Brooklyn on Fire (17 page)

Still, he knew he would be brilliant. Abigail had done that for him. It was her parting gift.

A
NDREW
H
ASWELL
G
REEN
was in demand, and rightfully so. He was at a benefit for the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art, given on the twentieth anniversary of its founding. Since Green was the driving force behind the establishment of the museum, everyone wanted to speak with him, and conversely, he needed to speak with them. His consolidation project for New York and Brooklyn had stalled with the Huntington fiasco, and the Brooklyn propaganda machines were working overtime. He needed help.

The elite of New York were out in force: the Rockefellers, the Carnegies, the Vanderbilts, the Morgans, and many more. Thomas Edison had called in his regrets from New Jersey earlier that day. He said he would be working well into the night. His absence didn’t matter to Green. The turnout was large, and there were plenty of opportunities to garner support.

Green had been pressured not to invite the Huntingtons because of the scandalous speculation around the missing body of Arabella’s former husband. The gossip consensus was that Arabella had John Worsham killed and had disposed of the body in case evidence might arise later that would require an autopsy. There were other less popular theories, one involving bigamy and an even more outrageous one about John Worsham being a foreign spy who was called back to his country. The possibility of Archer’s illegitimacy had been bandied about, but it was far down on the list. Still, Green was adamant about inviting the Huntingtons. Asking Collis Huntington to step back from the consolidation project because of rumor and innuendo was hard enough to do. He found that aspect of politics distasteful but unfortunately necessary. He had observed that the Huntingtons were getting a polite but chilly reception, and it couldn’t have been comfortable for them. Of course, his own conversation with them was a bit awkward, but as far as he could tell, there didn’t seem to be any antagonism.

He had just completed a whirlwind of conversations, one right after another, and decided he was in dire need of a walk to clear his head. He excused himself from his current group and put his champagne glass on a passing waiter’s tray. He walked the length of the room, smiling and waving to others as he went, then turned down a corridor that headed toward the bathrooms. The bathrooms weren’t his destination; rather, it was the deserted corridor with its dim lighting and shadows, which he hoped would provide the solitude he needed to gather his thoughts.

Once safely away from the crowd, he stopped and leaned against a nearby wall. He felt some moisture dripping down his face. Was it sweat?
My goodness,
he thought,
I can’t let these people see me sweat or I won’t be able to raise a nickel
. He reached into the right outside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, where he always kept a handkerchief for such purposes. When he pulled it out, a small piece of paper floated to the floor. He didn’t remember having put the paper in his pocket, but maybe he had forgotten. He picked it up.

The paper read, “I know what you are, and I’m going to divulge it unless…” Green quickly turned the paper over, then back again, but there were no more words. His head was swimming, his heart pounding.

Questions shot through his mind.
What does this person know, who is he going to tell, and what does he want me to do?
Green knew a follow-up note with demands was surely forthcoming. This one was likely just a device to taunt him, and it was doing its job.

Green patted his forehead with his handkerchief, then returned it to the same pocket. He walked back down the corridor to the brink of the room where the benefit was being held, stopped, and surveyed the crowd. Everyone had something in his or her life that they didn’t want exposed, no matter how cleanly they had conducted themselves. Green was no exception. He had infinitely fewer demons than any of the people in that room, but he still had them.

He looked over the many faces, trying to figure out who could have had the opportunity to plant the slip of paper in his pocket. He quickly dismissed that as useless. He was so busy working the crowd there was no way he would have noticed a slight bump or rustling of his jacket.

While he was perusing the room, his gaze fell on Collis Huntington, and their eyes locked. Perfunctory waves and smiles followed, but before Huntington had turned away, Green could have sworn he had detected a knowing, almost sadistic smile on his face. Of course, Green realized it could have been his imagination playing tricks on him after receiving such a note, but it was certainly possible that Huntington wasn’t genuinely feeling as gracious as he had behaved when he so magnanimously ceded his involvement in the consolidation project. Green had heard about some of Huntington’s business methods and had witnessed him in action with McLaughlin. The idea that he might want to exact revenge wasn’t at all farfetched.

