Brooklyn on Fire (9 page)

A
BIGAIL’S AND
R
OBERT’S
auditions were at the Thalia Theatre in lower Manhattan. At one point it had been called the Bowery Theatre, but the name was changed in 1879 when new ownership took over. They were German and had produced mostly German plays. A change in strategy had prompted them to hire a new artistic director who wanted to return the Thalia to its heyday when it was established in 1826 by the Astor family. The artistic director—a distant relative of Andrew Carnegie’s wife, Louise—thought he could revive the theater with one successful play and boost his career in the process. For that reason, he had chosen
A Doll’s House
. It was a critical favorite, and a great production would attract New York’s elite, helping the theater regain its popularity among “those who mattered.”

Abigail and Robert requested to be audition partners, and the casting director saw no problem with that. They were both unknown and likely to stay that way after the audition. When they were called onstage, the artistic director, who was also directing the play, took notice. The actress looked exactly the way he had envisioned Nora. She dressed like her and even walked like her.
Now, if she could only act,
he thought.

When their scene started, the director became entranced.
This girl is good,
he thought,
very good
. He got up from his seat in the audience and moved a few rows closer to the stage. He needed to be sure. When the scene was over, he asked them to do another scene, and then another. It didn’t change his opinion one iota. In fact, she got better with each scene. He finally returned to his original seat and, holding up a piece of paper, asked the actress to step forward.

“What’s your name, dear? It’s not on your résumé.”

“My name is Nora Helmer,” Abigail responded as if it were obvious.

The director chuckled. He had heard of this new brand of actor who “lived the character.” He had been to Rome, where he had witnessed the great Italian actor Tommaso Salvini mesmerize audiences with his brilliant and very real performance in
Othello
.

This is what this theater needs to make a real splash,
he thought,
a fresh approach
. Little did he know that Abigail was more than fresh. She was at best deluded and quite possibly insane.

“
F
IRST
T
HOMAS
E
DISON
and J. P. Morgan,” Superintendent Campbell had said in his carriage, referring to suspects in the Goodrich case. “And now Collis Huntington. Mary, can’t you go after someone less powerful, like possibly the president of the United States?”

“I’m not going after Collis Huntington. I’m just digging up the body of his wife’s first husband. He likely has nothing to fear.”

“Collis Huntington never fears anything or anyone. But you’re leaving something out. Is it Arabella?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Longfellow! You’re using a Longfellow quote to avoid my question?”

“Truthfully, that’s not an exact quote…but it is close.”

His subsequent look had told her it was time for her to stop dancing around the subject.

“If John Worsham met an untimely death, the most obvious suspect would be—”

“Arabella.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t think Collis Huntington will do everything within his power to protect her, which might involve destroying you?”

“Chief, by now you must know that I refuse to be bullied, no matter how much money or bite an individual has. And Collis Huntington is no exception.”

“Did you ever consider what he might do to me?”

“I’ve never seen you back down from a fight, but there’s always a first time.”

“Nice attempt, Mary, but do you really think that kind of psychological claptrap will work on me?”

“No, but I know you too well to think you’re actually concerned. Besides, we don’t yet know if there’s a problem with Worsham’s death. Odds are, there won’t be, or at least not anything we can prove.”

“Maybe not, but I want to be there if there is. You may need protection, and besides, the fireworks will be spectacular.”

Mary had seen the little glint in his eye before, and she now knew for sure he was enjoying this break from the monotony of his job.

It was time. The cemetery workers were now hauling the casket out of its hole. Mary and Superintendent Campbell could both see Archer tensing.

“No point in fretting, son,” Superintendent Campbell said, trying to calm him. “As the Spanish saying goes,
Que será será
—what will be, will be.”

“Actually, Chief,” Mary chimed in, “that phrase was made up by the English.”

“And,” added Archer, “the Spanish version is grammatically incorrect.”

Superintendent Campbell grimaced. “Then fret away. Are you two satisfied now?”

His comment cut the tension in the air. Mary and Archer laughed, and even Superintendent Campbell, who rarely allowed himself that type of release, smiled. But the humor was short-lived, cut by the arrival of a very distressed Arabella Huntington.

