Brooklyn on Fire Page 5

  Abigail dismissed the many who snickered at her. And much to her delight, there were some who appreciated her efforts. An occasional pedestrian would toss her a coin. Her butcher gave her a free piece of meat, and she got hired to play the part of someone’s mother at a birthday party. It filled her with hope and encouraged her to continue.

  Abigail Corday was no more. Only greatness remained.

  MARY, GEORGE VANDERBILT, and the Huntingtons were having cocktails and lunch at a crowded saloon on Third Avenue and Fifty-fifth Street. Mostly frequented by Irish laborers, it was a rowdy place, hardly known for catering to the upper crust of New York.

  “My goodness, Arabella,” exclaimed George, surprised and enjoying the atmosphere, “I learn more about you every time I see you. I never would have imagined you patronized places like this.”

  “I must confess I’ve never been here before. But I thought Miss Handley might feel more comfortable dining here.”

  “Mother!” Archer interjected. “I’m certain it wasn’t your intention, but I do believe you’ve insulted Miss Handley.”

  “As usual, you’re absolutely correct, Archer,” Arabella said with a sigh. “I apologize for my behavior. I do tend to get testy when people aren’t being forthright with me. I’m sure Miss Handley can understand that. Can’t you, Miss Handley?”

  As she turned to Mary with a pointed stare, the waiter delivered their food to the table. He was an unshaven, grubby-looking man whose clothes were as unkempt as his person. The chill running through Arabella’s body was almost visible, but Mary decided that no matter how amusing the woman’s discomfort might be, she had to stay focused.

  “Please excuse my little charade near your home earlier.”

  “A charade?” George interrupted. “That sounds like fun.”

  “Not now, George,” Mary replied.

  “But I insist. I want to know. I need to know.”

  “I will tell you at another time. I promise.”

  “Good. It’s a date then.” George slyly smiled. Intrigued and interested, Mary smiled back.

  “Mrs. Huntington, it might be more prudent if we have this discussion in private.”

  “Please, there is nothing you can tell me that I can’t share with Archer, George, and even these reprobates.” She nodded toward the boisterous crowd that offended her senses.

  Normally, Mary would have pushed the point further, being more concerned with not embarrassing the person she was questioning. But Arabella Huntington’s proclamation insulted her twice over. She was implying that nothing Mary could say would have any chance of being important enough to require a private discussion, and the “reprobates” to whom she referred were honest Irish workingmen, the very stock from which Mary came.

  “As you wish, Mrs. Huntington. I have been hired to look into the death of your first husband.” And Mary handed Arabella Huntington her card.

  Arabella Huntington flinched ever so slightly, but it was enough to show she was concerned. As she put Mary’s card in her pocketbook, she asked, “Who hired you?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you.”

  “Then I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you.”

  “It’s been suggested that he might have met with foul play.”

  “That’s absurd!”

  Shocked, Archer quickly turned to face Mary. “You think someone killed Father? Who…who would do such a thing?”

  Arabella was quick to respond. “No one killed your father, Archer. Miss Handley here is just trying to drum up tawdry gossip.”

  “I assure you I am not, and there is a simple way to put this to rest. I’d like permission to exhume the body.”

  “What on earth will that accomplish? The man’s been dead for twenty years. There’s probably nothing but dust in his coffin.”

  “Did you have him embalmed?”

  “Of course. I’m not a barbarian.”

  “Then there is probably still a good amount of him preserved and a reasonable chance that a cause of death can be determined.” Mary knew forensic science had advanced by leaps and bounds in the last two decades, but she really had no idea if this was possible. She would cross that path when she got to it. For right now, she was more interested in Arabella Huntington’s reaction.

  “I am in no way inclined to entertain your ridiculous notion. John Worsham died of a heart attack, and not prematurely, I might add. John was forty-nine, and I believe the average life of an American male is several years less. N’est-ce pas, Miss Handley?”

  “Mother, there’s no need to get upset. She’s just doing her job.”

  “Archer, you are a sweet, trusting boy and unaware that there are people in this world who derive pleasure from causing others harm. Exhume your father’s body and gossipmongers will appear on every street corner.”

  “But those same gossipmongers will immediately disappear,” Mary quickly pointed out, “if his cause of death is finally confirmed.”

  “And what if nothing can be determined of what’s left of him? What then? We will live with a cloud of doubt over our heads for the rest of our lives.” She stood up. “Come, Archer, let’s go home and have lunch. I have no intention of eating this gruel.”

  Archer rose, then bowed appropriately. “Good day, George, Miss Handley.”

  “Always wonderful to see you, George,” Arabella said, making a considerable effort to plaster a smile on her face. “Next time I hope you bring more pleasant company.” And she left with Archer, purposely ignoring Mary.

  George turned to Mary. “Are you always this controversial?”

  “You think this is controversial? You should attend one of my family dinners.”

  George laughed. “Ours are similarly trying.” A moment passed as Mary became lost in thought. “Do you mind telling me what the wheels in your brain are churning up?”

  “Arabella made a good point.”

