Brooklyn on Fire

by Lawrence H. Levy

  Mary hadn’t slept well. Her reaction to her poor circumstances when she had returned home the night before didn’t disappear when she climbed into bed. The noise of her neighbors and the street below had kept her up for the first time in a long while. Smells that had never bothered her before—the ones emanating from the other apartments, the musty hallway, the garbage outside—were somehow magnified and made her restless. She was embarrassed that she had responded that way, but she did nevertheless.

  Mary decided to return to the scene of the crime in broad daylight to see if she could find any clues that might give her answers or at least lead her toward them. George needed to assess a work of art he was considering purchasing, so Mary was on her own. She was impatient, uncomfortable, and annoyed with public transportation that day. She chided herself for it, but there was no denying that she was. She hated the thought of seeming pampered, and it made her cranky. Then the dark humor of it hit her. How pathetic her existence must have been that a few weeks of carriage rides and nice dinners made her feel spoiled! She began to laugh.

  When she arrived at the Thalia Theatre, firemen were doing a last inspection of the scene as workers hired by the German owners to cart the debris away waited for them to finish. Mary already knew it would be too much of a coincidence for the fire to have accidentally started immediately after Abigail Corday stumbled onto the stage and died. She reasoned the two events must be connected in some way. She found the firemen to be very cooperative and forthcoming. Apparently, the police had scoured the theater in the early morning hours after the fire was extinguished, and Mary was right. It was arson, the fire having been started in Abigail Corday’s dressing room. She conjectured that, most likely, the dressing room was also where the stabbing took place, and since the police had already been there, she felt she wouldn’t be interfering in their investigation if she went to examine it, or rather what was left of it.

  As she had expected, there wasn’t much. Most of the room was charred. The heat from the fire had even melted the mirror on the wall. After searching for a while, she had just come to the conclusion that continuing was fruitless when she spotted something through a hole in what had once been the seat of a club chair. It was a partially melted metal buckle with a small piece of burned material attached to it. The material had obviously been much longer and thicker before the fire, and Mary thought it might have been leather. It didn’t look like part of any woman’s clothing, or at least any of which she was aware. It could have been a male shoe buckle, but it didn’t look decorative enough. She wasn’t sure if it meant anything, but in case it did, she placed it in her pocketbook.

  SHORTY WAS ANNOYED. As he sat in the store, he reviewed what had happened. He hadn’t wanted to use a blade. That wasn’t his style. He preferred strangling, especially with women. It wasn’t as messy, and it was more enjoyable. But that actress was wild. She had fought with more strength than many of his male assignments. He had scratches on his face and arms to prove it. The crazy bitch, he thought as he touched his bandaged right hand.

  She had screamed out, “You can’t stop fate! I am the future of the American theater!” That’s when he had put his hand over her mouth and she had bitten a chunk out of it. Right then and there he’d decided to stop fooling around. Two quick thrusts with his knife, and she was on the floor, quiet as can be. It was then that he started the fire and quickly made his exit, thankful that the stage door was close to her dressing room. He was sure no one had seen him.

  He had to be honest with himself. He should’ve been better prepared. Shorty knew the assignment was a woman, so he had taken it for granted that she’d be weak. As a result, he had increased his risk of being caught, had suffered wounds, and more importantly, he hadn’t enjoyed himself. He vowed never to underestimate an assignment again. At that point in his thinking, the same ten-year-old boy who had delivered his payoff in the bar several weeks back entered the store, holding an envelope.

  “Here, mister, this is for you.” The boy handed Shorty the envelope. He took a quick peek at the cash inside and smiled. He liked being paid on time.

  “Hey, kid,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “They call me Killer.”

  “Really, huh? You’re that tough?”

  Embarrassed, the boy shuffled his feet and then admitted, “Nah, wish I was. Everyone calls me Peewee.”

  “Hey, nothin’ to be ashamed of, lad. Work hard and no reason why ya can’t grow up to be a killer.”

  The boy shrugged, heartened by Shorty’s advice. Shorty pulled a letter out of his pocket that had been there for a while. When he had been hired for this past assignment, he had cursed himself afterward for not having a note ready for his mysterious employer. He knew he could take care of Sean Handley on his own, but he needed to know exactly what his client wanted him to do. He definitely didn’t want to upset someone who paid him so well.

  “Kid, do me a favor and give this note to whoever gave ya the envelope and tell ’em to pass it up until it gets to the person this money comes from. Okay?” The boy nodded, and Shorty peeled off one of the bills in the stack he’d just gotten. “This is for yer trouble.”

  The boy’s eyes lit up. “Sure, mister!” He grabbed the bill and ran out. Shorty was fully aware that the kid could just take off with the money, but he didn’t think it was likely. He was from the neighborhood, and he was sure the boy would be afraid he might run into Shorty again.

  The owner of the store made his way to Shorty, indicating the now-absent kid. “Was that little rat botherin’ you?” he said in a thick Italian accent.

  “Nah, he was fine.”

  “Good ta hear. Today you don’t know what you gonna run into.” He showed Shorty the front page of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. “You see this?”

