Brooklyn Graves (12 page)

I wondered if Dr. Flint would be happy—happier, anyway—if I could add some basic facts to the collection of Maude Cooper, who seemed increasingly like a friend. And it would be a good way to avoid tackling my dissertation chapter.

I knew there were some ways I could research the history of the house. Perhaps I could find the connection myself . It would help to know the name of the last owner—probably Bright Skye's recently deceased mother—and any other owners. Surely with enough digging, we could get the history of Maude's letters.

It was time to make a phone call.

Bright Skye answered in the same soft, tentative voice I remembered from the museum meeting. I explained who I was and told her we were making great progress on her found letters. I almost told her how wonderful they were, but a little voice stopped me. I had a feeling that maybe my superiors at the museum would prefer I not become too confiding. I simply asked if this would be a convenient time to ask a few questions. She said, “I don't know. Umm, you know I really don't know anything about all this?”

“I understood that from the meeting at the museum, but we are hoping you might be able to answer a few questions for background. We are puzzled about the connection between these letters, sent home to Illinois, and your family home in Brooklyn.”

“But I said I don't know anything.”

“You know,” I said, in as friendly a voice as I possessed, “doing research we often find that people know more than they think, they just don't recognize it as being important. Does that kind of make sense?”

“I suppose,” she said softly.

“So, could I ask you who was the last owner of the house?”

“That was my mother.”

“And you said the house was in your family for a long time. Did she grow up there?”

“Yes. I guess. I don't know much about this house.”

This was much harder than I thought it would be.

“Could you tell me her name…?”

“Ginny. It was Ginny Updike.”

“I believe you told us that was her family name. Was Ginny her name or a nickname?”

“Yes, her full name was Virginia. And Updike was her father's last name.”

Pulling hen's teeth had nothing on this. I made yet another stab at getting something useful.

“Was that her legal name when she passed on?”

“I don't know if it was and I don't care. She had a few. This is not a good time for me. Please leave me alone!”

Before I could get out “I'm sorry. When would be a better time?” she was gone and I was left holding a dead phone.

It annoyed me. My questions were so innocent, and I was hardly prying, considering that she had brought the material to us. What would happen if I just went over there in person? Surprise her, perhaps with a friendly gift in hand? I knew she was there because the phone number was a landline.

The address wasn't far, just a basic you-can't-get-there-from-here situation. Brooklyn started out as a collection of separate towns, and to this day, some of the geography makes no sense at all. Streets don't connect, or they change names when they cross a now-vanished village border. Streets could be the East or South or North version of the same numbers, and not be anywhere near each other, let alone connected. No choice; I would have to drive over. I scooped up my mail, which had just come through the mail slot in my door, grabbed my car keys, and headed out.

***

I soon found myself in a neighborhood I had not visited in some time. And I reacted as I did every time, with a “Toto, we're not in Brooklyn anymore.” In fact, I had spent my entire childhood in Brooklyn before I ever saw streets that looked just like Lady and the Tramp, or the illustrations in the Betsy-Tacy books. Who knew?

Even to my grown-up self, it looked like the enchanted but not exactly real world that Jack Finney used to describe so persuasively. Or the beginning of E. L. Doctorow's
Ragtime.
A world where houses have wide front porches with rattan furniture and someone is serving lemonade, where the sun is always shining and croquet is set up on the broad front lawn under the oak trees. And I could easily see my girl Maude Cooper walking down these streets, long swaying skirt and big hat, her head full of dreams and ambition.

Of course gritty old Coney Island Avenue was just a few blocks over and the little neighborhood main street was a mix of pizza slice shops, kebab counters, discount cosmetics, and a storefront shop proclaiming “We ship to the Caribbean,” all mixed up with a sprinkling of tiny, trendy boutiques and ambitious little restaurants.

A small playground had a sign about the farmer's market every Sunday; an elaborate mural on the side of a building portrayed a multi-racial, multi-costumed crowd of children and proclaimed Peace to All. So, after all, it was a living, breathing part of the twenty-first-century city and not Main Street in Disneyworld.

