Brooklyn on Fire (15 page)

“George, maybe we should get rooms that are a little…less elaborate.”

“Why?”

He had a good point, and Mary didn’t have an answer. The rooms were there, George had the money, and the gesture wouldn’t correct any of the world’s wrongs. So she decided to drop the subject altogether.

It had always been a mystery to Mary how some restaurants stayed afloat while employing some of the worst business practices known to man. Such was the case with the restaurant at the Ballard House. That evening she and George were standing at the entrance waiting to be seated for almost ten minutes while more than half of the tables were empty.

“Is this what they call Southern hospitality?” Mary quipped.

“It’s just good old-fashioned incompetence.” George explained that he had been to the South many times and assured Mary that this restaurant was the exception rather than the norm.

It was at this point that a middle-aged, obsequious-looking man approached them.

“Excuse me for intruding, madam, but are you Mary Handley?”

“Yes, and to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“I understand you’ve been inquiring about John Worsham. I have some information that I believe would interest you.”

“Really?”

The man looked around uncomfortably but said nothing.

“All right,” said Mary, “I will formally ask then. What sort of information do you have, sir?”

“Sorry, I misspoke. I personally don’t have the information, but I know someone who does and I was asked to arrange a meeting. He’s just a short walk from here.”

“The way things are going here,” said George as he nodded toward the dining room, “we could go meet this man and be back before they even think about seating us for dinner.”

“I don’t mean any offense, sir,” interjected the man, “but I was asked to retrieve only Miss Handley.”

“Then fortune has smiled upon you,” responded George. “You’ve lucked into a twofer.”

Mary chimed in. “Mr. Vanderbilt is my trusty assistant. I go everywhere with him.”

“Yes, and I’m sure Mr. Vanderbilt is extremely competent. By the way, are you—”

“Yes, I’m one of those Vanderbilts.”

“How positively fortunate,” the man responded while laughing self-consciously. “For you, that is. I mean, why would it be fortunate for me?”

“Well then,” said George, “let’s go see your friend or associate or whoever the purveyor of this information is.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist—only Miss Handley.”

George was about to protest when Mary stepped in. “Excuse us for a moment, will you?” The man nodded; Mary took George aside and spoke in a low voice.

“I can handle this. He’s harmless.” They glanced at the man, who shrugged nervously.

“I’m not worried about him. I’m more concerned with whomever engaged him.”

“Have I told you how schooled I am in the arts of self-defense?”

“Yes, ad nauseam.”

“Why, George, has the bloom come off the rose? Have I been boring you?”

“Never, but you must admit it’s a bit off-putting to discover that your lady friend has the ability to thump you at her will.”

His comment made Mary laugh, and he joined in. Then she put her hand to his cheek. “Do me a favor and stay here. If they do indeed seat you, have a glass of wine. I’ll be back shortly.”

George was concerned, but he also knew how bullheaded Mary was. He was watching her leave with the man when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Their table was ready.

Mary and the man walked in silence. A little more than a block from the hotel she broke it. “You said it was a short walk. How much farther are we going?”

“Not far, another block or two.”

“Don’t you think it’s about time you told me your name?”

“Oh, didn’t I? I’m awfully sorry. Jeremy. We turn here on Twelfth Street, and it’s about halfway up.”

They hadn’t gone far up the block when a man jumped out of a doorway, surprising Mary and grabbing her from behind. He was average height but lean and sinewy. Mary could feel the hardness of his bicep as he wrapped his arm around her neck and squeezed.

Jeremy screamed, “Oh, my God!”

“Forget about John Worsham and go home,” the man whispered intensely to Mary.

“Worsham?” Mary asked in a cracked voice, the pressure to her neck showing.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know a John Worsham. I’m looking into the death of John Gorsham.”

“Gorsham?”

“Yes, the plumber.”

Surely Mary’s ruse would have been quickly found out, but it gave her attacker just enough pause to slightly loosen his grip on her neck. That was all she needed. She gave him a quick, hard shot to the ribs with her elbow that caused him to grunt and allowed her to get free. Then, using her considerable jujitsu skills, she grabbed his right arm and flipped him over her shoulder, sending him crashing to the pavement. He looked stunned.

Jeremy looked even more stunned, and he backed away a bit.

“Congratulations,” Mary said to her attacker. “All by yourself you’ve lowered the average intelligence level of the everyday hoodlum.”

“Huh?” he replied, still recovering from her nasty surprise.

“Translation: you’re an idiot.”

He charged at her again. She flipped him again, slamming him against the pavement even harder and clearly giving him the message that the first time was no fluke. It was time to try a different tack. The man jumped to his feet, pulling out a small pistol.

Mary wasn’t surprised. She was ready. Before he could even straighten his hand and shoot, she elbowed him in the stomach and grabbed his gun hand, twisting until the gun dropped. She then quickly picked it up and pressed it hard into his crotch area. He immediately stopped resisting and stood absolutely still.

“I’ll give you one chance to tell me who hired you, or your privates will be blown into little pieces. Of course, judging from the probe of this pistol, that would be a very tiny loss.”

