Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “What an admirable servant you are,” Stacy went on as if he had not heard her. “I marvel, I truly marvel.”

  This was more than Josephine could endure. “Oh, Eustace, stop it. I am sorry you had a fracas with your friend, and that you had to walk home in the rain, but I’m tired of your petulance and sarcasm. If you’re displeased, don’t take it out on the servants.” She made a moue of distaste. “You’re not a child any more, and these displays of temperament are no longer diverting.” She shook her head, then picked up her cup, drank the last of the cooling chocolate, and poured more from the pot.

  “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you, Mother,” Stacy said in a chilly voice.

  As Stacy intended, Josephine melted. “Nothing of the sort, Eustace. You know I’m very proud of your accomplishments, and I will defend you to the death in any endeavor you undertake. Yes, it’s apparent you’re successful, but that’s hardly sufficient for your erudition or position in society. Whatever it is you do, it doesn’t give you the opportunity to live up to your potential.”

  “Please, Mother,” Stacy said at his most pained. “You’ve stated your case before. I know you’d prefer that I become a professor or a judge or a senator, or something equally traditional, but none of those things appeal to me. I’m far more comfortable in the wheeling and dealing of international trade; everything else bores me, Mother, and I won’t spend my life being bored.” He could see that she was about to begin a long harangue, and so he held up his hand to stop her. “Will you be willing to take my word that I’m not doing anything that might embarrass the family?”

  “Of course, Eustace. I understand your reservations, I do, but don’t you think you could do better than — ” she began, but was silenced as Poppy came into the room, fully dressed for the day: her skirt was grape-colored wool done in box-pleats, and over it she wore a long sweater in a soft lilac shade. She had a printed, narrow silk scarf tied loosely around her neck, and her hair was brushed to a high sheen; she was a fine example of city-casual fashion. “Oh, Poppea, I’m so pleased you decided to join us. I don’t believe you’re bound for church this morning.”

  “Good morning to you both, then, and no, I am not going to church. I haven’t done so since Christmas,” Poppy said as she pulled out a chair for herself. “I hope you both slept well.”

  “Please, Coz, no cheeriness,” Stacy said with a dramatic gesture. “It’s much too early.”

  “It’s a clear day, and it’s beginning to feel like spring is finally here,” Poppy announced, undaunted by Stacy’s posturing.

  “It’s unendurable at this hour,” Stacy said in pained accents.

  “You’re being foolish, Eustace,” his mother admonished him. “Yes, Poppea, I slept very well, thank you, once I got to sleep. I had to resort to veronal, but it was precisely what was needed.”

  “You and your veronal,” Stacy complained, largely for the fun of nettling Josephine. “I wish you wouldn’t use it as often as you do.”

  “Doctor Morrow says that I require it,” Josephine declared, and went silent as Missus Flowers returned with Stacy’s coffee in a large china mug.

  “Hot and black, as requested,” Missus Flowers said, and set it before him.

  “You are an angel, Bertha. Word of honor.” Stacy smiled.

  “Whatever you like, Mister Eustace,” she said crisply, and turned to Poppy. “What would you like, Miss Thornton?”

  “Scrambled eggs on hash, if you would, Missus Flowers, and coffee.” Poppy glanced at Stacy. “What’s on your agenda today, Stacy? after you talk to Inspector Loring at ten-thirty.”

  “Will you be joining us?” Stacy asked. “Since you know the time, perhaps you should sit in, to observe.” He punctuated this with a mirthless smile.

  “It wouldn’t be proper for me to do that,” Poppy admitted, and added, “I’d like it if I could.”

  “So would your editor,” Stacy said with an expression remarkably near a sneer.

  Josephine intervened. “Yes, Eustace, what are your plans for the rest of the day? It’s a reasonable request, isn’t it.”

