Brooklyn on Fire (2 page)

T
HERE WAS NO
mention of Alice B. Sanger in the Saturday morning edition of the
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
. It was the middle of April 1890, over three months since her appointment to President Benjamin Harrison’s staff, and still not a word, no acknowledgment whatsoever. One would think the first woman in United States history to be added to the staff of the president would be of some import, but not in the eyes of the
Eagle
. Instead, the newspaper was filled with details of the Brooklyn Bridegrooms, a professional baseball club that had moved from the American Association to the National League, and the new reserve clause in all baseball players’ contracts, a mere paragraph that bound them to their teams. Baseball was apparently more newsworthy than a historic moment, especially when that moment involved a woman.

Mary Handley shook her head. She realized Miss Sanger was only a stenographer, but up until this point no woman had been trusted by a president to perform even the most menial of duties on his staff. Her appointment had significance. Still, Mary wasn’t going to dwell on it. Changing the inequities of the world was a slow process. Most people, both men and women, welcomed change as they would a bill collector seeking payment on an overdue note.

What was more important to Mary at that instant was that the
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
was resting on her very own pedestal desk in her very own office. The smile that crossed her face was hard to contain. The desk was a new addition, a gift from her friend Sarah, who was cleaning out her house in preparation to move to a larger one now that she was pregnant with her fourth child. Also on the desk was another gift from the wonderfully supportive Sarah: twenty business cards neatly tucked into a small wooden tray. In the center of the cards, it read “Mary Handley—Consulting Detective” and on the bottom left corner was her business address. The title of consulting detective was a private joke between Sarah and Mary. Sarah knew of Mary’s admiration for the new series of novels about a detective called Sherlock Holmes. Holmes had labeled himself a consulting detective, so Sarah had been referring to Mary as one. The business address was the address of Lazlo’s Books, the bookstore in which Mary worked about five blocks from her tenement apartment on Elizabeth Street in Brooklyn. Her office was situated in the back, in what had previously been a storage room. Mr. Lazlo, the Lazlo of Lazlo’s Books, had provided her unlimited use of the space along with a small filing cabinet, two chairs, and a kerosene lamp. The desk was the finishing touch and she now had everything she needed, except for cases.

After Mary had so spectacularly solved the Goodrich murder as an outside hire for the Brooklyn Police Department, her expectations for continuing the detective work she loved were high. That had been a good year and a half earlier. Unfortunately, police departments were still not officially hiring women, and except for one case that had sent her briefly to Chicago, gender apparently outweighed competence when it came to hiring private investigators. Since eating was an essential bodily need, a few months after the Goodrich case she had procured a job as a salesclerk at Lazlo’s Books, where Mr. Lazlo believed her notoriety as a woman who had solved a sensational murder case would draw curiosity seekers to buy his books.

“Do you really believe the type of person who might come to gape at me actually reads?” Mary had asked in her usual blatant manner when Lazlo had interviewed her for the job.

“Possibly not, but wouldn’t it be grand if it were so, and we played a part in elevating someone’s intellectual pursuits?” Lazlo crinkled his forehead, a habit he had when musing on a subject he deemed worthwhile. In his midfifties, he still had a full crop of gray hair and was thin, his face accented with a bushy gray mustache. His creased brow gave him a professorial look. He liked that, and it was probably why the expression had become such a habit.

“I believe your goals are a bit too high, sir.”

“One must always aim high, Mary, or you’re left without an excuse for failure….And do call me Lazlo. I abhor formal titles like ‘sir.’ ”

Lazlo was very informal, especially with those whom he liked, and he had liked Mary from their very first meeting. With her thick blond hair, blue eyes, and pretty visage, he realized it would have been easy for her to sail through life relying on looks alone. But that was not Mary. He saw she had a certain intelligence and awareness that was rare in people of any gender or age. Their relationship from their first meeting had consisted of an intellectual sparring that eventually grew into mutual respect, their most oft-discussed topic being Lazlo’s hero, Benjamin Franklin.

“I don’t understand his appeal or why the man deserves such praise,” she had once told him.

“He was a modern-day Renaissance man. What more need be said than that?”

“That term has mistakenly become equated with brilliance. A more accurate description would be ‘jack of all trades, master of none,’ a phrase which I believe is in Mr. Franklin’s
Poor Richard’s Almanac
. Quite apropos, don’t you think?”

“Apropos for the uninformed. That term is not and has never been in Mr. Franklin’s book.”

Mary smiled, amused that Lazlo had caught her. She hadn’t believed what she said, but she couldn’t resist needling Lazlo about his idol. While working on the Goodrich murder case, she had learned from her interactions with Thomas Edison that idols could be very disappointing, and possibly even deadly if adoration obscured reason. Her conclusion was that they were good for inspiring people but unhealthy to meet. Of course, since Benjamin Franklin had been dead for a century, there was no danger of Lazlo ever meeting him, so their conversations were pure fun.