  “She did,” George agreed, “but there seemed to be more to it….The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Mary.

  Arabella Huntington was hiding something, but Mary had to tread carefully. The Huntingtons were powerful people.

  6

  FRIDAY-NIGHT DINNER AT the Handleys’ was a tradition that Mary would’ve liked to abolish. Family had a facility of staying with you beyond its welcome, like a bad piece of cheese in your stomach. She had always gotten along well with her father, Jeffrey, and though her relationship with her brother, Sean, a Brooklyn policeman, was still somewhat acrimonious, it had improved over the years. Mary’s major difficulties had always been with her mother.

  Elizabeth Handley’s view of the world was governed by her belief that there was a finite amount of happiness and sadness on this earth, and that they balanced out. If someone was happy, it meant that someone else was equally sad. So whenever something good happened to one of them, she expected something bad to happen to one of the others. This philosophy had made it impossible for her to enjoy any family member’s good fortune. And overall, she felt the Handleys hadn’t gotten their fair share of happiness and was intent on changing that through her stern leadership.

  “Let someone else suffer,” Elizabeth would say. “We Handleys have already had more than enough.”

  Elizabeth’s definition of happiness almost always conflicted with the rest of her family’s, but that never deterred her from judgment. Nothing Mary did seemed to please Elizabeth. Her goals and desires simply didn’t match the ones her mother had imagined for her. Elizabeth’s opinions were mostly influenced by societal norms, many of which Mary found irrationally restrictive. But she couldn’t argue with her mother’s roast.

  “Delicious as usual, Mother,” Mary said, savoring the meat as she chewed.

  “I’m glad you like it,” responded Elizabeth. “How’s work at the bookshop? You are still employed there?”

  Elizabeth was referring to the time, approximately two years earlier, when Mary had rebelled against her oppressive boss at the
sweatshop where she used to work, and consequently was fired. It had given Elizabeth the leverage to refer to Mary as “an unemployed sweatshop worker,” which she had hoped would push her in the direction Elizabeth had always wanted her to go: forgetting about any silly notions of a career, finding a good man to marry, and having children. But that leverage didn’t last, because soon after Mary left the sweatshop, she had been brought on by the Brooklyn Police Department to sleuth the Goodrich murder.

  “Elizabeth, dear,” Jeffrey addressed his wife with as much sweetness and love as he could muster. “You know perfectly well Mary is still working at the bookshop. Why do you keep—”

  “The girl has surprised us in the past, Jeffrey, or have you forgotten?”

  “I’m sorry if it surprised you, Mother,” Mary interjected. “But I did tell you the moment it happened, and that moment was two years ago.”

  “That didn’t lessen the surprise and shock that my brilliant daughter couldn’t keep her job at a place where eight-year-olds managed to stay employed?”

  “The point is, Mother,” said Sean, coming to his sister’s defense, “Mary has a good job now, and that’s all that matters.”

  Mary smiled at Sean, thankful for his support. Their relationship over the years had never been easy. Sean had yet to get over the fact that he had a younger sister who was much brighter and more competent at many things at which males, especially big brothers, were supposed to shine. One of their many sticking points was chess. Mary had always beaten Sean at chess, and to this day, Sean maintained that Mary only won because she cheated. Mary found it especially annoying, which prompted Sean to repeat it as often as he could. But now Mary preferred to view the positive. It hadn’t been that long since, upon hearing his mother’s verbal attack, Sean’s first instinct would have been to sink Mary even further. So she had to admit their relationship had progressed. In fact, though it was purely by accident, Mary was responsible for Sean’s meeting his girlfriend Patti, whom he had been dating for over a year.

  Patricia Cassidy worked at Lazlo’s Books with Mary, and they had become close friends in the time Mary had been employed there. She was twenty-two and had thick, curly red hair; a face full of freckles; and a smile that was contagious. Though not as smart as Mary (few were), she was self-educated like her, bright, and an avid reader. The two of them would discuss great literature, philosophy, and other intellectual pursuits. In that respect, Patti reminded her of her childhood friend Tina Chung, who now lived in San Francisco. Patti was also a complete and hopeless nature lover, and the small room she rented was full of a variety of plants, to which she constantly tended. Mary completely understood why she and Patti were friends, but she had never dreamed that Patti and Sean would ever be a good match.

  Sean wasn’t the least bit interested in an education or in reading books, and he couldn’t think of anything more boring than a day in the country surrounded by nature. He was very much a “city boy.” And yet, the laws of attraction are strange and sometimes incomprehensible.

  One day, Mary and Patti were on their way to a lecture on the poet Walt Whitman. Whitman had resided in Brooklyn a good deal of his life. The first edition of Leaves of Grass was published by a Brooklyn printer and Brooklynites considered him “a local product.” They had been waiting for the streetcar when Sean happened by. Mary introduced him to Patti, and whatever instant attraction two people can have when they first meet, those two had it tenfold. Sean and Patti had started chatting immediately, as if Mary weren’t there. Finally, Patti beckoned to Sean.

  “We’re going to a Walt Whitman lecture. Would you like to join us?”

