Brooklyn on Fire (13 page)

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.

I
T 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.

A
FTER
M
ARY 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.

S
EAN AND
P
ATTI
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.

M
ARY’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.”

“Don’t worry, sis. Walt won’t get in our way. You see,” he said, “we don’t need poetry. We have each other.” The way Sean and Patti looked at each other, it was obvious that phrase had a special meaning for them.

Of course, as always, the little bit of sunshine that had entered the Handleys’ lives didn’t last. According to Elizabeth’s twisted philosophy, Sean’s happiness meant Mary was surely unhappy, and she needed an extra shove.

“So, Mary, you know what this means. You’re next.”

“Not now, Elizabeth,” Jeffrey implored.

“At least give Mary a certain moratorium,” Patti pitched in.

“Yes, of course,” Sean agreed, “though it does sound a little ghoulish, Patti.”

“I believe you’re thinking of ‘crematorium,’ Sean,” Patti replied, “and I don’t think Mary’s quite ready for that yet.”

Everyone laughed except Elizabeth, who had no intention of relenting.

“Now is as good a time as any. As they say, there’s no time like the present.”

“Speaking of the present,” Mary quickly interjected, “George is
presently
waiting for me in the carriage outside and—”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened, filled with anxiety. “George as in George Vanderbilt?”

“Yes, Mother,” Mary casually responded. “We’re on our way down to Richmond, Virginia. We’re in a rush to catch our train, and I wanted to inform you that I wouldn’t be here for dinner tomorrow night.”

Elizabeth became unnerved. As she glanced around the house, she chided Mary. “How could you do this to me? The house is a mess. He’ll think we’re boors, and slovenly ones at that.”

“Calm down, Mother. George isn’t like that. Besides, your house is spotless as usual, and he’s not going to see it anyway.”

“I’m sure you think this is funny, Mary, but it’s not.”

“It is, Mother, very much so,” Sean said, then he and Mary looked at each other and laughed. By now Elizabeth was fuming, and Jeffrey felt he needed to intercede.

“No need to get upset, dear. Like Mary said, he’s out in the—”

A knock stopped Jeffrey. It threw Mary a bit, too. She knew it was probably George, but she had been hoping this meeting would take place at a later date when they had more time and, hopefully, when their relationship had progressed further. Still, that didn’t stop her from opening the door right away.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mary, but I heard the scream and I wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

“Everything is fine, George. The scream was one of joy. This is my brother, Sean, and his fiancée, Patti. They just informed us of their engagement.”

George shook their hands. “Ah yes, Sean, the policeman. Mary’s told me a lot about you. And Patti, Mary’s good friend from Lazlo’s Books. My, this is a happy day.”

Elizabeth could stay silent no longer. She put on her best “company” visage and tried to exude as much charm as possible. “Please excuse the mess, Mr. Vanderbilt. Our maid came down with a case of the flu, and as you can see from my dress, I wasn’t expecting company.”

Mary and Sean looked at each other as if their mother had gone batty. But they had no desire to embarrass her, so they kept quiet.

“You must be Mrs. Handley,” George said. “Well, it’s quite clear where Mary got her considerable beauty.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vanderbilt. That’s very kind of you.”

Jeffrey stepped forward, shook George’s hand, and introduced himself.

“So pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Handley,” George responded. “I understand I have you to thank for Mary’s stellar education.”

Jeffrey almost blushed, another first. “I played a very minor role. It’s really Mary who’s responsible for that. She was a driven girl.”

“Maybe, but as I’m sure you know, it all starts with parenting, and you were the one who fed her curiosity with books.”

It was clear to all that Mary had told George quite a bit about her family. This sparked Elizabeth’s curiosity. She couldn’t help wondering if her daughter had lambasted her to a Vanderbilt. She put on as pleasant a face as she could muster and asked the question that was troubling her.