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“A setback? My husband was killed!”

  “True, it’s much worse. Tragic is what it is, but he wouldn’t want ya to—”

  “How do you know what he would want me to do?”

  Elizabeth’s frustration was mounting. “Maybe yer right. Maybe I don’t know. But ya gotta think of Josephine.”

  “Her name is Josie. Will you please call her that? And she’s all I ever do think of.”

  This approach was getting Elizabeth nowhere. She took a few deep breaths and tried another tack, thinking more long-term. She calmed, and her accent disappeared. “Look, when you’re ready, whenever that is, I would like you to work in one of my stores. After all, you and your brother are going to own them one day. You might as well learn the business.”

  The last thing Mary wanted to do was to work in a butcher shop, whether she owned it or not. She and Sean had discussed this many times, and they both felt the same way. They figured if that time ever came, they would sell the shops and split the proceeds. However, Mary did know her mother was trying to hold out an olive branch. Even though she was upset with her and life in general, she saw no reason to make Elizabeth feel worse than she already did.

  “Thanks, Mother. When the time comes, I’ll think about it.”

  Elizabeth had a spring in her step when she bade Mary goodbye. Mary was a very honest person, sometimes too honest, and she didn’t like lying to anyone. But nothing before had ever prevented her mother from continuing to upset her. Since this tactic had worked so well, she considered using it more often with her.

  Sarah came to sympathize and give comfort to her dear friend. She told Mary that she had no idea how she’d react if anything ever happened to her husband, Walter, so she hesitated to give Mary any advice. And that was just fine with Mary.

  Lazlo’s intellectual approach didn’t work either. He quoted one of her idols, George Eliot.

  She was no longer wrestling with her grief, but could sit down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer in her thoughts.

  “You see, Mary,” said Lazlo, “it’s not forgetting about Harper but rather making him a part of your life as you go on. With ‘go on’ having the distinct emphasis.”

  Mary understood Lazlo’s point but emotionally was nowhere near accepting it. “Lazlo, you’re my dear friend and I’ve loved you from that first day we met in your bookshop. But don’t even pretend to understand my grief. I’d like you to leave.”

  Lazlo was taken aback. “Mary, I never—”

  “I know you have good intentions and it’s not because I’m mad at you, though I am. I’m not in good spirits, and I need to be alone with Josie.”

  Lazlo respected her wishes and left, a bit rattled by this new aspect of Mary he had never seen before.

  When Sean visited, he tried to appeal to the detective in Mary, urging her to track down Harper’s killer. Sean was a policeman and had recently been promoted to detective, yet he wouldn’t hesitate to criticize the department if it might help his sister.

  “They’re getting nowhere with this case. They need you, Mary.”

  He was hoping that would give her an incentive to get out of the apartment and concentrate on something other than her grief. But Mary’s guilt was too crippling. Her detective work had caused his death. She couldn’t bear returning to it.

  Sean was very sympathetic to her situation, beyond just being a brother who cared about her. His fiancée had been murdered several years earlier.

  “I know it’s hard to imagine now, but you’ll get over this. Not over, but learn to live with it. Look at me. I’m dating again. Well, more than dating. I’m engaged.”

  “What?”

  “I know, I know. I haven’t told you about her. Her name is Linda, Linda Doyle.”

  “Ah, a nice Irish girl.”

  “Only half. Her father’s Irish and her mother’s Italian. She looks more like her mother, thank God.”

  “Sean—”

  “I know what you’re thinking, but the engagement just happened and this is not exactly a good time to introduce your fiancée to your family. Correction: I meant not a good time to introduce her to you. It’s never a good time to introduce anyone to Mom.”

  For the first time in a while a slight glint flashed in Mary’s eyes, indicative of her old self. “Unless you want to subject that person to her unique form of torture.” The two of them started to laugh. “Oh, Sean, I’m so happy for you!”

  Then Mary buried her head in her arms and started crying uncontrollably.

  6

  Late Thursday morning, December 17, 1896, Gilbert was meeting with Ivy Lee in an empty dressing room backstage at the Broadway Theatre on Broadway and Forty-First Street, where they were rehearsing The Grand Duke. Dottie wasn’t needed for this type of meeting, and therefore it was just the two of them. Lee was the son of a friend of a friend. Gilbert and his contemporaries all knew that was how the theater worked. Sometimes the most remote connections turned out to be diamonds in the rough, but that was a rarity. Usually these meetings were a waste of time. Gilbert had taken it as a courtesy, and besides, who knew when he might need a favor returned? Lee was different in that he didn’t want to write, direct, act, or get involved in the theater at all. He was a sophomore at Princeton who wanted to do a story on Gilbert for the Daily Princetonian. Gilbert, of course, was happy to talk about his new pet project, The Fortune Hunter.

  “A drama?” said Lee. “Interesting.”

  Gilbert had gotten that reaction from most people he had told about his play, and now he was getting it from a mere child. He was sick of it. “Need I remind you, Mr. Lee, you are here as a result of my good graces, and I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself unless you wish to become persona non grata.”