“What is the meaning of this, Archer?”

“Mother, what are you doing here?”

“I received a phone call from the coroner’s office, apparently for you, saying they’d be a little late to the cemetery to collect the body.”

“Please understand. I just want to know what happened to Father. Is that so awful?”

“I’ve told you a million times what happened to him. He had a heart attack. And this won’t bring him back!” She then turned to Mary. “This is your doing, Miss Handley. Archer’s a very impressionable young man, and you took advantage. Shame on you!”

Archer started to defend Mary and take responsibility, but his mother quickly put up her hand to shush him and turned to Superintendent Campbell. “I must say I’m surprised to see you here, Patrick. I shall mention your lack of discretion to Mayor Chapin the next time we have dinner.” Both Superintendent Campbell and Arabella knew her threat was a hollow one. Mayor Chapin was McLaughlin’s man, and she had absolutely no sway there. Arabella then turned her attention to the cemetery workers.

“I demand that you put that casket back in the ground this moment. Do as I say, and do it now!” She stepped closer to them, hoping her proximity would intimidate them enough to make them do her bidding.

But the men were Italian immigrants who only spoke a few words of English and didn’t know this woman. They did know what their boss had told them to do, and so they followed his orders: they opened the coffin. Mary rushed over to have a look. If Arabella Huntington succeeded in returning John Worsham and his coffin to the ground without his being examined, she wanted to at least see the condition of the body. But that would not be.

“It’s empty!” Mary exclaimed.

“What?!” screamed Archer as he ran over to look. “There’s nothing but rocks in here. Someone stole my father’s body!”

It was fortunate that Superintendent Campbell also came to look. It enabled him to catch Arabella Huntington as she fainted into his arms.

D
ESPITE THE BIZARRE
turn of events in the cemetery, Mary had been looking forward to her dinner that night with George Vanderbilt. He was attractive and charming and even seemed to share the same sensibilities as her. She wanted to get to know him better. So, after they had revived Arabella Huntington and once Archer had calmed down, Mary had a brief discussion with Superintendent Campbell, then went home to change in order to meet George at the prestigious Hoffman House in Madison Square. As they sat down at a well-positioned table next to a picture window, the conversation immediately veered from the beautiful eleventh-floor view.

“So, I understand you had an interesting day,” George intimated with a sly smile.

“Have you been spying on me, George?” Mary responded with a decidedly light touch.

“I didn’t know you’d tolerate that, but I’d love to.”

“I’m not sure if I’d tolerate it…yet,” Mary coyly responded. “But what
do
you know about my day?”

“Let’s just say a certain individual, a very cold, very deceased one, has mysteriously disappeared.”

“How did you find out?” asked Mary, surprised that he already knew.

“You must understand that we are a small, yet very influential, community.”

“By ‘we,’ do you mean the absurdly rich?”

“You left out pampered, a very important ingredient.”

Mary laughed. She was glad to see George had a sense of humor about himself.

“And because we are who we are,” George continued, “people like to pass on information on the off chance that at some point in the future they might reap benefits.”

“And when one of you finds out—”

“Exactly. It spreads like wildfire.”

“So Arabella Huntington wasn’t exaggerating when she claimed that if we exhumed the body, gossipmongers would appear on every corner?”

“Not on every corner, just on any corner she would ever consider populating.”

“And it’s my fault.” Mary paused, letting the result of her actions sink in. If John Worsham had been murdered, Arabella Huntington would certainly be a prime suspect, but there was no proof yet, and she might have been suffering needlessly.

“What else could you have done? It was your job, Mary.”

“That’s true, but I don’t like what it has wrought. I need to find that body and finish the job I started. That’s the only way this mess can be cleaned up.”

“Of course, you realize that may not ‘clean up’ anything? Let’s say you discover Worsham was murdered. It’s been many years, and it might be hard to prove who did it.”

“And Arabella Huntington will live with the taint of tasteless gossip for the rest of her life.”

“Precisely.”

“Then we must get at the complete truth in order to dispense with all the idle chatter.”

