic duty.” Aunt Jo sounded very put-upon but condescendingly willing to help. “I’ll do my best, provided that you do not ask anything of a personal nature.”

  Loring gave a slight nod. “Thank you, Missus Dritchner.” He paused, in case she wanted to say something more. When she remained steadfastly silent, he shook his head. “I don’t want to offend you with any question I may ask.”

  “Then, Inspector, we are doomed from the start. I would prefer not to have to answer anything in such distasteful matters.” She made her most depressive stare.

  “Well, unfortunately, I have to pursue the case — it’s my job, I’m afraid.” He cleared his throat. “The sooner we begin, the sooner it can be over. You have known the Moncrief’s a long time, I understand.”

  “Madison’s mother and I were close friends right up until the day she died. At one time, we hoped that Poppea and Madison might make a match of it when they were children, but it wasn’t to be; once Madison met Louise, it was obvious that he had eyes for no one else. Eustace introduced them, you know.” She said this as if she were reading from a pamphlet on gardening.

  “Did he?” Poppy asked, feeling acutely self-conscious after hearing her aunt speak about the plans Aunt Jo had once had for her.

  “Oh, yes,” said Aunt Jo, warming to her subject. “It was shortly after you left for college, so you did not have to face any mortification because of it. I asked Eustace not to say anything about it to you. I hoped to spare you the embarrassment.”

  Poppy wanted to pursue this, to ask Aunt Jo why she had been so hesitant, but she remembered what she had promised Loring back over their pastries, and kept silent.

  Loring made a couple of notes, and asked, “How long ago was that?”

  “Seven years ago. They — Madison and Louise — married six years ago … six years and four months, more or less. It was a New Year’s Eve wedding. Their engagement was very short.” Aunt Jo made a fussy gesture with one hand. “It was Madison who wanted to marry quickly; his courtship was very determined.”

  “Why was he so insistent?” Loring asked.

  “I don’t know.” Aunt Jo sighed again, and reached out to stroke Duchess. “No one did.”

  “Can you tell me anything about his circumstances when he married? I understand that Madison Moncrief had a generous inheritance by then, but I’d like a confirmation, if you can provide one. I found an article on the inheritance in the Constitution; it was very informative.” His manner was so deferential that Poppy almost laughed.

  “Yes. He had almost a million-and-a-quarter dollars from his grandfather when he was twenty-one; a considerable sum for any man to inherit. Many young men would not handle so much money wisely, but Madison was no fool, at least where money was concerned. He met Louise when he was twenty-three … almost twenty-four. Everyone thought him a good catch.”

  Loring made some more notes. “Do you know how much money he had then?”

  “Heavens, no.” Josephine pulled her shawl more closely around her. “Only vulgar persons care about such things. He didn’t have to work, you know. He was well-provided for, and had enlarged his legacy by a considerable amount: that is the totality of my knowledge.”

  “Do you know about any of his investments?” Loring inquired at his most deferential.

  “My son Eustace might; I have no such information.” Aunt Jo almost sniffed. “He is out just now, Eustace is. He left about twenty minutes ago.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Missus Flowers asked, “May I bring in some tea and coffee, Missus Dritchner?”

  Aunt Jo looked up, remembering her responsibilities as a hostess, no matter how reluctant.

  “I suppose so. Come ahead, Missus Flowers.”

  The door opened and Missus Flowers carried in a tray with a coffee pot and a teapot along with a creamer and a sugar bowl filled with cubes; there were cups for three and a plate of shortbread cookies. “Where would you like these, Missus Dritchner?” she asked.

  Josephine motioned to the coffee-table on the south wall of the room. “Over there, if you would, Missus Flowers,” she said with sublime indifference.

  “Thank you, Madame; I knew you would want to offer something to your guest,” said Missus Flowers as she set her tray down on the cabinet on the west wall; it contained music manuscripts and part copies.

  “Very good, Missus Flowers. I will send for you if I need you.” She waved her dismissal.

  Missus Flowers gave a nod and left the three people alone in the music room.

  “Would you like me to pour you a cup of tea, Aunt Jo?” Poppy offered, getting up from her chair.

  “I suppose it would be prudent,” Josephine replied in her abstracted way.

  “And you, Inspector? Coffee, with a little cream?”

  Loring almost smiled. “That would be very nice; thank you.” He glanced at Poppy to gauge her response to his self-deprecating manner.