  Mary would’ve bet the fifteen-hundred-dollar reward she had earned for catching the Goodrich killer that that would drive Sean away, but she would have lost.

  “I’d love to,” Sean had exclaimed. “That man is spectacular!”

  Again, Mary would have bet everything that Sean didn’t know who Walt Whitman was. She had originally thought the word “lecture” would have been enough to deter him, but she had no desire to comment and be a spoiler. So Mary decided to let them discover whatever differences they might have. And that they did…eventually.

  Months later, their fights became epic shouting matches, witnessed by neighbors at both their residences. They had even broken off their relationship several times, but it had never lasted more than a few days.

  Mary tried to be the voice of reason in the middle of this madness. It was apparent how much Sean loved Patti, and being Patti’s friend and confidante, she knew the feeling was mutual. She didn’t want to see either of them in a constant state of forlorn.

  “Be smart and give in on some of the small matters, Sean,” Mary had advised Sean one day. “You’ll see. Pretty soon she’ll return the favor, and in no time the two of you won’t even be able to remember what you used to argue about.”

  Sean had decided to reject Mary’s counsel the moment he had heard “Be smart,” those words striking at the heart of his insecurity with his sister. And so, Sean and Patti’s tumultuous relationship continued as it was.

  At the dinner table now, Mary had to focus on her mother’s negativity and not Sean’s drama with Patti or competitiveness with her. She was heartened that at least she had some good news to report.

  “Just so everyone here will be the first to know,” Mary said, really only meaning her mother, “I’ve been hired on a new case.”

  “That’s wonderful, Mary!” exclaimed Sean with genuine joy.

  “I’m proud of you, sweetheart,” said Jeffrey.

  “What kind of case is this one?” Elizabeth asked with the usual skepticism she harbored pertaining to anything involving Mary’s career aspirations.

  “It’s a private client, and I’m not allowed to divulge that information.”

  “And Lazlo knows about this?”

  “Yes. Lazlo believes in me and is incredibly supportive,” said Mary with a tone that implied what she thought but did not utter: Like you, Mother, should be.

  “Well,” said Sean, “as long as we’re sharing good news, I’ve just been promoted and put on my first murder case.”

  This time Mary was the first one to chime in. “Fabulous news, Sean. I’m sure you’ll crack it in no time!”

  “I’m very proud of both my children,” announced Jeffrey, beaming.

  “As if I’m not?” Elizabeth said, challenging him with a scowl.

  “I didn’t say that, Elizabeth. I—”

  “Congratulations, Sean, and”—she paused, the rest difficult for her to say, but she finally spit it out—“you too, Mary.”

  Mary knew her mother’s compliment was backhanded at best, but she decided to leave it alone and concentrate on Sean’s good fortune.

  “So, Sean, I know I can’t talk about mine, but can you tell us anything about your case?”

  “There’s not much to tell yet. You know Gabrielle Evans, that rich old woman who was found strangled in her home?”

  “Mary, would you pass the salt, please?” Elizabeth asked.

  Concentrating on Sean and without looking at her mother, Mary passed the salt. “The one in Clinton Hill?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. The obvious motive is robbery, but her house is filled with so much garbage, it will take us weeks to go through it all, and even then it’ll be hard to know what might have been taken.”

  “The pepper, please, Mary.”

  “Are there any clues to the intruder?”

  “Not yet. It’s hard to decipher between her mess and what the killer might have left.”

  “Mary, the pepper.”

  “You’ll find the killer in due time. I have every bit of faith in you.”

  “Thanks, sis. Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll even beat you at chess,” he remarked with a smile.

  Mary shook her head, thinking, A step forward and then a step back again. Sean will be Sean.

  “Mary,” Elizabeth blurted out, trying to control her anger. “How many times have I told you? When yo
u pass the salt, you always pass the pepper, too.”

  “Oh, sorry, Mother,” Mary said as she quickly passed the pepper to her mother. But Elizabeth couldn’t control her frustration.

  “How are you ever going to find a husband or even a date if you don’t know common table manners and all you talk about is murder?”

  “I don’t know, Mother. Maybe I’ll wait until the right murderer gets out of jail and marry him. We’ll have a lot to discuss, don’t you think?”

  “That’s not at all funny, especially since your last serious beau was a dope fiend.”

  Jeffrey and Sean knew Elizabeth had gone too far and immediately protested.

  “Elizabeth!”

  “Mother!”

  Elizabeth’s outburst hurt Mary, and she knew it was probably meant to do just that. It was one of her tactics, “a hard lesson to wake her up.” Elizabeth was referring to Charles Pemberton, the son of John Pemberton, who had invented a soft drink known as Coca-Cola. Charles was a witty, charming, and handsome young man who hid his addiction to morphine very well. Shortly after it came to light, they broke up. Charles knew his resistance was weak and didn’t want to bring Mary down with him. Still, they were very much in love, and it had been devastating to both of them.

  Mary gathered herself. “Well, Mother, you’re right about Charles, but you’re absolutely wrong about my dating. In fact, I have a date tomorrow night.”