  Lee’s response was extremely apologetic. “Please excuse me if I have offended you, Mr. Gilbert. It certainly wasn’t intended.”

  “I found your tone to be inexplicably condescending.”

  “I’m sorry if I conveyed that in any way, shape, or form. Actually, I was thinking.”

  “Ah, always a good thing. People should do it more often,” said Gilbert, feeling more in control, his good humor returning.

  “Rather than speak hastily, I’d like to have some time to mull my thoughts over. Would you be amenable to my returning at some point with some suggestions about your very impressive career change?”

  Gilbert had to stifle a laugh. The idea that this babe in the woods would have suggestions that he, W. S. Gilbert, hadn’t already considered was indeed comical. However, Lee was a young man, practically a boy, and Gilbert saw no percentage in ridiculing him. After all, he was the son of a friend of a friend.

  “Of course you can, young man, and I’ll be eager to hear them.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gilbert. I can’t tell you how good that makes me feel.” Lee stood and extended his hand. Gilbert shook it. “This is wonderful. Now I can tell everyone I met the great W. S. Gilbert.”

  “ ‘Great’ is a bit of an exaggeration. Let’s leave it at, shall we say, stupendous.” A moment passed where Lee didn’t know how to react. Then Gilbert began to laugh, showing he wasn’t serious, or at least didn’t want to be taken seriously.

  They were still laughing when Lee left, reiterating that he was going to get back to Gilbert with his thoughts. With Lee gone, Dottie entered.

  “Sir, B. F. Keith and Edward Albee are waiting outside to see you.”

  “Really? What are those thieves doing here?”

  “I haven’t the slightest.”

  “I wasn’t looking for an answer, Double D. I was musing.”

  “Oh, I see….So?”

  “So what?”

  “Should I show them in or show them the door?”

  “Actually, when you think about it, they can be the same thing, can’t they?”

  “I suppose so
. Would you like me to rephrase it, sir?”

  “Not necessary. I wonder what those rascals have up their sleeves. Tell them to come in.”

  Dottie left and soon returned with Keith and Albee. Keith was approximately fifty years old, a bald, heavyset man with a thick but conservative mustache. Albee was a decade or so younger and dressed very stylishly, also with a thick mustache but groomed with a bit of flair to it.

  “W. S. Gilbert, may I present to you B. F. Keith and Edward Franklin Albee the second.”

  Gilbert stood and they all shook hands, exchanging the typical pleasantries.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” said B. F. Keith. “I’ve been a big fan of yours for years.”

  “Yes, and a profiting one, too. Please call me William.”

  “I’ll be happy to do so.”

  “And though I have several names in mind, what should I call you?”

  “The ‘B. F.’ stands for ‘Benjamin Franklin.’ ”

  “Ah, so you’re both a Franklin. Shall I call you Franklin one and Franklin two? That would make matters easier.”

  Albee intervened. “Before we set out on the wrong foot, let me inform you that we have come on a friendly mission, and one that might be extremely profitable for all of us.”

  “Ah, now you have my attention. Please sit.” They did. Dottie began to leave. “Dottie,” he called to her. Gilbert never used his nickname for her when others were around. “No need to go. Please join us.” All the chairs were gone, and she resorted to leaning on a dressing table.

  “It has come to our attention,” Albee began, “that someone has stolen one of your plays.”

  “Are you referring to one of the many plays you have produced and for which you haven’t seen fit to pay me so much as a farthing?”

  “That wrong foot just took a step forward. Let’s not dwell on the past; let’s concentrate on our possibly more advantageous future.”

  “You’re right. I believe I’ve sufficiently vented for now. Go ahead.”

  “What Edward is trying to tell you, William,” interjected Keith, “is that we have been contacted by some lowlife scalawag who has apparently apprehended the only copy of your new play.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. He said the title was The Fortune Hunter. Does that ring a bell?”

  Gilbert nodded his head. “And what does this scalawag want?”

  “He obviously thought that since we have produced many of your plays—”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “—we would naturally want to produce another.”

  “At first his price was astronomical,” said Albee, “and we have been negotiating with him for a while. We finally got it down to an amount we could live with.”

  “And what is that livable amount?”

  “Eight thousand dollars. Now, if we decide to pay this, we would like you to come in as our equal partner and we will all produce the play together. After all, it is your play, and this would be the first time one of your plays would premiere in the United States. It makes sense and is only fair that you should be aboard.”

  “I appreciate your gesture, and I am interested. However, you should know that this scalawag is more dangerous than you think. He extorted four thousand dollars from me and when it came time for the exchange, he shot my private detective and killed her husband.”

  “My goodness!” exclaimed Albee.

  Keith was calmer. “Nothing to worry about, Edward. In William’s case they had the element of surprise. We can take the proper precautions to avoid a catastrophe like that.”

  “Excuse me for a moment,” said Albee. “I need a word with my partner.” Albee leaned over and whispered in Keith’s ear.

  Keith nodded his assent, then said, “I wholeheartedly agree.”

  “To what?” asked Gilbert.