I parked on Skye's street and walked along checking for house numbers. I saw several gracious old houses that had fallen on hard times, like impoverished dowagers, and others in the throes of renovation. There was one with scaffolding along one side and with a sign on the front lawn that promised Expert Renovation by Rashid Construction, and another with the elegant wood trim meticulously decked out in four different colors. Very charming, very San Francisco, very, very expensive.

Even before I could see the house number, Skye's home stood out for me, and not in a good way. It was the shabbiest house on the block.

Chapter Ten

It had once been a crown jewel. That was obvious. There were brown and cream shingles in an elaborate design, a porch that wrapped around three sides, a round turret at one corner, strips of colored glass bordering the windows. Now the paint was faded and peeling, the spacious porch sagged, the shrubbery and flowerbeds had not been touched in many summers. Skye had said her mother had died recently. Perhaps old age or illness had forced her to let things go.

I went up the front steps with great care; there were boards missing. Where there should have been a doorbell, I found a tangle of naked wires, so I knocked on the door, softly at first and then authoritatively. I waited and then peeked in the window. In the dim light, I could just manage to see a spacious square front parlor, so different from my narrow tall house. There seemed to be wood paneling everywhere and an impressive staircase halfway back.

I knocked again and wondered if perhaps no one was there after all. Finally, a faint light went on inside, and I heard voices. Skye's face peered at me through the badly cracked glass in the front door, and then I heard the clicking of several locks being turned. Finally, the door opened, and Bright Skye was in front of me, looking unkempt and anxious, just as I remembered her from the museum meeting.

And she was standing squarely in the doorway, most definitely not welcoming me in.

“Miss Skye,” I said as mildly as I could, “it's Erica Donato. We spoke a little while ago and we met the day you brought your box of materials to the museum?” I ended on a tentative, upward lilt, like a teenager. I felt it might seem reassuring, since she appeared bafflingly afraid of me.

She frowned and nodded. “Yes, but I told you, this is not a good time. I am quite busy.”

“I'm sorry if I'm being a nuisance, but I'm just desperate to get some more information before the boss comes back tomorrow.” True as far as it went, but by now, I was just plain curious. “And it's later than when we talked, so I hoped this might be a better time and I was in the neighborhood. I brought you a cake to apologize.” I handed it to her with a smile.

Her face lit up. It only lit up a little, but it was the most animation I had seen so far. Then the spark died away. “I'm a vegan.” She flicked a finger at the bakery label. “I'm pretty sure a commercial bakery uses all kind of products I never touch.” She looked somewhat confused as she added, “But thank you, anyway.”

This was going nowhere. Be bold. “Why not invite me in? If you are busy, perhaps I can be helpful. Maybe talking here will dig up memories to answer my questions.”

She gave a kind of gasp. “Oh, no, no, that is completely unnecessary. I have someone helping me here in the house and we are very busy. There is so much to do. I…I…trust her…can't have any more people confusing things. She—she knows a lot about old things and I don't know anything. She will help protect my interests.…

This was so much not making sense, I was beginning to feel like I was now in another, different country that also was not Brooklyn and more. More like the one you find through the looking glass.

“But I'm from the museum. Surely you are not afraid anyone there wants to cheat you? I mean, all we ever want to do is learn and educate.” I hoped, as I said it, that it was true. Museum curators could be pretty avid about a desirable object.

Skye's bulk filled the doorway, but I could just make out movement behind her. A vaguely familiar voice said, “Louise, maybe we should hear her out after all?” Then, to my astonishment, Mrs. Mercer appeared and Skye stepped back a little to make room for her.

“Why don't you come in, Ms. Donato?” She smiled pleasantly, and went on, “We met at Green-Wood the other day. Yes, I see you are surprised. I live next door, and I was a friend of Louise's—that is, Bright's—mother. Also I know antiques. So I am helping clean out the house.” She reached out for my cake box and added, “I've just put on the tea kettle so, Brighty, why don't we put this out along with your muffins?”