  Stacy picked up his coffee and had an experimental sip, and set it down. “I promised Louise I’d drop by later; she’s still having a rough time. And I have a business meeting in the evening, so I won’t be here at dinner. I think I’ll take the train back to New York tomorrow morning, unless I find out that the current deal I’m working on needs my attention here. I’ll be back for the funeral, but that won’t be for a few more days. The coroner informed Louise that he won’t release the body until Wednesday, or so Louise tells me; it will have to be closed casket. After so long, he’s bound to be a little … ripe. That means Thursday at the earliest, or maybe Friday. Louise would not like to have it on the weekend — too many gawkers about.”

  “Eustace!” Josephine exclaimed. “Not at table, I beg you.”

  Stacy gave a low chortle. “Madison is dead, Mother. It won’t matter to him.”

  “You don’t have to be outrageous because you’re hung over,” Poppy chimed in.

  Stacy glared at her. “And you a reporter, Coz.”

  “You’re upsetting your mother,” Poppy said, refusing to rise to the bait. “Ye gods, Stacy: you’re doing it deliberately.”

  Josephine made a little gasp. “Surely you don’t mean that, Poppea.”

  “Well, Aunt Jo, yes, I do.” Poppy sighed. “You’ve protected him all his life, and you will not let anyone but you speak against him. He’s taken advantage of that since he was four.”

  “You are aware, aren’t you, Coz, that I’m sitting here, listening.” Stacy took another sip and then a gulp of his coffee.

  “I certainly am,” said Poppy, and glanced at her Aunt Jo. “I apologize if I’m offending you, Aunt, but Stacy’s being horrid this morning, and it’s time he stopped.”

  Stacy made a face at her. “Goodie Two-Shoes.”

  “Grow up, Stacy,” Poppy said bluntly.

  “Poppea! This is most unbecoming of you,” Aunt Jo admonished her, and glowered as Missus Flowers came into the morning room with a baked apple in a bowl, smelling of maple syrup and butter, and another mug of coffee.

  “Your scrambled eggs and hash will be ready shortly, Miss Thornton; I’ll bring it in within the next ten minutes,” said Missus Flowers.

  “Thank you, Missus Flowers; I’ll be glad of a little sustenance,” Poppy said, and added a bit more cream to her coffee; she picked up her spoon and stirred the contents of the mug, her gaze fixed on a distant spot.

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure,” she said, and again left the room.

  A tentative silence fell over the morning room. Josephine finished her eggs and moved the plate aside to make room for the bowl with the baked apple, which she carefully cut into with a spoon. Poppy added a little sugar to her coffee, stirred it once more, and blew on it to cool it. Stacy drank down more of his coffee and set the mug aside, giving a sigh of ill-usage and directing his abstracted gaze toward the south-facing windows. There was a clatter in the kitchen, and the oven-door banged.

  “Is the paper here yet?” Stacy asked languidly.

  “I don’t know,” said his mother, her sensibilities still offended.

  “Do you mind if I go and look?” he rejoined, satisfied in the knowledge that he had got under her skin. “Hawkins is at church, isn’t he? And this is his day off.”

  “You know he is, and it isn’t church, it’s meeting house. And you are aware that he has Sundays off; it’s been the same since you were in grammar school,” Poppy said. “Stop needling your mother.”

  Stacy chuckled and got up from the table. “I’ll be back in a tick.” He made a suggestion of a bow and left the room.

  As soon as the door was closed, Poppy turned to Aunt Jo. “Why do you let him behave like that?”

  Josephine shrugged. “I can’t do much about it, dear,” she said; when she used the word dear in a response, it was useless to pursue the subject.

  But Poppy refused to be dete
rred. “He just keeps getting worse. The next thing, he’ll be undressing in public.”

  “Poppea, you mustn’t say such things about your cousin.” Josephine was sitting very straight, revealing her umbrage. “You know he doesn’t mean half of what he says. You’re being unfair to him.”

  “Unfair? How is it unfair?” Poppy countered, and would have gone on, but Missus Flowers appeared in the door.

  “There’s a ‘phone call for you, Miss,” she said.

  “Did the caller give you a name?” Poppy asked as she rose.

  “No. It’s a gentleman, though,” Missus Flowers said, and was about to leave the room when Josephine stopped her.

  “I’ll have another pot of chocolate, I think. This one’s nearly empty.”