It had been five months since Mary had returned from her Chicago adventure. Lazlo had graciously given her the time off from work, voicing the hope that her solving a new case would attract even more customers. In reality, her success would have brought him an extra satisfaction that could not be counted in coin.

As far as adventures go, Chicago was a minor one. Mary had been hired by a woman to find her husband, who had disappeared in a torrential rainstorm. Her contention was that he had met with serious harm or foul play or both. She maintained he would have never disappeared on his own, not because of his love for her but rather for that of his dog, whom he had left behind and whom she loathed. When Mary found the husband and returned him to his wife, she discovered the dog was an elaborate ruse. He had no love for the animal; rather, his disappearing was his way of having her experience a taste of the misery she had fostered on him during their marriage. Mary left them trying to push the dog on each other in a twisted game of seeing who could make the other’s existence more wretched.

On the train ride back to New York, Mary had contemplated the nature of relationships. The Chicago couple did not have an arranged marriage, so at some point they had chosen one another. How did that love disappear and turn into such vehement antagonism? Had sexual attraction blinded them to their differences or could life somehow change people so drastically?

Either one or both,
she had thought,
possibly along with a lack of human perception
.

Now, as she stared at her pedestal desk, Mary’s eyes wandered to the business cards, and her sense of pride faded into disappointment. Sarah had given them to her on her twenty-fifth birthday.
That was nine months ago,
she thought,
and except for one card, they’re all still there
. She had given that one card to the couple in Chicago, though she really had no desire to hear from them again.

Two cases over two years were not a career but an avocation. She still had her reward money for solving the Goodrich murder. She had once considered using it to finance her way through medical school. As she was considering that once again, she was interrupted.

“This lady needs your assistance, Mary,” said Lazlo, standing in the doorway and indicating the woman next to him. She was about Mary’s age and had dark brown hair. She was also tall, big boned, and ungainly in a slightly stooped-over sort of way.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize the store was open. How may I help you?”

“The store isn’t open yet,” Lazlo replied with a twinkle in his eye, and then left Mary alone with the woman. The woman stepped further into the office and offered Mary her hand.

“I’m ever so pleased to meet you, Miss Handley,” she said in a thick Southern drawl. “My name is Emily Worsham.”

As they shook and Emily’s huge hand engulfed Mary’s, Mary couldn’t escape feeling a bit odd. She realized it was a stereotype, but that accent had always conjured up thoughts of dainty, delicate women. Emily Worsham was far from that.

“I’m pleased to meet you, too. How may I be of service to you, Miss Worsham?”

“I believe my uncle John Worsham was murdered, and I need you to prove it.”

Murder was never pleasant news, but Mary almost smiled as she handed Emily Worsham her card and they both sat, getting down to business.

C
OLLIS
H
UNTINGTON HATED
Saturdays. He used to love them. Saturdays had meant burying the competition and wooing politicians, all in his pursuit of accumulating more money than one human being could possibly spend in several lifetimes. Saturdays now meant currying favor with people he despised and from whom he knew he would never see a cent. He was sixty-eight, bald, and sported a full white beard, a constant reminder that he was too old for this type of nonsense. Huntington couldn’t have cared less about art and yet there he was at a board meeting of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He was also part of the committee to bring the 1892 International Exposition to New York and involved in countless other activities that he deemed boring and fruitless. The reason for his participation was simple. He was hell-bent on becoming a pillar of New York society, but not because he had any desire to rub noses with the insufferable hypocrites who populated it. It was because of Arabella.

Huntington was a master at business and had come a long way from his farm-boy roots in Connecticut, where his family lived on the edge of a swamp. Drawn by the California Gold Rush of 1849, he had the good sense to avoid the boom-or-bust mentality that went with panning for gold and established a successful hardware business in Sacramento. Using business ingenuity, political influence, and ruthless tactics, he eventually became the driving force behind the “Big Four”: Mark Hopkins, Leland Stanford, Charles Crocker, and Huntington. Due to his finagling, they had used mostly government grants and subsidies to build the Central Pacific Railroad, which was the western portion of the First Transcontinental Railroad. Needless to say, each of the Big Four had amassed millions. In business, Huntington was a force of nature. Grown men who had never feared anyone cowered before him. His fiercest competitors, forces in their own right, shuddered when they had to go up against him, but he was helpless when it came to Arabella.

Arabella was Huntington’s second wife and almost thirty years his junior. The new Mrs. Huntington was particular and demanding, yet he was completely smitten. He would move mountains to get her what she wanted, and she knew that.