She led me through the spacious, shabby parlor I had glimpsed from the porch, the dining room behind it, with built-in china cabinets and elaborate wallpaper, now stained and peeling away from the walls, and into a full size, eat-in kitchen equipped with a chrome and plastic dinette set. It looked like a museum: Typical Kitchen, Circa 1935. The refrigerator reached my shoulder, the sink stood on legs, the narrow, mint-green enameled stove looked like something from a Norman Rockwell painting. I was fascinated and had to remind myself that walking around examining every single thing would be rude. More important, it was not likely to encourage Bright, or Louise, to talk to me. But I did want to.

Instead, I said, “What a charming kitchen.”

“Oh, pul—leeze. Even I know it's a dump. And I'm not into material things at all. My mom would have said my own place is a dump—thank the goddess she never saw my wood-burning stove!—but she would have liked to update this.” I nodded. I'd just been through a kitchen update myself.

“She just never had the money. Or the will. Or the guts. After a while I was gone, and I don't know which it was when she got older.”

“I would say,” Mrs. Mercer added, gently, “she was just overwhelmed by this house.”

“And now I am.” Bright looked glum. “Some of this junk might be valuable, which really would be goddess-sent, but I have no idea. Mrs. Mercer is helping…” She turned red, and stopped in mid-sentence.

Did I only imagine rage in Mrs. Mercer's well-bred face before it was gone and she said smoothly, “Yes, there are a few nice pieces of silver and china that might give Bright some much-needed cash. Sorry to say, but there's not much hope of a fortune here. Bit by bit, we are digging out what is not just family junk but so far, nothing worth much.” She shrugged. Then she put her teacup down on the table with a firm gesture and stood up, saying, “We must get back to work now.”

“But I was hoping to get a little more information about this house and those letters you brought to us. The connection is kind of a mystery, why the letters were here, and whatever we can learn about the person who wrote them. We need to know, just for scholarly purposes. They might turn out to be the real treasure from this house.”

Bright gave me a surprisingly shrewd look and said, “Maybe I'll be more interested in talking when I see some money. Maybe there's a private person who would have more to give me than a museum.” She shot a proud look at Mercer, and added, “I left home as soon as I could get away and found my perfect other life. Talking about this house won't nourish my inner being by a single crumb. You don't need to know any more.”

“But that's just what I've been saying. We do. We do need to know more.” It was hard to understand or accept that she was so unwilling to answer my innocent questions. “And with so much history accumulated here, it is just is not possible there is not one thing that would help us. You'd be surprised at what is helpful. Maybe I could work with you for a while? Look over what is here and kind of zoom in on papers from the right period?”

They looked horrified. Mercer was silent but Skye said, “I don't need any help from anyone but Amanda. She's done everything for me since I came back, I've known her my whole life, I know I can trust her. Things are different in Arizona where I live, but I know I can't trust anyone else in New York.”

She was holding the front door open by then. “Please just go. Go now.”

“Good bye, Ms. Donato,” Mercer said with a courtesy that seemed exaggerated. “I think Bright is saying clearly that there is nothing more for you to do here.”

I had no choice but to walk through the door. Mrs. Mercer followed and whispered quickly, “You have to forgive her. Poor child, she is just overwhelmed by her mother's death and all this work. I know she doesn't mean to be difficult. Please believe we have no problem with the museum. She is just letting off her anxiety, poor child.”

She gave me a wavering smile and then she was gone. The tantrum I felt like throwing would have been entirely inappropriate. Worse, I was sure it would be unproductive.

And then I stopped, still on the porch, because voices were coming from the other side of that door. I guessed they didn't realize how easily sounds came through the porch window with the broken glass.

“You almost gave it all away. Have you forgotten every single thing we talked about? Do you want them looking for a donation of every antique here?”

“I know, I know. I forget this is Brooklyn. Where I live people help each other out.”

“Well, don't do it again! You went to the museum before you talked to me. What were you thinking? They don't care about you; trust me, I know all about how they operate. Just because they don't buy and sell like dealers doesn't mean they wouldn't rob you blind.”

What? Had Mrs. Mercer just said two completely contradictory things in as many minutes? She looked like a sweet, eccentric old lady but it seemed she was playing one of us for a fool? But which one? And why in the world would she do that? None of it made any sense for now, but it would, I promised myself.

I would not forget this puzzle, but it was time to head to the museum. Flint would be in soon.