  As Poppy left the room, Missus Flowers went to retrieve the pot, saying, “Five minutes and you’ll have your chocolate. Do you mind the wait?”

  “Of course not,” she said, and finished the chocolate in her cup.

  Poppy went into the entry hall where the ‘phone was located and picked up the receiver from its stand. “Hello? This is Poppy — ”

  “ — Thornton, yes, I know,” said Inspector Loring. “I’m calling to ask you if you might have some time free this morning? If you’re busy, I’ll understand, but I’d really appreciate it if you would agree to give me thirty to forty minutes, as soon as I’m done with your cousin.”

  “If that would be helpful, of course I would be glad to be of assistance; you know I have to maintain source confidentiality, but if that won’t be a problem … ” She had begun speaking before she had thought about the implications of what he was asking. “I’ll be working on my next installment on the story. I have to turn it in this afternoon to make tomorrow’s paper, and I may have more to write about by our Monday deadline.” Listening to herself, she realized she was babbling, and made herself go silent.

  “Thank you,” he said. “So, I’ll see you later?”

  “I should hope so,” said Poppy, and wondered if that sounded too cooperative, too eager. “I’m counting on hearing what’s happening with your investigation, since it appears to parallel with mine. If you have any information you can pass on to me, I’d appreciate it,” she added, trying to keep her tone professional.

  “You mean, trade information again?”

  “If you’re willing, I am,” she said, and wanted to bite her tongue in case he should interpret this the wrong way.

  “We’ll see,” he responded. “Until then.”

  She heard the click as he hung up, and thought that the operator might have been listening, for there was a soft pop on the line immediately after.

  An instant later, Chesterton Holte spoke from behind her; he was barely visible, like a faded sketch in pastel chalk. “I told you he likes you. You can hear it in his voice — at least, I can.” He wafted around her, a place in the air that seemed denser than the rest. “By the way, I apologize for eavesdropping.”

  “Ye gods! That was you?” She moved as if to take hold of him, but discovered only a patch of chilly air. “You were listening?”

  “Yes — you know how I can make lights flicker, and I can also tap into an active phone line, but only while it’s in use.” His shape wavered and he slid across the wall like an image from a movie.

  “Stop that,” Poppy said, then added, “I’m on edge.”

  “With excellent reason,” said Holte. “You’re under pressure and that cousin of yours is not helping.”

  It bothered Poppy to hear him; defending Stacy was more than she was up to just now. “I need to get back to the morning room. I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “Go ahead,” said Holte, and faded away to a pale smudge.

  WITH THE HEAVY DAMASK DRAPERIES OPEN THE LIBRARY WAS AWASH WITH LIGHT; the floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases were glossy with polish, the fireplace had been swept yesterday, and the tiles on the hearth were shiny. On the sofa in front of the fireplace, Maestro was dozing, his tail twitching occasionally. Poppy sat at the typewriter, rolling in her fourth page in an attempt to put together as much information as she had to hand. She had a small stack of fresh pages, another of onion-skin second sheets, and three sheets of carbon paper laid out at her left elbow; so far all she had done was roll three aligned sheets into the platen.

  “You’re dawdling,” Holte said to her out of the empty air. “It isn’t like you to dawdle.”

  Poppy did not jump at the sound of his voice; she made a gesture of exasperation, then said, “You’re right. Yes, I am marking time because I think I ought to wait until I’ve had a word with Inspector Loring in order to do an article that’s really worthwhile. As it is, what I have is pretty thin. I can pad it out, but Lowenthal would probably cut those parts.”

  “Are you planning to mention anything more about Knott, or just Moncrief? Or anything else connected with this case, or these cases?”

  “I won’t know until I hear what Loring has to say, and he only arrived ten minutes ago — he’s with Stacy, in case you didn’t know, so I’m left to what I have on hand already.” She tapped on the desktop, revealing the high level of her impatience. “Unless you have something to add, of course.”

  Holte became a bit more visible. “Not yet. But I have a feeling that Overstreet may also be among the missing — not dead, necessarily, but missing.”

  “You mean that he is afraid, and has left?” she asked.

