Haunting Investigation

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “I understand that.” He unrolled his napkin and dropped it in his lap. “Can you tell me anything about GAD? Mister Pearse said a lot about him, but I think it would be useful to get your take on the boy.”

  “I don’t know how useful it might be, but our families used to be on good terms, and if you think that would help …”

  “It would give me some notion about GAD from someone other than his parents; you may know things about him that neither his father or mother do.” Loring studied her. “That is, if you think it’s a good idea.”

  “I understand what you’re after,” she responded. “The thing is, I don’t know him very well. I haven’t seen him for almost three years, and that last time was a month or so after HOB died, which hit him hard; he may have changed since then, but if you like, I’ll find out what his friends are saying about him now. At that last meeting, he was just getting used to his brother’s death.”

  “I’ll bear in mind that it’s possible that did change him to a degree, but you’re observant, and at least you’re not one of his immediate family; you have a clearer view of him,” Loring said, a wry quirk to his mouth. “I would like your opinion of him. Tell me anything you think might help me be able to get a real start on him.”

  “I don’t see him the way his family does, it’s true,” she said, and ruminated briefly. “All right. This is what I noticed about him.” She stared into the distance of memories, trying to recall the boy she had known. “He was adventurous, always getting into things: climbing trees, running into streams, going up in tall buildings, that kind of thing. He did most of those things alone. He has a sympathetic streak, too, and that meant that every abandoned kitten, every injured rabbit, every fallen baby bird, every hapless puppy that came his way ended up in his room, much to the consternation of the rest of his family. When he thought something was unfair, he would rail at it, and upbraid his brothers and sisters for not being as upset as he.” She paused, trying to summon up her memories of him as she had seen him the summer before she went to college — he was a little older, some of his character emerging more clearly than before he went to preparatory school. “He’s athletic, but doesn’t go in for team sports: he is an outdoors sort of man; he camps, and hikes, and canoes, and sails; every now and then he fishes. He told me once that nature restored his soul. He doesn’t hunt, but I’m told he’s a crack shot. He was talking about becoming a naturalist when he was younger — back then, he admired the work of John Muir, and President Roosevelt, and said that he wanted to follow in their footsteps — and he still might do something of the sort now.”

  “Then you would believe that he might take on the misfortunes of displaced Armenians,” said Loring.

  “I’ll put it this way: it wouldn’t surprise me if he has; he has always sympathized with those who are less fortunate than he is. His father was not pleased,” said Poppy. “You should talk to his sister Genevieve, she’s the most like him of them all, and if you can speak with her privately, she may tell you things she would never tell her parents. In fact, I think you should speak to all the children alone, if that’s possible.”

  “I’ll have to talk to everyone in the family eventually,” he said, not pleased at the prospect. “I’ll ask Mister Pearse if I can do this in private, and soon.”

  “Tatiana won’t want to help you; if she tells you anything, it isn’t likely to be the whole truth. She’s secretive and she likes to mislead; if she smirks, it means she thinks she’s getting away with something. A few years ago, she got in trouble for borrowing Auralia’s pearl necklace. She and Auralia don’t get along very well — never have. The twins, Felix and Berengaria — they call her Gari — are about twelve, as I recall, and they stick together; other than that, I haven’t much to say about them. I don’t know how reliable they are in regard to GAD.”

  “Twins often do stick together,” said Loring. “Either that, or each resents the other.”

  “You might want to see them together when you go to interview the children,” Poppy said, recalling the twins’ shyness when alone. “They’re fairly cooperative, or they were a couple years ago. They may not be now.”

  “What about Auralia?” Loring asked after looking through his notes.

  “She’s married, and lives in Connecticut with her husband, William Mikkelsohn. She’s just twenty-two, if I remember correctly, and he’s about twenty-eight; they married last year, at the end of January. I think she’s pretty ambitious, and Mikkelsohn is from a political family; one of his forbearers signed the Declaration of Independence, and Auralia never lets anyone forget it. When I saw her at school, she was hard-working and eager for success, which for her meant a good marriage to a man interested in politics, so she’s succeeded so far. At school, she was in charge of the Committee for Public Health. They raised money for families unable to afford medical care during the ‘Flu. She managed to convince the dean to establish a clinic for mothers with young children in one of the old buildings on campus.”

  “That sounds commendable,” said Loring.

  “Oh, it was. Auralia garnered all manner of praise for what she did, and she deserved it, in a way. But I think Auralia would like to be in charge of almost anything if it had political worth.” Poppy blinked at her own audacity. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it that way.”

  “You said it just fine.” Loring gave an amused single laugh. “Then, do you think it might be worthwhile for me to talk to her?”

  Poppy was about to answer when the waiter appeared with a plate of rolls and butter. He did a quick survey of their cups. “I’ll bring you more coffee. Your meals should be ready in about ten minutes. Sorry for the delay.” Then he withdrew, taking care to make sure the curtain was completely closed.

  Loring waited several seconds, then said, “Let’s wait until he brings the coffee. We can have a little more privacy after he’s gone.”