The man wasted no time in pointing to Jeremy. “He said it would be an easy job.” He then addressed Jeremy. “Does this look easy, you prick?”

Mary looked toward Jeremy, whose eyes were filled with fear. He had just seen Mary pummel a man who could easily pound him. Mary turned to her attacker.

“Get out of here,” she ordered him, and she kept the gun as he scrambled off, grateful all his body parts were still intact.

Jeremy turned and ran too, clearly panicked. Mary kicked off her shoes and took off after him.

Jeremy wasn’t the least bit athletic. She caught up to him in seconds and, still holding the pistol, leapt onto his back. The two of them crashed to the cement, Jeremy taking the brunt of the fall. Mary pressed the pistol to his head.

“I need to know why you did this, and I need to know now.”

Jeremy instantly capitulated and agreed to take her to a man who would explain everything. Mary had a choice. She could go with him alone or march him back to the hotel to get George. George was very protective, and he might insist on calling the police, which would only delay the process and possibly scare off Jeremy’s partner when he didn’t return immediately. Besides, having George with her would constantly divert her attention, because she’d be concerned about his getting hurt. After all, even by his own admission, he wasn’t as skilled at combat as she was. Mary now had a gun, and she had easily dispatched Jeremy’s professional hire, so she felt confident she could handle anything that might arise. Jeremy had a small horse and buggy, and she left with him.

Mary had her pistol trained on Jeremy as they drove a short distance out of town. It was just a precaution. There was little chance of his trying anything since he knew she could easily take him. Soon, they arrived at a little cottage with a sizable front porch on the edge of a wooded area surrounded by mulberry and black walnut trees. They dismounted from the buggy, and with Jeremy hesitantly leading the way and Mary following with her recently acquired pistol, they entered the cottage.

It was a comfortably furnished place, not flashy but substantial, and consisted of a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, and two bedrooms. Jeremy led her to one of the bedrooms. Inside was an elderly man under the covers of his bed, propped up against pillows and reading a newspaper by the light of a kerosene lamp. He immediately tensed.

“Jeremy, what is the meaning of this?”

“I apologize, Father, but I had no choice. I’d like you to meet Mary Handley.”

The old man looked at Mary and suddenly the tension drained from his body, replaced by a combination of wiliness and gamesmanship. “So this is the infamous Mary Handley.”

“Maybe not infamous,” responded Mary, “but at least known. Who are you?”

“I thought you’d know by now. I, my dear young lady, am John Worsham.”

Mary was taken aback. He looked awfully good for a man who’d been dead for over a decade, and possibly two.

T
HE MAN WHO
said he was John Worsham was very unhappy with his son Jeremy.

“I told you to discourage her, not to kill her!”

“But, Father—”

“You’re forty-three years old, Jeremy. When will you learn to think properly? You have absolutely no common sense. Zero.”

“I was thinking properly, but the man I hired wasn’t.”

“I should have known. Incompetents hire incompetents.”

“Father—”

“Go! And pray that this lovely lady doesn’t press charges.”

With a pained look on his face Jeremy turned toward Mary, as if asking for a reprieve. He received none and left the room moping like a wounded puppy, a forty-three-year-old wounded puppy. Alone with Mary, John Worsham’s demeanor changed to that of the ultimate Southern gentleman.

“I’m sorry, Miss Handley. The world is full of morons, but it’s especially disheartening when one of them is your son.”

“Then you’ll understand that in order to avoid also being one, I need proof that you are indeed John Worsham. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble and experienced too much misinformation to just take your word for it.”

He smiled. It was a somewhat crafty look. “I’m impressed. I wouldn’t trust me either.” He opened a drawer of his night table, removed a piece of paper, and held it out for Mary to inspect. “I always keep this handy in case I have to make a quick exit.” It was John Worsham’s birth certificate.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Mary informed him. “Birth certificates didn’t become part of government records until many years after you were born, and this could easily have been forged.”

“Good point,” he said, strangely enjoying himself. He got out of bed and walked over to his dresser, opened the top drawer, and started digging inside. Mary made sure she had her pistol ready in case what he removed was a weapon. Instead, he pulled out a photograph, gave it to her, and got back into bed. Mary looked at it. It was a twenty-year-old photograph of Arabella Huntington, whose married name was Worsham at that time, holding a baby who was most probably Archer. Next to them, with his arm around Arabella, was a man who looked very much like a younger version of the man lying on the bed before her at that moment. Mary was convinced.

“How is Archer, by the way?” John Worsham asked. “He was an adorable baby boy, you know.”

“He’d be much better off if he knew his father was alive, and he could have his first conversation with him.”

“Unfortunately, I won’t be around for much longer. Advancing age has finally caught up with this ol’ warrior. I’m sixty-nine, and the doctors say I won’t make it to seventy. Weak heart.”

If he was looking for sympathy, he wasn’t going to get it from Mary. This man had abandoned his paternal responsibility and, intentionally or not, almost had her killed.

“You were already buried twice for a weak heart. You know what they say—third time’s a charm.”

