The Haunting Ballad (15 page)

“Yes, well, that doesn't really—”

“Wait, there's also another letter Mrs. Pattinshell says you need to see. Apparently, this one's … now, what was the word she used?”

“It doesn't matter because—”

“
Menacing!
She said it was fairly menacing. Oh, I'm so glad I have you to deal with all this, Mr. Plunkett. You're like my white knight.”

Wait a minute now—had my high-minded Irish colleague secretly fed Sally Joan that line? Dammit! When would the world get the message that Lee Plunkett was about as knightly as Howdy Doody?

“Can you come down today?” the girl asked. “Soon? I need to catch a bus at six. I'm heading back home to Pennsylvania tonight. I can give you both of the letters when you arrive. I'm sure they'll help in your investigation.”

My investigation
 … Sally Joan had finally paused to catch a breath. Now was my chance to lay down the law, to deliver the news that, from here on out, I was no longer in her employ.
Sorry, Miss Cobble, your white knight has been unhorsed, and your cousin's death ceases to be his concern
. That's what I meant to say.

Instead, much to my dismay, what came out was “I'll pick up Mr. O'Nelligan and we'll head down shortly.”

Sally Joan was, of course, gushingly grateful. I, of course, was flummoxed that—yet again—my own traitorous tongue had sold me down the river.

*   *   *

AS MY COLLEAGUE
put it, we were returning to the quest with renewed vigor. Well, “vigor” is not really the word I would have held out for, but Mr. O'Nelligan seemed so pleased to still be on the case that I didn't argue the point. Upon learning that we'd be heading back to the Village, my partner made last-minute arrangements to meet an old theater crony there for a late dinner. We agreed to conduct the bulk of the work together first, then let Mr. O'Nelligan leave to meet his friend. Considering what I was paying him (nothing), it seemed only fair. We arrived at Lorraine Cobble's apartment late in the afternoon to find a note for us taped to the doorframe. It was from Sally Joan explaining that we'd find her below at Mrs. Pattinshell's. We trotted back down a flight, and in response to my knocking our young blond client flung open the door and shot a warning finger to her lips.

“
Shhh!
Mrs. Pattinshell's in one of her trances.”

Oh joy. We entered haltingly. The lights were all off, the heavy curtains drawn, and a taper candle on the lace-covered table provided the only meager illumination. Next to the candle, a stick of incense sent up a thin, pungent spiral of smoke that drifted before the gaunt face of Mrs. Pattinshell, who sat on the opposite side of the table, eyes closed and head tipped slightly back.

“She's just starting a song,” Sally Joan whispered.

“Thank God,” I whispered back. “I was afraid we'd miss the concert.”

I shifted my stance and, in doing so, trod on something underfoot. A shrill, angry shriek made my heart bounce, and a low, agile creature sped across the floor and out of the room. The Siamese. The cat-shriek seemed to serve as a cue for Mrs. Pattinshell, who now parted her lips and launched into song. Her singing voice had a cracked, creaky quality to it that fit perfectly with the notion of
ghost chanter …
assuming you had a notion that such a profession even existed. Her song selection proved to be a fairly disturbing little ditty. The lyrics—which normally might have been harmless, even whimsical—took on a kind of pallor when delivered by the entranced woman:

”Go wander to the wishing well where all the children gather near.

Come listen as they drop their gift into deep water. Can you hear?

Splash it goes and deep it sinks. A lovely gift from childish hands.

Then all the wee ones race away, shifting like the desert sands.”

The tune went on for another verse or two but never did explain what exactly it was those little darlings were flinging into that well. Via the mood set by Mrs. Pattinshell, I was thinking it was some unlucky wayfarer that those creepy kids had ambushed and tied up. I was happy when the song ended.

Mrs. Pattinshell opened her eyes and fixed them unpleasantly on my face. “You.”

“Yep, it's me,” I confirmed.

The slender woman stood, walked across the room, and flipped on a wall switch. The subsequent flood of electric light made me wince.

“No doubt you are still not convinced of my abilities, young man, even when you witness them firsthand.” Then, turning to my partner, she added, “Though perhaps
you
are, sir, given your life experience and your Celtic heritage.”