The moment I arrived, before I even had my jacket off, Ryan pounced. “He said to meet at the cemetery. He is fuming.”

“What? I could have gone there straight from home.”

“Listen.” He held phone up and hit a button.

“You and Ms. Donato meet me at Green-Wood entrance. I should be there in thirty minutes. I plan to give Nancy Reade a piece of my mind. My presentation was incomplete because of her foolishness. After that you will share your findings with me.”

“Why does he need us at Green-Wood for this?”

Ryan shrugged. “Reinforcements? Showing off? We're his posse?”

When he looked at me, we both started laughing and could barely stop. Dr. Flint and posse in the same sentence was a funny thought.

Dr. Flint was standing right at the entrance, looking tall, dapper, and irritated. He got into my car and without a word of greeting, pointed toward the administration building.

“Drive me over there. I have been up for many, many hours and I am not willing to lose a moment. We will surprise Nancy in her office.”

The security officer we had met previously was not about to allow us to waltz right in, but Flint made a call and handed the phone over to him. He nodded, wrote something down and pointed along the corridor.

“Turn right, third door on the left.”

Dr. Reade was standing up, smiling, hand out to Dr. Flint.

“Thomas, so nice to see you.”

Ryan and I stood behind Dr. Flint and exchanged glances. She could not possibly be sincere but I was fascinated by her smoothness under pressure. I could learn by watching a pro in action.

Perhaps I was kidding myself when I thought I saw uneasiness in her eyes. Nevertheless, they shook hands before Flint started. “Nancy, I have a bone to pick with you.”

“Now Thomas, you know you get too upset. What could possibly be such a big problem you came in with no…” I thought for sure she would say warning, but she said “appointment.”

“Did we have a meeting I have forgotten about?” she continued. “I think not.”

“Nancy, Nancy. After all this time and our history, you should know you can't tell me a tall tale. I needed something from you, something very simple, and yet you couldn't come through.” He was not smiling. “How in the world can you explain this?”

“Ah. Well, Thomas. I don't know that I have to explain anything. I have always been happy to accommodate you but right now it is just not possible.” The smile was slipping. “I had direction from my own bosses.”

“But you don't have a boss…”

“Of course I do. I report to the trustees.”

“That high up?” He had a gleam in his eyes. Then he looked right back at her and tried another approach. Clearly this was a man who did not accept no. “I'm the reason you have this job. My recommendation and my introduction to the right people…”

“Oh, nonsense. Yes, it helped, I suppose, but I earned this! I'd like you to leave. I have an important meeting, a genuinely important one, about five minutes ago.”

Flint folded his arms. “You can't keep secrets in a large organization. In fact, there is already gossip out there on these Google places.”

I turned to Ryan and mouthed the words, “He knows about Google?” I was even more surprised when Ryan turned red.

“How do you know that?” Her smile was completely gone now, and her poised shell was cracking.

“Someone showed it to me, of course. Ryan, that phone blog. Show her.”

That explained a few things.

She glanced at it. “Oh, that annoying young man. Yes, he has been sniffing around, but if you had read it you would know he has nothing say. It's all out of thin air.” Her confident words did not match her pale face and grim expression but she said, briskly, “I have to say good-bye for now.” She was ushering us to the door. “Thomas, I'm sorry I could not be more helpful. I'll certainly let you know when we are back to normal and you'll be more than welcome then.”

“Was there a robbery here?” I don't know who was most surprised when those words came out of my mouth. It might have been me.

Three people were staring at me now. I felt like a zoo animal in a cage. Dr. Reade was white. Dr. Flint looked astonished but also calculating. Ryan was just confused.

I reached in my bag, my hands shaking, and pulled out Leary's stories.

“A friend, a former reporter, sent me these. I glanced at them while we were waiting at the reception desk.” My voice hardened. “It was a long time ago, but there were windows stolen here and at other old cemeteries. You said there was an accident but I asked. I asked around.” I turned to Dr. Flint. “I tried to find out if there was a big window-repair job from here. There isn't even a whisper of one. And it is a Tiffany window, it must have some market value.…” My voice trailed off.