  In big, thick letters, the headline read, ACTRESS DIES ONSTAGE. Below it was an artist’s drawing of Abigail Corday lying on the stage floor, surrounded by the set of A Doll’s House.

  “Can you believe that? On opening night,” the owner continued. “The world is a crazy place, no?”

  Shorty wasn’t listening. He was trying to figure out how she had gotten to the stage. He had poked her twice and set a fire. She must have somehow picked herself up after he left. That was one determined bitch, he thought. But he needed to find out more, and Shorty didn’t read that well. He handed the newspaper back to the owner.

  “Do they say if they found the guy who did it or they know who he is?”

  “They know nothin’. They don’t even know if it’s a man or woman. Stupid police!”

  Shorty breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah, stupid police.”

  “Anyhow,” the owner said, “I got somethin’ I think’ll work.”

  The owner held up a new buckle attached to a leather strap. He had been a master cobbler in Italy and had continued practicing his trade in the United States. A leg brace was a little out of his area of expertise, but not by that much. He put it up to Shorty’s leg brace, where he was missing a strap.

  “Will be simple to attach. Perfetto, no?”

  “Yeah, perfetto,” Shorty answered, and he smiled.

  GEORGE AND HIS brother Cornelius were leaving an art auction. Cornelius was not happy with him.

  “You’re insane, George!”

  “Thank you, dear brother, and a very happy day to you, too.”

  “The man’s been discredited by every major art critic around the world.” Cornelius was referring to a Paul Cézanne still life George had just purchased. He felt that George had severely overpaid for it.

  “Maybe, but what about the minor critics?”

  “That’s not funny!”

  “My brother doesn’t find humor in something. I’m shocked, simply apoplectic.”

  “You’re being irresponsible. Father’s left you a nice sum of money, and paying a ridiculous amount for a piece of…whatever from a no-name and never-will-be-a-name painter is—”

  “It wasn’t that much, and besides, it pleases my eye. Ca
n’t I just enjoy something? Must everything be an investment?”

  Cornelius took a breath, trying to calm himself. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Excellent idea. I always knew my brother was a wise and intelligent man.”

  Cornelius looked at George, about to respond with a retort in kind, when their eyes met. Then, in true brotherly fashion, they both burst out laughing.

  “George, you are a severe pain in the ol’ derrière.”

  “Well, at least it’s in a fleshy part of the anatomy.”

  They were still laughing when they entered Cornelius’s carriage. After Cornelius signaled his driver to take off, he turned to his brother.

  “So, I see you’re quite smitten with this Mary Handley.”

  “She’s positively charming, incredibly bright, and we have much in common.”

  “Really, George,” he said while emitting a slight chortle.

  “Go ahead, big brother, express your opinion, not that I could ever stop you.”

  “Much in common?” he said, scoffing, then rattled off a litany of questions. “Did you meet her parents? Where do they live? Where did she go to school? Who are her friends—”

  “I will find all that out in due time.”

  “Then you know absolutely nothing about her. After all these years, do you really not know that it’s breeding that counts?”

  “So we human beings are no different than racehorses?”

  “You’re being snide, but there are similarities, more than we all care to admit.”

  “Cornelius, you’re my brother and I love you, but you also happen to be an insufferable snob and a complete—sans the French—ass.”

  “Really? What am I in Italian?”

  George shook his head and smiled briefly. They sat in silence for a while and then went on to other subjects, as if nothing had happened.

  IT WAS EARLY afternoon when Mary arrived at Lazlo’s Books, already beginning to feel the fatigue from her poor night’s sleep. The store was more crowded than normal, and Lazlo greeted her in grand style as if wanting others to hear.

  “Mary, there are quite a few people here who would like to speak with you.”

  “About what?”

  “Why, your book recommendations, of course.” He smiled toward the customers, then gleefully whispered to Mary, “Word has gotten out that you have another case.”

  “I wonder how that could have happened.” She gave Lazlo an accusatory glance.

  “I didn’t say a word, not that anyone would heed me.”

  “Lazlo, you know what Mr. Franklin said about honesty.”

  “That it’s the best policy, and it always has been for me. I assume this is just gossip trickling down from the event with Mr. Worsham’s body a few weeks back.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve learned of the upper class’s fondness for worthless blather. They cloak it in fine wine and expensive dress, labeling it as sport rather than the idiocy that it indubitably is.”

  “My, you are in a mood this afternoon.”

  “Have you seen today’s newspaper yet?”

  “No, I’ve been too busy.”

  “When you do, you’ll see why.” She sighed. “Lazlo, I’m sorry this case is taking more than the original two weeks. My presence here has only been intermittent, and I’ll understand if you want to replace me.”

  “Replace you? I wish I had ten more of you!” He pointed to the many customers. “Please, take as much time as you need. There will always be a position for you here.”

  “Thank you for being so understanding.”

  “I’m merely employing good business sense. Here, maybe this will cheer you up.” He took a letter out of his coat pocket and handed it to her. “Your first letter at Lazlo’s Books addressed to ‘Mary Handley—Consulting Detective.’ ”

  The return address caught her eye. It was from Emily Worsham.