Arabella had come from humble beginnings, a likely root of her desire for acceptance into the ranks of New York Society. Truth be told, she yearned to be the grand dame of New York society, but first, she and Huntington had to overcome the fact that neither of them had been born into it. It also didn’t help that rumors still persisted about their relationship having started before Huntington’s wife passed away. Add to that the fact that Huntington was perceived as being gruff and unmannerly, and they had a much higher hurdle to jump than most nouveau riche business tycoons who desired entry into “proper” social circles.

It’s the rare person who enjoys bootlicking, though, out of necessity, some are quite good at it. Huntington was terrible at it, and he had no desire to perfect that ability. On the occasions when he wanted something, he’d simply threaten reprisals or write a check. But entrance into New York society didn’t work that way. Writing a check to what was deemed a noble cause was a prerequisite, though donating time and moral support was considered more valuable. If Huntington’s name became associated with a cause célèbre of the elite that was triumphant, certain requirements for acceptance would be overlooked, and he’d get the admission ticket he was seeking.

Image was everything. Huntington saw it for what it was—insincere, superficial hogwash—but he had to comply if he was going to get his beloved Arabella what she wanted. For that, and for no other reason, as the board meeting adjourned, he put on his best forced smile and approached Andrew Haswell Green.

“Any news on consolidation, Andrew?”

“We’re running into the usual resistance. The Brooklyn Ring is spreading lies about us. It’s to be expected with these things, but combating it is costly.” The Brooklyn Ring was the name given to the political machine that ran Brooklyn. Brooklyn was a large city in its own right and not part of New York City. Green sincerely believed that consolidating New York and Brooklyn would be mutually beneficial for all concerned. For many reasons, however, not the least being their fear of losing their political clout, the Brooklyn Ring was against it.

“Don’t worry about the costs, Andrew. I’ll take care of that.”

“Your generosity is greatly appreciated, Collis, but you’ve already contributed so much of your time and money. I can’t help feeling we’re taking advantage of you.”

The next words were difficult for Huntington to utter, but he managed to get them out. “None of that’s important. What’s important is what’s good for New York and its people.”
And especially for Arabella.
“Anything I can do—it would be my pleasure.”

Green heartily shook Huntington’s hand, thanked him, and left. His wealth didn’t approach that of the New York elite, yet Green was a New York darling. He was the protégé of the late Samuel Tilden, who had been governor of New York and in a controversial election had barely lost to Rutherford B. Hayes for the presidency of the United States. Tilden had won the popular vote, but Hayes had won in the Electoral College. Together, Green and Tilden had staged a campaign to rid New York City of political corruption and successfully rooted Boss Tweed out of Tammany Hall and into jail. Green had also been the driving force on many projects to beautify New York and improve the lifestyle of its residents, including the creation of Central Park, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of Natural History, and many other projects that were in the works. Being associated with Green and his projects could get Arabella the status she craved whether others wanted them on their precious lists or not. Most important and frustrating to Huntington, Green was considered squeaky clean and untouchable. So Huntington had to be humble and ingratiate himself, two actions that made his skin crawl.

As Huntington turned to leave, he noticed three men conversing in a corner: Andrew Carnegie, John D. Rockefeller, and Cornelius Vanderbilt II. Carnegie, with his graying beard and receding hairline, was the eldest of the three at fifty-four. Rockefeller was fifty and had a dark mustache with closely cropped hair that was beginning to gray. That, coupled with his sharp features and conservative dress, often gave him a dour look. At forty-six, Vanderbilt still had his jet-black hair and was the most stylish of the three. He whispered something to the other two, then they glanced at Huntington, laughed, and returned to their conversation.

Huntington would not let this go unchallenged. Currying favor with Green was one thing, but these men played his kind of game, a game at which he considered himself a master. He approached them.

“Andy, John, Junior, glad to see you’re in good cheer.” Huntington was fully aware that Cornelius Vanderbilt II had been named after his grandfather and not his father, yet he insisted on calling him Junior because the name implied inheritance and lack of accomplishment. It also annoyed the hell out of Vanderbilt.

“Give my regards to the lovely Arabella,” said Carnegie. “She’s a fine woman, Collis. I’m sure even Elizabeth would have approved.”

Elizabeth was Huntington’s first wife. She had died of cancer a short nine months before Huntington married Arabella six years ago, and Carnegie was alluding to the rampant rumors of an affair, which continued to haunt Huntington and Arabella.

“And be sure to give my regards to Louise, Andy,” Huntington shot back at Carnegie. “I’m absolutely certain Margaret wouldn’t have approved.” Louise was Carnegie’s wife. Margaret was his mother, and it was well-known she didn’t want him to marry her. He didn’t get engaged until he was forty-five, and, the dutiful son that he was, he made Louise wait seven years until after his mother died for them to get married.
Two down, one to go,
thought Huntington.
You’re next, John. Come on, let’s have it.
He didn’t have to wait long.