  Poppy nodded. “It’s never easy when there’s an interruption.” She drank what was left in her cup and then made a few hasty notes. “Would you like to talk to Aunt Esther? About the Armenians? You could do it Friday night.”

  Loring stared around the booth. “Why don’t you ask her if she would like to talk with me? A party might not be a good setting.”

  Poppy saw his point. “If that’s what you’d prefer, I’ll do it, of course.” She sketched a star next to where she had written Esther — Armenians — GAD, so that it could be a more emphatic reminder to bring it up with her aunt that evening. “Is there anything more you’d like me to arrange for you with her?”

  “Not that occurs to me,” he said, closing the file in front of him and cocking his head in the direction of the curtain as the waiter came back, a large silver-plated coffee-pot in one hand, and small paper napkins in the other. As he refilled their cups, he set down the napkins. “Will you want anything else to drink? We have an array of sodas, and milk. Or, if you prefer, we have tomato juice, orange juice, and apple juice.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Loring, and nodded to Poppy. “Would you like anything? More coffee? A glass of water?”

  “A glass of water when you bring the food.” Had she been at home, she would have told Missus Sassoro for a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, but knew better than to do it here, in the presence of a police officer, even so accommodating a one as Inspector J.B. Loring.

  “Very good,” said the waiter. “And you, sir?”

  “Water when the food comes would be fine,” Loring said.

  “Very good,” the waiter repeated, and slipped back through the curtain.

  “Now, where were we?” Loring asked rhetorically, taking a roll from the basket and setting it on his butter plate. “Weren’t you about to tell me more about whom else you know who might be able to tell you something about GAD?”

  “Was I?” Poppy asked, then tried to resume her train of thought. “Humphrey Fairchild knows the Pearses quite well, and he and Mildred will be at the party on Friday.”

  “You mentioned them.” He t
hought. “If it looks promising, I’ll make an appointment to meet with him privately. We’re agreed, aren’t we? That clandestine discussions don’t usually go well at parties.”

  Poppy was convinced he was right, so she only said, “I’ll introduce you. Mildred will probably pester you for information about Louise Moncrief.”

  “She’s the one who called the police when you went missing, isn’t she?” Loring asked.

  “Yes, bless her. She’s expecting, so they probably won’t stay late — she needs her rest.” Poppy heard steps approaching. “I think lunch is here,” she said just as the waiter drew the curtain back; their conversation was once again abandoned.

  11

  Chesterton Holte was a filmy blur in the late afternoon sunlight that flooded Poppy’s room, more like a flaw in the three tall windows than an actual presence. He watched as Poppy sat down on the edge of her bed to take off her shoes. On the end of the bed, Maestro raised his head to give a half-hearted hiss before curling himself into a tighter knot and going back to sleep. “Your Inspector Loring is in a difficult spot,” he said as he drifted toward the chaise lounge next to the new chest-of-drawers standing against the north wall.

  “He is,” said Poppy, sounding a bit distracted.

  “Would you like me to make some inquiries?” Holte offered.

  “In the dimension of ghosts, or nearer to home?” Poppy countered, and immediately added,

  “I apologize. I meant in the dimension of ghosts. Don’t take offence at what I’m saying. My feet are killing me.”

  “I thought they might be, since you’re rubbing them before you remove your hose.”

  “I’m not going to remove them. I want to get out my new low-heeled pumps, after I dress for dinner. There’s no reason for anything fancier than they are.” She smoothed the bedspread in a slightly distracted way, her thoughts in a jumble; Maestro raised his head to stare at her, then dropped it back on his pile of paws.

  “That isn’t for almost three hours,” Holte observed.

  “I know. But we’ll have a drink together before we sit down to eat,” Poppy said, stretching, “and that will be in about an hour and a half. Aunt Esther has been busy today, and she’ll want to talk about it. She has an appointment with Lowenthal tomorrow, to discuss some articles on her travels. No doubt she’ll want some pointers on how to approach him.” She gave a little sigh and took a handkerchief from the nearer night-stand drawer, using it to wipe her face carefully, so as not to smear her mascara.

  “When do you expect your Aunt Esther to arrive this evening?” Holte asked. “And does Miss Roth know when that will be?”

  “I suppose she does.” Poppy stared down at her feet. “I wish you were corporeal enough to manage a foot rub.”

  “My apologies,” said Holte, thinking that even something so minor as that would be a most welcome reminder of the advantages of having bodies. “About the housekeeper?”

  “Miss Roth has worked for Aunt Esther for nearly ten years. She started out as a maid and eventually became housekeeper. That was at the end of the ‘Flu, I believe, when trained help was as hard to find as trained anyone.” She started to stand, but changed her mind. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to lie here for a bit.”

  “You were up late last night,” said Holte.

  “Ye gods!” Poppy exclaimed, straightening up in an effort to seem more indignant. “Don’t tell me you were watching me?”

  “No more than usual,” was his oblique answer.

  Poppy lay back, her left arm behind her head to serve as a pillow. “How comforting,” she muttered.

  Holte sank an inch or two into the chair. “Your lunch with Inspector Loring appears to have been a success. Did you know about graves’ registration?”