“I beg to reserve judgment,” Mr. O'Nelligan said with an easy smile. “This was, after all, my first exposure to the phenomenon. What spirit provided you with that song? It's not an air I recognize.”

“Nor do I,” Mrs. Pattinshell answered. “My provider was a seamstress who perished in a hotel fire some eighty years ago.”

“I see.”

“Just outside Baltimore, I believe.” She reached over and snuffed out the candle with her fingertips. “Died quickly, thank heavens.”

I considered offering condolences but instead said, “So, there are letters for us to look at?”

“Yes! I was just about to give them to Sally Joan when the song came over me. I just never know when one will come bursting in.” Mrs. Pattinshell reached into her skirt pocket and extracted two envelopes. “One of these is rather menacing, I feel.”

I reached out my hand. “So we've heard.”

The lovable Mrs. P ignored my outstretched paw and instead gave the letters to my partner. Mr. O'Nelligan held up the top envelope for me to see. The name Lorraine had been typed across it, but there was no address.

I turned to Sally Joan. “This is the one you first described to us?”

“That's right,” she said. “The one about her morning meeting. Like I mentioned, it's dated the day before she died.”

Mr. O'Nelligan removed the letter from its envelope, and we stared down at it together. The typed message didn't waste words.

3/23/57

I'll come by tomorrow at 10.
A.M.

The women stood watching us as my colleague and I began lobbing observations and speculations back and forth.

“No signature,” I said.

“Nor indication of where the rendezvous should take place,” Mr. O'Nelligan added. “Although we might logically assume it was Lorraine's apartment.”

“Yeah, and then there's the fact that there's no address on the envelope.”

“Which suggests it was hand-delivered.”

“That doesn't make sense, does it? Why would someone hand Lorraine a letter saying ‘Let's meet' when they're staring face-to-face? Unless…” I took a guess. “Unless the person came to Lorraine's apartment, discovered she wasn't home, then wrote the letter and slipped it under her door.”

“A spontaneous letter would only be possible if the visitor arrived with a typewriter tucked under his or her arm.”

“Oh, right,” I mumbled, feeling suddenly dense.

“Though there's also the possibility that the visitor had typed up the note earlier, just in case Lorraine happened not to be home.”

“Or maybe they went to the apartment at a time when they knew Lorraine definitely
wouldn't
be home.”

“Well reasoned, Lee,” my friend said, making me feel a shade less dim. “The suggestion being that our unknown party strongly desired for the rendezvous to occur not in Lorraine's apartment but in a place of his or her own choosing.”

“For whatever reason…”

“Of course, we might ask, why not simply arrange the meeting with a phone call?”

I shifted gears. “What about a third party? You know, maybe the letter writer arranged for someone else to deliver it to Lorraine.”

“Possibly, but again, we must ask ourselves
why.
”

Sally Joan interrupted our volley with a bright little laugh. “This is pretty exciting! It's quite a thing to see a pair of detectives deducting away like this.”

Mrs. Pattinshell didn't look nearly as impressed. “Well, it
is
what they're paid to do, after all.”

“Sure, but still it's fun. It's all very—” The young woman stopped herself abruptly, and the smile fell from her face. No doubt she'd just remembered that the subject under discussion concerned her dead cousin.

I moved things on. “Let's see that other letter.”

The second envelope had Lorraine's name and full address written in what looked to be an untidy, masculine hand. The stamp was canceled with a local postmark, though the date was smudged beyond readability. Mr. O'Nelligan pulled out the sheet within and unfolded it as Sally Joan stepped over to read along with us. What we had here was not just a terse note but an actual letter, short but complete:

“Dear” Lorraine,

So nice of you to screw over a fellow music lover in such an underhanded lousy way. Keeps me on my toes, that's for certain. Nothing wakes a guy up like having his song list stolen out from under him. Like being kicked in the head. So here's a big thank you for that, Lady Cobble. Please don't go thinking I'll forget your kind gesture. I'm not that sort. Call me Mr. Elephant. Long long memory, understand? Did you know elephants can hide in the shadows and pounce on someone unexpectedly? It's true.