“I can’t recall you ever being such an art connoisseur, Collis,” Rockefeller interjected. “It must be Arabella’s marvelous influence. I’m pleased to see she’s widening your horizons.”

Huntington knew what Rockefeller was implying, and it was spot-on. He wouldn’t have been there, doing everything against his nature, if it weren’t to please Arabella. Still, no matter how true, it was an assault on his manhood, and he couldn’t let Rockefeller get away with it. Besides, this was the only fun he had had all day.

“Believe it or not, John, sometimes an old dog can learn new tricks. Speaking of which, have you had any luck in finding a good maid for that lovely house of yours?”

Huntington was hitting Rockefeller on two levels, both having to do with his renowned frugality. It was widely known among the wealthy set that Rockefeller’s wife, Laura, was her own housekeeper, and that the Rockefellers maintained significantly fewer servants in the house than others with much less money. The Rockefellers claimed it was due to their spartan religious beliefs, but most believed Rockefeller was just cheap. Huntington had also previously owned Rockefeller’s mansion and had sold it to him. Rockefeller later discovered he had paid over market for the house. As a man who prided himself on knowing value and getting bargains, it irked him to no end that someone had gotten the best of him.

Confident that he had wiped the snide smirks off the three men’s faces, Huntington took his leave, now sporting a genuine smile. It had turned into a good day after all.

“
F
ROM WHAT LITTLE
I can recollect and from all accounts of my relatives, my uncle John—actually, he was my great-uncle—was no saint,” Emily Worsham told Mary. “Of course, there were reasons.”

“There always are for poor behavior,” Mary interjected. “Funny how people never cite reasons for behaving properly.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Emily Worsham responded, “though extenuating circumstances did exist. Richmond was destroyed during the war—”

“I take it you mean Richmond, Virginia?”

A tinge of hauteur crept into Emily Worsham’s voice. “Is there any other Richmond?”

“Yes—in Texas, Michigan, and California,” Mary replied in a matter-of-fact manner.

“My, you are a geographic wonder,” said Emily Worsham, genuinely impressed.

Mary laughed. “I read a lot. So, in the spirit of our discussion, can I also assume the war you mentioned is the Civil War?”

“You mean
the
war. It’s the only war where I come from.”

“I wanted to make sure. That was twenty-five years ago.”

“We’re still fighting it. Southern gentlemen call it the War of Northern Aggression, but most describe it in other terms a lady doesn’t repeat.”

“It was an awful war with tragedies on both sides.”

“We were cruel and moronic, and we deserved what we got. But you Northerners tend to overlook that there are Southerners who abhor slavery.”

“I never doubted that. Human beings are human beings, and in spite of Northern propaganda, logic alone dictates that there had to be a decent amount of people who opposed it.”

Mary could see that if she let this conversation continue the way it had so far, they’d soon be discussing the moon. That would be okay if that was where Uncle John was killed, but she highly doubted it.

“Though I am a history buff of the first order, we should return to your uncle John.”

“Yes, of course. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, getting sidetracked so.” Emily Worsham was suddenly filled with sadness. She pulled a handkerchief from her purse, wiped a tear that had emerged from the corner of her right eye, then continued getting sidetracked.

“I was only six years old when I last saw Uncle John, but I’ll never forget him. He was always so gentle with me, so kind. I had a very stressful childhood, Miss Handley. It’s not easy growing up in the South looking like I do.”

“Children can be very cruel, and you’re being much too hard on yourself.”

“Please, I came to terms with who I am many years ago.”

Mary sympathized with this woman, but she wanted to avoid any further digressions in order to get to the facts of the case. “So you haven’t seen your uncle in about twenty years?”

“Twenty-one to be exact.”

“How do you know for certain that he was murdered?”

“My uncle was a good faro player, and he opened a faro parlor in Richmond after the Civil War. A fairly successful one, too. Nearby, an Isabella Yarrington ran a boardinghouse of questionable repute. Even though Uncle John was well into his forties, he became infatuated with Isabella’s nineteen-year-old daughter. In no time, they were married, and she got pregnant. Uncle John moved the whole family, including Isabella and her other children, to New York City, where he bought a home large enough to house them all. It was there that his son, Archer, was born. Within a year, Uncle John was dead, and the Yarringtons had all his money and the house.”

“That’s a very compelling story, but, again, how do you know it was murder?”

“Everyone in Richmond knew the Yarringtons were social climbers, but it wasn’t until I was older that I heard about my uncle’s wife carrying on an affair with a much wealthier man. Divorce would have tainted her, and there was absolutely no chance my uncle would have given up his son. There was only one way out.” Emily Worsham sighed. “So there you have it. I can pay you two weeks in advance if you’re amenable to it.”