  Poppy shook her head slowly. “No. I thought he was probably in intelligence — he hasn’t volunteered much about his activities until today. But a lot of soldiers don’t say much about what happened to them.”

  “The same thing is true among the ghosts. If it takes them longer to remember, that means they need more time to go on to the next stage. Most of what they don’t remember is what they are trying to forget. Unpleasant things.”

  Poppy gave a crack of laughter. “Does that include you?”

  “It looks that way to me,” he said, more solemnly than he had intended.

  She heard the somberness in his answer, and nodded slowly, taking the time to consider what it might mean. Staring up at the ceiling, she thought about what might have happened to her father, and she found her recollections of him so overwhelming that she very nearly wept. After a few minutes, she said, “I’d better get changed.”

  “Don’t worry, Poppy; it isn’t as hard to do as you might imagine. There isn’t much else to do in the dimension of ghosts but remember.” He had deliberately lightened his tone, and he was rewarded with her rueful smile.

  “What about you? You are spending a lot of time here. Is that slowing you down in going on?” Poppy asked as she got up and went to her closet to bring out her dinner ensemble: a drop-waisted dress with an ankle-length skirt in dusty-rose silk twill, neat but not girlish. She carried this back to the bed and dropped it onto the narrow bench at the foot.

  “One of the main reasons we ghosts remember is to allow us to balance the books. We can’t, or don’t, go on until we do.” He rose out of the chair to half-way to the ceiling.

  She looked around for his ephemeral presence, and finally saw his shimmer on the level with the tops of the windows. “Do you know how much longer your … book-balancing is likely to take?”

  Holte did something not quite visible that was probably a dismissive wave with his non-existent hand. “Not yet. I’m still dredging up memories, trying to find the balance-point. I don’t have any notion of how long it will take me to go on. But I’m trying to talk about the things I can remember a little more: the Bastins warned me that refusing to speak could make it more difficult for me. Their son won’t say anything about the Great War, and he’s in a madhouse.”

  “Can ghosts go mad?” Poppy asked him, at once curious and abhorred by the idea.

  “Not the way the living can, or none that I have seen or know of ever heard of that happening. Maybe if they were mad to begin with, in life, they might hold onto the madness for a time. Ghosts can become … less connected to their lives, and then it can take them decades to move on. I’ve seen the ghost of a young lieutenant in the Confederate Army who still cannot bear to consider what happened to him and his men at Gettysburg. I’ve been told by others that he was one of the junior officers with Pickett, but he can neither confirm nor deny that.”

  “He’s been in the dimension of ghosts for fifty years?” Poppy exclaimed. “Ye gods!”

  “He’s not the only one, but taking so long is rare.” He paused, then said in a more subdued manner, “I think Poindexter may have gone on.”

  Poppy was startled by this news. “But from what I understood, he had not remembered who killed him, or even why.”

  Holte moved up from the chaise horizontally. “I’m not aware that he did, but he may have put it behind him, let it go, thought about other things. Maybe he was not as disappointed at having his life end as it did as Moncrief, or Knott are. Maybe he simply decided to let it go. Many of us do that when it is too painful to grasp the truth.”

  “Ghosts can do that?”

  “A few can. Sibyl seems to have done it. I haven’t been able to find her in the dimensions of ghosts for a while. I can understand why she might want to put her life behind her.” The mention of his dead wife made Holte uncomfortable, making him fade in and out like a weak projector light at the flickers.

  “I’m sorry?” Poppy said in a rush of sympathy. “Is that the appropriate comment?”

  Holte swung around and slid toward her, now seven feet off the floor and almost horizontal to the ceiling. “I wish I knew.” He dropped down from the height as if sliding down a waterfall feet first. “Is there anything that I can do to he
lp you? About the Pearse boy?”

  “I don’t know. Since it’s not a family matter …” She motioned him to turn around, then unbuttoned her suit-jacket. As she removed it, a possibility occurred to her. “Maybe you could find out if GAD is still alive? If he’d dead, someone in the dimension of ghosts should be able to help you find him. And if he has died, where we might look for his remains. Would you do that?”

  “If you like.” He floated down two more feet. “Would you like me to find out if there is any news about Stacy?”

  She was surprised to discover that part of her had no wish to know, but that impulse was quickly overshadowed by her desire to make him answer for what he had done to her. “If you can do it without too much trouble.” While she continued changing clothes, she said, “I’d so like to put that all behind me, but until Stacy is located, I can’t. And neither can the law.”

  “True enough, about the law.” Holte hung an arm’s length away from Maestro, and was rewarded with a warning hiss. “He doesn’t try to attack me anymore,” he remarked, a bit wistfully.

  Poppy shrugged. “He knows it won’t do any good.”

  “Clever cat,” said Holte, and swooped away from the disgruntled animal.

  Poppy watched this as she removed her skirt. “I’m beginning to think you like aggravating Maestro,” she said to Holte.

  “Well, I prefer it to being ignored.” He slipped into a small alcove with a bay window at the end of the room. “You have a very nice view of the garden.”

  Poppy slid her dinner dress over her head and shimmied it down her body until it hung properly. “That’s better,” she announced. “But I’ll have to comb my hair again.”