“I was hoping you’d say something like that. Can I be your assistant?”

“I can’t afford an assistant, George. I can barely afford fare for the streetcar.”

“Problem solved. I don’t require a salary, and we can use my carriage.”

As Mary mulled over George’s outrageous yet somehow tempting proposal, they were interrupted by a visitor to their table: Andrew Carnegie.

“Hello, George, good to see you,” Carnegie said in a very friendly tone.

George immediately rose and shook his hand. “Good to see you, too, Mr. Carnegie. I’d like to present to you—”

“No need at all, George. I’d recognize Miss Handley anywhere.”

Mary immediately responded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“The pleasure is all mine. I was a big fan of yours during the Goodrich case. So pleased when you nabbed the culprit.”

“And I had thought my notoriety had vanished.”

“Nonsense,” Carnegie declared. “And after today’s events, well, it will only grow.”

There was no mistaking Carnegie’s delight in the Huntingtons’ unfortunate circumstances. Mary didn’t care if he was Andrew Carnegie; he was exhibiting poor form, and she was about to let him know it as only Mary could. George sensed her disapproval and was quick to make a preemptive move.

“Thanks so much for stopping by to say hello, Mr. Carnegie.”

“Please, George. Louise and I were dining with John and Laura,” Carnegie said, indicating a table where his wife was sitting with John D. Rockefeller and his wife. “What would your family think if I didn’t at least come over and say hello? And besides, you
are
with the celebrity of the day.” He motioned toward Mary. “Nice to have met you, Miss Handley.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Mary replied with a tinge of sarcasm. Carnegie either didn’t catch it or chose not to, returning to his table with a grin.

“You didn’t have to shield me, George. I can hold my own.”

George sat down. “I assure you, Mary, you weren’t the one I was shielding.”

Mary laughed at the implication that Carnegie needed to be protected from
her,
a former sweatshop worker. She looked over at the Carnegies and Rockefellers, who were immersed in animated conversation with each other, taking an occasional glance in their direction. Mary turned to George in amazement. “Is everyone in the upper classes an incurable busybody?”

“I’m afraid they’ve spent so much time and effort acquiring their fortunes that they never had time for hobbies. Now that they’re flush and have an overabundance of leisure time, there’s not much for them to do besides give away their money and talk about each other.”

“If I weren’t aware of the ruthless methods they used to obtain their wealth, I might feel some sympathy for them.”

“That is exactly why I want no part of them or their businesses.”

“What is it you want to do, George, besides being my assistant, of course?”

And between ordering dinner, leisurely consuming it, and drinking fine wine, George told Mary about his life’s plan. His two passions were art and nature. He had already bought land in Asheville, North Carolina, where he was building a house. He had chosen Asheville for its wonderful climate, it being the perfect place for his mother to recoup from her bouts with chronic malaria. In the long term, he was going to gradually buy fine art to adorn the place, and then also, hopefully, purchase more land. His main purpose was to start a farm where he would employ the latest agricultural methods and the best breeding techniques, and, most importantly, adhere to the principles of the new science of ecology. He cared greatly about creating a place that was safe and healthy for both animals and the land. He loved trees, and he wanted to preserve forests.

“For every tree I’ve used in building my farm, I’ve planted two more and placed them in a protected area that will never be touched.”

“So,” Mary said, summing up George’s ambition, “you not only want to live in nature but also to improve it while being surrounded by art.”

“Well, not the sort of living in nature that implies tents and sleeping outdoors. That isn’t me. I’ll have all the comforts of a mansion on Fifth Avenue and more, including the extra perk of being without all the gossipmongers.”

“George Vanderbilt—country gentleman.” Mary smiled.

“You’re making fun,” he said, suddenly insecure. “Does it sound foolish?”

“Please excuse me, George. I have a tendency to joke sometimes instead of expressing real emotions. That’s my problem, not yours. And no, your plan doesn’t sound foolish. Quite to the contrary, it sounds…perfect.”

Mary reached over and touched his hand affectionately, and he looked back at her, relieved and grateful that she understood. That’s when she knew that, not then but someday, she and this very gentle man were going to fall in love.