Instead of being upset or insulted, John Worsham let out a loud laugh. It was a roar. “God, I wish I was younger! I’d have had so much fun flirting with you.” Then he started to wheeze and seemed short of breath.

“Are you all right, Mr. Worsham?”

It was a brief episode. The wheezing passed, and he started breathing normally.

“I apologize. I periodically get these infernal bouts. They’re so terribly inconvenient.”

“Maybe we need to go at an easier pace. I’ve been trying to autopsy your body for a while now, but I prefer not to do it here, alone.”

“An excellent idea. Let restraint rule the day.”

“Good. Now maybe you can explain calmly why you faked your death twice over the past twenty years.”

“Ah hell, why not?” he said, then shrugged. “I’m not long for this world anyway.”

And John Worsham started telling Mary his story. It was essentially two separate stories, but he started with the first. He had been friendly with the Yarrington family. In fact, he had sent many customers from his faro parlor to their boardinghouse.

“I’m not sure if you know what went on at the Yarringtons’—”

“I’ve been apprised.”

He nodded, then continued. They had a business arrangement where he received a percentage for his referrals. He was married with children, a son and a daughter, not that it would have made a difference to Arabella, but she was never really interested in him.

“She was focused on landing a bigger fish, and the one she reeled in was a whopper.”

The whopper was Collis Huntington, who had often come to Richmond on business and whom Worsham had referred to the Yarringtons. One day, back in 1869, Worsham was called to the boardinghouse and was shuttled into a room with Huntington and Arabella. They informed him that Arabella was pregnant with Huntington’s child. They had already planned their move to New York, and this provided a new complication. Huntington was married and refused to subject his wife to the type of scandal this situation would most certainly bring. Though he didn’t love her anymore, his wife had staked him to his start and he felt a strong loyalty to her. Besides, she was sickly, and he didn’t expect her to be around much longer.

“I heard she hung on for another fourteen years. That must’ve driven ol’ Collis and Arabella insane.” He laughed but stifled it before he experienced another coughing bout, then continued his story.

They had decided that Arabella would give birth in Richmond before relocating to New York. Huntington offered to pay Worsham a very generous sum of money to go to New York with them for a year. He’d parade around as Arabella’s husband and the father of their child, establishing Arabella as a married woman, and even more importantly, making Archer seem legitimate and not a bastard.

“It makes sense,” Mary reasoned. “Having a bastard or being one can make you a social pariah, and that’s the exact opposite of what Arabella desires for herself and her son.”

“From prostitute to New York royalty; that ascent was always in Arabella’s mind,” Worsham said. “Anyhow, after a year, they faked my death and I was free to return to Richmond and to my family. Of course, I had to promise to stay quiet about the arrangement.” Worsham looked up at Mary and smiled. “It was too good of an offer to refuse.”

“What about your family? Surely, they—”

“Back then it was normal for me to disappear on business trips for months at a time. So this one was a little longer, and I returned with a lot of money. They had no complaints.”

“It sounds like it made everyone happy.”

“I certainly was. So were Arabella and Collis. They even named their son after me, and I’m sure Archer is much quicker than my hopeless offspring.” He gestured to the door, obviously meaning Jeremy.

As far as the second death was concerned, he had gotten into trouble with some riverboat gangsters and needed to avoid them.

“It wasn’t so bad being isolated here when I was healthy. My wife died back in ’73. She was a big admirer of Henry David Thoreau. I finally took the time to read
Walden
and began to appreciate nature.”

If Worsham craved the activity of a town, Richmond was out of the question, but Ashland was reasonably close. His son and daughter had alternated bringing him supplies until his daughter moved to Georgia with her family and he was left with just Jeremy. For the last year, he had been mostly bedridden but still occasionally felt well enough to get out of the house.

While he spoke, Mary studied his face carefully. It had a long, full life written all over it. In his day, he must have been the type of man for whom the phrase “he could charm the skin off a snake” had been invented.

“Do you have any idea,” she asked, “why someone would hire a woman to impersonate your niece Emily and suggest you were murdered in 1870?”

“Not a clue. But I’m a small fish and I’ve been hiding out in the woods for twelve years. Can you imagine how many enemies Mr. Big Fish Collis Huntington has accumulated during his rise to the top? They’re probably standing in line to take him down.”

That was the part of the puzzle that Mary still had to figure out, along with who killed Abigail Corday and why. She was contemplating this as she bade John Worsham farewell, then found Jeremy sitting on the porch licking his wounds.

“Your father said for you to drive me back to the Ballard House.”

“Did he tell you everything?”

“It’s a secret, but it’s safe with me. Let’s go. I’m tired and George is waiting for me. He must be frantic by now.”

She stepped off the porch and headed for the buggy. Jeremy stood.

“He wouldn’t have divulged anything if he was feeling better. He’s not well, you know.”

“I know.”

Mary waved at him to follow her and kept walking. She was indeed tired, so tired that she missed catching the wild look Jeremy had in his eyes. He pulled a large pistol out of his coat, took aim, and fired.

The power of the bullet entering Mary’s back instantly propelled her forward and then down. She fell face-first, but by the time she hit the ground she didn’t feel a thing. She was already unconscious.