Forever yours,

Cardinal

I looked over at Mrs. Pattinshell. “I suppose you're right—this comes off as more than a little menacing.”

My nemesis squeezed out a gratified smirk. “Of course. Did you doubt me?”

I refused to fall into the trap of answering that.

“This is the first time I've seen this letter.” Sally Joan gave a little shudder. “It's nasty, isn't it? So confusing. Lorraine certainly never mentioned it to me.”

“Do either of you know who this Cardinal guy is?” I asked.

Both women shook their heads.

“Isn't a cardinal some sort of Roman Catholic leader?” Sally Joan ventured. “Like a bishop? Lorraine wasn't Catholic, though. She wasn't anything, really.”

Representing his faith, Mr. O'Nelligan offered a definition. “A cardinal is a high ecclesiastical official, in rank just below the pope himself.”

“Such as Cardinal Spellman, the archbishop of New York,” Mrs. Pattinshell added.

“Fair enough,” I said. “Though I'm guessing
he's
not our Mr. Elephant.”

Mr. O'Nelligan read aloud one line of the letter. “
Nothing wakes a guy up like having his song list stolen out from under him.
A stolen song list … Pray tell, where have we recently heard of such a thing, Lee?”

It flashed upon me. “From Minnie Bornstein! Crimson! The musician whose set Lorraine pinched and performed.”

My colleague nodded. “Yes. Mrs. Bornstein admitted to being uncertain of the name. I'd venture that what she remembered as Crimson was, in fact,
Cardinal
—a crimson-feathered bird.”

Sally Joan looked baffled. “Wait, what's this about Lorraine stealing a musician's set?”

Gently, but accurately, Mr. O'Nelligan repeated the anecdote as Minnie had told it to us. The young woman quickly swapped confounded for crestfallen.

“Does this surprise you?” I asked. “That your cousin would have done such a thing?”

“Yes!” Sally Joan answered impulsively. A second later, she followed with a softer, sadder, “No. Oh, I can't really say…”

Mr. O'Nelligan returned both letters to their envelopes and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “Well, there is certainly much to ponder here. Perhaps we can now go make the acquaintance of Mr. Boyle, the drummer boy of lore.”

“That gentleman is old as Methuselah,” Mrs. Pattinshell noted. “Nonetheless, one must admit that he still has his wits about him.”

“Hold on!” Sally Joan's eyes had gone wide. “What about this new clue? I mean the second letter. It
is
a clue, isn't it? This man Cardinal obviously had threatened Lorraine, claiming he wouldn't forgive her for … well, for what he believed was an injustice. How do we know that
he
isn't the one who killed her? He's our best suspect, isn't he?”

“He may well be,” my partner said calmly. “But at present, we know precious little about him.”

“Then go down to the Café Mercutio! They may know something there.”

“We shall certainly make the café our destination, Miss Cobble. This very evening. For the moment, however, Mr. Boyle is near at hand, and seeing as he had a connection with your cousin, it could be advantageous to meet him before we journey on.”

“I guess you know what you're doing,” our client responded, though her tone suggested that maybe she wasn't all that sure.

“I presume I may now reclaim my living space?” Mrs. Pattinshell drew herself up in a posture of royal inconvenience. “If that isn't too much to wish for.”

I got it out before Mr. O'Nelligan could intervene. “Sure enough, ma'am. We wouldn't want to clutter up the room, just in case more of your spooks are planning a hootenanny.”

I was immediately caught in a crossfire of withering looks—from my partner and Mrs. Pattinshell.

“You're quick to make light of things, aren't you?” the ghost chanter said testily. “Perhaps that stems from your unfamiliarity with Death. Don't fret, though … Death has a way of pressing itself upon even the most jocund of men.”

Then her thin lips gave way to a terrible smile, curved like a Turkish saber.

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

Sally Joan accompanied us back upstairs to Cornelius Boyle's apartment. Surprisingly, the person who opened the door there was none other than Tim Doonan.