  “We believe you’ve been through enough. We were going to ask you to contribute part of the eight thousand, but we’ll consider the four thousand that was robbed from you as your investment in the show, making us equal partners.”

  “Well, what do you know? It turns out you fellows are decent chaps. Almost makes me want to forget all those terrible things I thought about you.”

  “Thank you, William.”

  “I said almost.” Keith and Albee paused briefly. It was shortly broken up by Gilbert’s laughter. “Had you there for a moment, didn’t I?”

  All three were laughing now as they stood up and shook hands to bid one another farewell.

  “I can’t wait to read The Fortune Hunter. Your brilliant writing with its clever turns of phrase have always tickled me so.”

  “I doubt you’ll be tickled with this one,” responded Gilbert. “I’ve written a drama.”

  Both Keith and Albee paused again. “A drama?” said Albee.

  “Interesting,” added Keith.

  Gilbert had had just about enough of this reaction. He was about to have a serious meltdown when Keith spoke.

  “No matter. You usually have them laughing in the aisles, and now you’ll have them crying there. The end result is the same: plenty of profit for all of us.”

  Keith had uttered just the right words from Gilbert’s perspective. His anger instantly dissipated and was replaced with a jovial disposition. “Yes, a bounty of riches beyond our imagination.”

  Keith pointed at Gilbert. “I applaud the way you think, William. You’re in standing-ovation territory.”

  As Keith and Albee left, Gilbert didn’t notice their exchange of concerned looks.

  “What do you think, Double D?” he said to his assistant.

  “I think it would be a wise association. Besides burying the hatchet and all that, who knows what it might lead to? They may have other plays, not yours, on which you might want to partner.”

  “Excellent reasoning. Keep this up and you might earn yourself a raise.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Gilbert. I do enjoy working for you so much.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a very determined Mary Handley, clutching an envelope.

  “Mary,” Gilbert said, looking her over. “How are you?”

  “I want you to have this, William.” She handed him the envelope and when he looked inside, he saw a wad of bills. “It’s the money you paid me,” she explained, though Gilbert had assumed as much. “I didn’t do a very good job, so please take your money back.”

  “Mary, after all you’ve been through—”

  “I insist. I also want you to know I’m going to find those culprits who stole your play and your money.”

  “I appreciate it, Mary, I really do. But it may not be necessary now—”

  “It’s necessary for me,” she interrupted. “They killed my husband.”

  * * *

  Earlier that day there had been a knock at Mary’s apartment door. She didn’t answer it. She was in no mood to talk with yet another person who was going to give her advice on what to do with her life. There was also the distinct possibility that it was her mother, who would have added another layer of misery. The knock persisted, though, and turned into a banging. Finally:

  “Mary Handley, open this door or I’m going to break it down in the name of the law!”

  She immediately recognized the voice of her old friend Chief Patrick Campbell and rushed to open the door. “You can’t break it down in the name of the law, or have you forgotten you’re retired, Chief?”

  “Can I come in or do I risk a breaking-and-entering charge?”

  Mary gestured and he entered. Chief Campbell was not a slight man by any means. Husky would be a better description, but that day he was much thinner than usual. What worried Mary most, though, was how pale he looked, an obvious result of his recent heart attack.

  “A heart attack’s a serious thing. You should be in bed,
Chief.”

  “And I would be, except that my favorite student has gone off the rails.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “As you have assured me many times. I’m not so sure this time.” He sat down at Harper’s desk. “Did I wake Josie?”

  “She probably can’t hear you. I moved her into our bedroom. I mean my bedroom. God, Chief, I’m having trouble.” She sat down, rubbing her neck.

  “You’ve only locked yourself up in your apartment, refused to see anyone, and given up on your life. Who would ever notice?”

  She ignored his attempt to lighten the mood. “I can’t, Chief. I just can’t.”

  “Words that I never expected would come out of your mouth. Let’s start by going over the details of the case.”

  “I’m really not in the mood—”

  “Humor a dying man.”

  “You’re not dying, Chief. You’d better not be.”

  “That’s closer to the Mary I know.” Chief Campbell rested for a moment, taking a couple of deep breaths, then he continued. “Come on, humor me.”

  Mary began at the beginning, and the chief listened patiently. When she reached her encounter with the man in the alley, Chief Campbell interrupted her.

  “He was unshaven, wore workingman’s clothes, and had a tooth missing? You’re kidding, right?”

  “His top left incisor, and no, I’m not kidding.”

  “Don’t you find that a bit cliché?”

  “Cliché or not, Harper’s dead!”

  “Concentrate on the facts, Mary. You have a great analytical mind. Don’t let your emotions cloud your judgment.”

  “Everything is clouded!” Mary exclaimed. “I can’t think, I don’t want to do anything, I can barely move. The only reason I’m still alive is because of my sweet little Josie in there. God, Chief, I’m a mess.” She started crying yet again, while at the same time wondering if her tear ducts would survive this ordeal.

  At the sight of her tears, stern, no-nonsense Chief Campbell melted. His gruff demeanor completely dissipated as he gently leaned closer to Mary.