  “It seems likely, don’t you think?”

  “Have you learned anything more concrete than that?” Poppy could see him falter, and she leaped on that. “What is it? What do you know?”

  “Nothing specific, but after what happened to Knott, it makes sense that Overstreet might want to get out of range.”

  This caught Poppy’s attention. “Did Knott tell you so?” As she listened to herself, she decided she might need to consult an alienist when this whole matter was finished: thinking that she was getting information from a ghost — hooey! would be the usual response. She was an educated, intelligent, modern woman. Yet she could not help but listen to what he told her.

  “No. He’s still somewhat … unsettled.” Holte moved about the room, almost disappearing as he skidded through the bars of light from the windows.

  “How long will that last?” Poppy demanded, her frustration getting the better of her.

  “Who knows?” he answered.

  She stopped the sharp retort that rose to her lips, reminding herself that she would be doing the very thing she condemned in Stacy. “It’s one of those ghostly things, isn’t it? The way you reckon time when you’re noncorporeal?”

  “Or don’t reckon it,” he agreed. “Sooner and later are very much the same to us.”

  She would have liked to rub her eyes; they were itching from lack of sleep, but she was wearing mascara and knew it would smear, so she laced her fingers together. “What do you mean about Overstreet? Why should he … um … get out of range?” she asked.

  “If he saw what was done to Knott, he must be frightened. Overstreet ought to put some distance between himself and the crime if he has any sense at all, what with the police trying to find him, as well, I suspect, as the killer or killers.” Holte became slightly more visible.

  “Put it that way, and I see what you mean.”

  “Since police haven’t found him, it’s troubling, under the circumstances.”

  “You know this because you’ve watched them? the police?” Poppy waited for his answer. “Or have you learned something you aren’t telling me.”

  This time Holte chose his words carefully. “I spent a little time with the police yesterday afternoon. From what I can surmise, they’re beginning to think Overstreet did it — that he killed Knott, I mean.”

  “Just to be clear about it,” Poppy said, “what do you think?”

  Holte grew first brighter, then dimmer. “It doesn’t seem likely, not given how bloody the scene was. Ask Wyman about it, when you get a chance. If he’ll tell you.�
�

  “But do you think Stacy knows more about it than he’s telling?” Poppy asked. “Stacy?”

  “It seems likely, unless he having fun playing games with the police,” said Holte.

  “I wouldn’t think he’d try to make a game out of a friend’s death.” She got up from the desk and began to pace. “But I wouldn’t think he were capable of that kind of violence, or even participating in it indirectly. Stacy’s a gadfly, not an assassin.”

  “You think he would draw the line at Knott, you mean, or anyone?” Holte moved toward the fireplace; Maestro raised his head and hissed, his eyes narrowing and his tail lashing.

  “Anyone. He doesn’t seem the type to kill an associate, does he?”

  Holte gave a single laugh that had as much despair as amusement in it. “What type is that?” He waved his barely visible hand. “I don’t believe there’s a type of murderer. But no, I don’t think he would; as you say, it doesn’t appear to be his style. Extortion or embezzlement, maybe forgery, but not murder.” He slid along beside her. “I could be wrong, but I think Overstreet has fled not from guilt, but from fear of whomever killed Knott.”

  “Which means that Overstreet knows who the killer is?” Poppy pursued.

  “Or thinks he does,” Holte cautioned. “Take it from a spy — people often don’t know as much as they believe they do. And those who know more than they admit to are not apt to share it with you.”

  Poppy let this pass unchallenged. “Is there a way you could find out about Overstreet? though your ghostly connections.” Poppy was astonished at what she was asking; she was amazed at what Holte was telling her, that he was not some kind of trick that Carter the Great invented to astonish his audiences.

  Holte regarded her so keenly that she could almost make out the inquisitive gleam in his eyes. “I can make the attempt; that’s the best I can offer. Would you like me to?”

  “Wait until I talk with Loring.” She was beginning to feel encouraged. With help from Chesterton Holte, she might be able to bring her assignment to a good conclusion, and with a little luck, she could establish herself as a crime reporter.