Brooklyn on Fire (5 page)

“Please go easy on yourself. Unlike the rest of my family, when in New York, I keep a low profile, and I’ve been a big fan of yours since the Goodrich case.”

“Really? I had thought my dubious notoriety had been forgotten by now.”

“Hardly. I followed your exploits in the newspaper with great interest and was almost disappointed when you caught the killer. I couldn’t get enough of you.” He stopped very briefly. “That may have sounded improper. Please excuse me—”

“You’re excused. I doubt whether that was your intention. You appear to be quite balanced.”

“I appreciate that, though my family might disagree with you.”

“Then the rich and the poor do have some things in common. My family is similarly inclined toward me.”

“Now that we’ve found common ground, maybe you can divulge why you’re following Arabella Huntington. Please tell me it involves a case you’re currently working on. I so want it to be.”

His enthusiasm was childlike but at the same time it took on a self-mocking tone. Mary found it oddly charming, but she wasn’t about to divulge everything to a man she had just met.

“You’re right in one respect. I do want to have a conversation with her.”

“Well then, let’s have it.” And he started walking toward the Huntingtons.

“Wait. I can’t just walk up to them and start chatting.”

“
You
can’t, but I can,” he said as he stepped back toward her. “Arabella Huntington has been pursuing a friendship with my family for years. Being the snobs that we are—not me, my kindred—every effort has been rebuffed. Believe me, she’d be more than happy to chat with me and meet my friend.” He smiled, and the glint in his eye betrayed the slight devil-may-care quality she had seen in the twirls of his mustache.
What an odd pastiche of contrasts,
Mary thought as she walked with him over to Arabella and Archer Huntington.

“Mrs. Huntington, Archer,” George exclaimed as he bowed, “what a nice surprise to run into you here.”

“Please, George, no need to be formal with me. Call me Arabella,” she cooed, her tone infinitely warmer and friendlier than the one she had taken with her driver. “And where else would we be? Archer is back from Spain, and, like you, the two of us can’t make it through the day without our requisite amount of great art.”

“You know me well, Arabella, and it appears you’ll get to know me better. I understand you’re building a home just a stone’s throw from my brother.”

“Yes, we’ve bought a small piece of land and—”

“Small? From what I’m told there’s not much of Fifth Avenue left. They’re thinking of changing its name to Arabella Way.”

She emitted a short bellow of a laugh. “Oh, George, you do have such a wonderful sense of humor.”

“Thank you. You’re being generous as usual. Arabella and Archer, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Mary Handley.”

“Well,” said Arabella, “I am more than pleased to meet any friend of George’s. How do you do, Miss Handley?”

After the requisite bows and pleasantries were exchanged between Mary and the Huntingtons, George turned to Archer. “Archer, I know how fascinated you are with Hispanic culture. Have you seen the Goya the museum just acquired?”

“Really, a Goya? Where is it?”

“Come, I’ll show you. Please excuse us, ladies. We’ll be right back.”

And they left, but not before George nodded his good-bye, casting an almost imperceptible sly glance at Mary. There was definitely an element of the rogue in him, and Mary liked that. She was also impressed by how smoothly he had orchestrated her being alone with Arabella Huntington—without even a hint of suspicion.

“Well, it looks like we have an opportunity to have a little get-to-know-you chat,” Arabella remarked with a smile.

“Yes, I’d like that very much, Mrs. Huntington.”

“Good,” responded Arabella as the coldness she’d exhibited with her driver crept into her voice. “But first you must explain why you, a neophyte detective, were pretending to sketch houses outside my home.”

A
BIGAIL
C
ORDAY WAS
an actress of little repute, her accomplishments unable to fill the smallest footnote in the annals of New York theater or any theater at all. Much to her chagrin, besides having a few small roles in some less than noteworthy melodramas, her biggest break had come a few months earlier when she was cast in a production of Sophocles’s
Electra,
where she was merely one of many in the chorus of the Women of Mycenae. Since a Greek chorus required a uniformity of look and movement, individual actors rarely stood out. But Abigail had managed to circumvent that.

She had long admired the Italian actress Eleonora Duse, who was known for her naturalistic acting style and for portraying real, raw emotions. She felt only disdain for most actors of the day. Their set facial expressions and hand gestures indicating what emotion they were supposed to be feeling were superficial, phony, and almost comical to her. Abigail had worked hard on her part in the Greek chorus of
Electra,
making sure every word, every gesture, and every movement was completely genuine and truly felt. She had even created a detailed background for her character. It had nothing to do with the action of the play, but it had helped her to understand who she was and why she was there.

Abigail realized early on that the director had no concept of reality, urging the actors to make one untruthful move after another. So she approached him after one of the rehearsals. She pointed out that the chorus was looking up when they should have been looking left and they were moving to the right when they obviously should have been moving forward.

“Why would I look up? What’s my motivation?” she had asked.

He had simply replied, “Your job, my dear.”

On opening night, after three weeks of rehearsal following the director’s lead and feeling like a complete fraud, she had come to the conclusion that she was going to show the American audiences what real acting was. True, she was part of a chorus, but all the Women of Mycenae were real people who had very real lives. If the director had been more receptive to her ideas, he would have understood. How could anyone contest that they were all human beings?

When the curtain rose and the play had begun, she was a living, breathing person, and the others in the chorus were the lifeless automatons of the director’s creation. She had rationalized that the fact that she was not performing the same movements and gestures as the others was minute compared to the clear difference between being truthful and being artificial. So when the chorus looked down, she looked up. When they stepped to the right, she stepped to the left. At one point, Abigail collided with another actor.

In a very short time and after howls of laughter, the curtain came down, only to be raised a few minutes later with one less Woman of Mycenae in the cast. Abigail wasn’t nearly as upset at being fired as she was at the audience’s reaction. She thought,
How could people be so shallow?
How could they fail to see what was so clearly presented in front of them?
She had decided from that moment on that no one’s opinion would matter except for her own. She would not only dig deeply into each role she played and become the truthful incarnation of the playwright’s intent, but she also had no need for her art to be confined to a theater. She would no longer be Abigail Corday in everyday life but rather the characters she portrayed or wanted to portray. That way she would not only attain more insight into her roles but also give people who never went to the theater, like her local grocer in Brooklyn, the benefit of experiencing true art anywhere, anytime. One day she would be Ophelia in Shakespeare’s
Hamlet,
another she’d be Agnès in Molière’s
The
School for Wives,
and yet another Clytemnestra in Aeschylus’s
Agamemnon
. When she got bored with portraying someone else’s creation, she would invent her own characters or portray people she knew or had casually met, making up histories for them to fill in what she didn’t know. Shakespeare had written, “All the world’s a stage,” and she would take it literally.

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.

M
ARY,
G
EORGE
V
ANDERBILT,
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.