  13

  AFTER MARY HAD fulfilled her obligation to Lazlo and had spoken with the customers who were, for lack of a better word, her fans, she retreated to her makeshift office to read the letter.

  Indeed, it was from the real Emily Worsham in Richmond, Virginia, if one could believe anyone was real anymore. Mary had written to her about her uncle back when she thought Abigail Corday really was Emily Worsham. Having interviewed the director of A Doll’s House, Mary knew of Abigail Corday’s obsession with “living the part.” She reasoned that Abigail had plagued whoever employed her to impersonate Emily for all the information about the real Emily he or she had. Whether that was a lot or a little, it most likely included Emily Worsham’s actual address in Richmond.

  In her response to Mary, Emily Worsham naturally expressed much confusion. She had never asked her to look into her uncle’s death and never would have. “My uncle died of heart failure,” she had written, “and there was nothing fishy about it.” This Emily Worsham was concerned that perhaps Mary would seek money for her services and was very explicit that no such money would be forthcoming.

  “It makes absolutely no sense that I would ask you to exhume my uncle’s body in New York,” she had written, “when he is buried down here in Richmond.”

  Needless to say, that got Mary’s attention.

  SEAN AND PATTI were wildly happy and madly in love. It hadn’t been long since Sean had decided to yield every so often on their minor disputes, and it had led to benefits far beyond any expectations he might have had. Patti had become much more understanding and loving, and both of them had realized how many of their arguments had been about inconsequential claptrap. Patti even conceded that Sean’s desire to work for free on his day off was perfectly fine with her. She had noticed his growing enthusiasm for police work and didn’t want to put a damper on it.

  “Don’t worry, Patti. It won’t take me long to go through the list I’ve compiled.”

  “Take as much time as you need. I know how much it means to you, Sean.”

  It was a world of difference to both of them, and Sean had decided that, after over a year of dating, it was time. He had never been so sure about anything. He took a good portion of his meager savings and on the same night that the fire burned most of the Thalia Theatre, throwing Mary’s case into total confusion, Sean did something that had nothing to do with his career. He bought Patti a ring. On Thursday of that week, after work, he went to her apartment and got down on one knee. Patti immediately got excited.

  “Sean, what are you doing?!”

  “What I should have done a long time ago. I’ve loved you from the moment we met, but it wasn’t until this last week that I realized how far it extends. It goes beyond life.” As Sean took out the ring case and opened it, he quoted Patti’s favorite excerpt from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. “ ‘I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love. If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.’ ” He then took a breath and asked, “Patricia Cassidy, will you marry me?”

  Even though that particular quote had more to do with a love of nature than human love, the fact that Sean had tried to fit her favorite Whitman quote into his proposal touched Patti deeply. She took his hands in hers, signaling him to rise.

  “Of course, Sean, I would love to be your wife.”

  Sean happily started to slip the ring on her finger when a thought occurred to him. “Did I get it wrong, Patti—the quote?”

  “You were letter perfect.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. “Good, I was afraid that—”

  “Sean, we don’t need poetry. We have each other.”

  Sean wasn’t an emotional being. At least, if he was, he rarely showed it. But Patti’s words struck a chord in him. He had never really had a partner or anyone on whom he could always count. He and Mary had gotten along better lately, but they still weren’t close. And his male friends—well, most of them thought any emotion besides anger and laughter indicated weakness. Sean hadn’t realized until that moment how much he longed for someone who would always be his ally.
A warm, content feeling ran through his body as she spoke. He had heard about the power of words and had wondered what that meant. Now he knew, and somehow he also knew he would remember this moment for the rest of his life.

  MARY’S CASE HAD taken a weird turn. Now there were two possible stories about John Worsham’s death and two graves. The Emily whose letter she’d received, if indeed she was the real Emily Worsham, had written that he had died of natural causes. Whoever hired Abigail Corday wanted to imply Worsham was murdered. It was hard to believe anything anyone said, and given Mary’s naturally inquisitive mind, she would not be able to rest until she found out the truth about John Worsham, his niece Emily, and the mystery surrounding Abigail Corday and her death. These thoughts were running through Mary’s mind as she asked George to wait for her, stepped out of his carriage, and walked toward her parents’ house. But her pensive state immediately vanished when she heard her mother scream. Alarmed, she lifted her dress, ran as fast as she could toward the entrance, and charged inside.

  “Mother, what’s going on? Are you—”

  Mary stopped, because what she saw was highly unusual. Her mother was hugging Sean, actually squeezing him tightly. And then there was something even rarer. She had a huge smile on her face, truly from cheek to cheek. Her father shook Sean’s hand as Elizabeth proceeded to hug Patti, who was also there. It was only then that her mother acknowledged Mary.

  “Mary darling, Sean and Patti are getting married. Isn’t that wonderful?” It took a second for Mary to react. Her mother had rarely, if ever, called her darling, and she struggled to process it. After a moment, Mary rushed to Patti and hugged her, then shook Sean’s hand with both of hers.

  “I am so happy for the two of you,” she said, then continued in a loving but humorous tone. “This is my good friend, Sean, so you better take excellent care of her, and that includes plenty of Walt Whitman.”