  Poppy tried to ignore him; she went to the cabinet, and placed one of the cups on the stack of saucers. She poured out the coffee and added a dollop of cream; this she brought to Loring and set on the broad arm of his chair. “And what may I get for you, Aunt Jo?”

  “Tea, of course, one sugar.”

  “And would you like one of the shortbread cookies?”

  Josephine straightened up and gathered her shawl about her with formidable dignity. “I would like two of them, and well you know it,” she said, and added a mollifying, “It’s good of you to do this, Poppea.”

  “No problem, Aunt Jo. You’ve been kind enough to speak with Inspector Loring, and that deserves my gratitude.” She returned to the cabinet to prepare a cup and saucer to her aunt’s order, all the while hoping that there would be something useful gained from this most disconcerting interview.

  “As an old friend of the family, do you know if Madison was happy in his work? You said he didn’t need the job, so I’ve been assuming he must have been.” He lifted his cup and took a cautious sip.

  “He liked having something useful to do, and he had a skill for investing. Although the last time I saw him — it was at Eulalle Kinnon’s Christmas party — he seemed worried. I thought it was about Louise’s expecting, which had just been announced, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why is that?” Loring said as he wrote another note. “What made you change your mind?”

  “His dying, of course,” said Josephine.

  “One sugar?” Poppy asked, as much to fill the silence that followed her aunt’s answer as to confirm her request. She took two of the shortbread cookies and set them in the saucer before she poured out the strong English variety that Aunt Jo preferred during the day.

  “That will be fine,” said Aunt Jo in her best lofty manner.

  Poppy took the cookies and tea to her aunt, setting them down on the side of the music stand. “It’s hot.”

  “Well, of course it is,” said Aunt Jo, and glared at Inspector Loring.

  Poppy knew that when Aunt Jo started of coursing it meant she was put out, so Poppy went silently back to the cabinet to prepare her own cup of tea; she did not hear the first few words of Loring’s next question.

  “ … Madison’s view of becoming a father?”

  “What on earth has that to do with his death?” Aunt Jo answered.

  “Perhaps nothing, but it could be important,” said Loring patiently.

  Josephine shook her head. “I haven’t a notion of his view of fatherhood. It’s not the sort of thing I ask men.”

  “Was he pleased?” Loring waited for her answer. “Was he boasting, or proud, or — ”

  “Louise was very happy,” Aunt Jo said, making no excuse for interrupting him. “I assumed that Madison was equally so. He did open the good Champagne to celebrate, Lo
uise told me, and that shows you he wasn’t displeased. But he was anxious about her pregnancy; so many men tend to fret about it when their wives are expecting.”

  Poppy came back to her chair and sat down, her tea, like Loring’s coffee, balanced on the arm. “I think Stacy could tell you more about Madison’s feelings.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, Missus Dritchner.” Loring scribbled in his notebook, then once more addressed Josephine. “Did the marriage seem happy — as an old friend of Madison’s mother, had she told you anything about problems that she was aware of? Anything recently?”

  This time Aunt Jo answered at once. “Not recently, but when they decided to marry. His mother was upset by the short engagement; she felt it looked peculiar.”

  “In what way?” Loring followed up.

  “Well, it looked capricious, of course, and they — Louise and Madison — didn’t know each other very well when they wed. A long engagement allows for second thoughts, doesn’t it, and, of course, a more splendid wedding, both of which his mother was hoping would happen — he would reconsider, and if he did not end the engagement, at least there could be a glorious wedding, as any mother would wish.” Aunt Jo took one of the shortbread cookies and bit into it delicately, pursing her lips as she chewed.

  “And do you think Madison had second thoughts?” Loring prompted.

  After she had swallowed, Josephine said, “Not yet. But in time, I think it would have been likely: Louise is a very … vivacious young woman, and enjoys being in society more than Madison does … did. He — Madison — was willing to have her go about with men who served as her escort — my son Eustace was one of them — and while everyone knows that Julian Eastley is harmless, there have been a few others she had been seen with who are not. I do not include my son in those numbers.”

  “Do you think that Madison was jealous?” Loring spoke levelly, no hint of disapproval in his manner.

  “I would not be surprised if he were.” It was plain that was all Josephine was going to say on the matter.

  Loring drank more of his coffee. “Did Madison have any enemies that you know of?” He held up his hand to stop Josephine from answering yet. “Or did anyone question his probity? Was any part of his life under scrutiny?”