Nevertheless, Green was a lawyer, and he had spent his life dealing with hard facts. There were none yet. Nothing was certain except that he wasn’t going to sleep that night, or any other night, until he found out what the note was all about.

A
BIGAIL
C
ORDAY WAS
Shorty’s last job. It had been many weeks since, and he felt stale. This wasn’t a new occurrence. He had been through slow periods before and had learned how to stay sharp. The key had been in finding a way to keep his senses alive. It wasn’t easy. Picking random fights accomplished what he wanted for a while, but that had lost its luster. The problem was his work was the only thing that excited him, until one day he discovered something that was almost as stimulating.

Prostitutes made him feel alive. He didn’t exactly know why. It could have been the despair that drove them, or their total indifference. All he knew was that they solved his problem. And they didn’t have to be pretty. His one physical requirement was weight. He liked them heavy.

He found what he was looking for down by the Brooklyn docks in front of a pawnshop, ironically standing directly under the shop’s identifying sign, the one with three balls. She wasn’t as big as he liked them, but she was plump, heavily made up, and eager. They haggled over price briefly. The amount didn’t bother him. He just wanted to test her level of desperation. She passed.

She took Shorty to a flophouse nearby where rooms could be rented by the hour and where the management never questioned her “guests,” allowing them to be anonymous. Shorty waited in the shadows as she got the key. The room had an old rickety bed, a sink that had rusted, and a couple of thin towels, but it would do. The woman looked at Shorty.

“What do you like, darlin’?”

“Get undressed and lie down on your back.”

“Ooo, I love a man who knows what he wants.”

That excited Shorty, not because he was falling for her act, but rather because she was trying hard to please. As she undressed and plopped down on the bed, Shorty took off his shirt.

“Big muscles,” she said. “Sexy.”

Shorty was getting hard. He had been concerned about his choice because of her lack of girth, but she was more than making up for it.

He was the type of man who liked working from the bottom up. He started at her thighs, caressing and kissing. She began moaning with pleasure on the first caress. It was so outrageously phony he got harder.

“Oh, darlin’, I need you inside me. Take off those pants, I need you now.”

But Shorty wasn’t going to change his routine. In fact, with his mouth in her nether regions and his hands on her large breasts, he was wondering about something that had always perplexed him.
Would the size of her breasts shrink if she lost weight or would they stay the same?
He let it go and worked his mouth up to her breasts. When he got to her face and they were looking at each other eye to eye, she instantly stopped her moans of ecstasy.

“Kissing on the mouth is extra,” she said, businesslike.

“Sure. Anything you want.”

He slowly bent to kiss her, and just as she opened her mouth to receive him, he wrapped his hands around her neck and started to squeeze. Her surprised expression raised his desire to a new level. She began struggling, hitting at him and kicking her feet, which made him even more eager. He was a fan of Cuban habanera music, and he heard that repeated beat in his head as he pressed harder and she eventually succumbed to her inevitable death.

He rose from her body and looked down at his crotch, where he could feel the moisture from his ejaculation.
This was a good one,
he thought. His senses were pulsating, and he felt razor sharp.
I’m ready for what I have to do
.

As he put his shirt back on, he sneered at her dead, rotund body on the bed with her bulging eyes reflecting the shock of her last seconds on earth. He had made sure the manager didn’t see him, and he felt safe when he grabbed the two raggedy towels and took out some matches. He set the towels on fire, then threw them on the bed. Shorty watched as the flames grew, catching onto the dirty blanket and sheets. He waited until he could smell burning flesh, then hustled out as quickly as he could.

I
T WOULD BE
an understatement to say that Biltmore was impressive. It was truly magnificent. For a dream, it was developing into a wondrous reality. The main house was still being constructed, and George apologized that they had to stay in the guest quarters. As far as Mary was concerned, there was absolutely no need for an apology. The house that he called the “guest quarters” was three times larger than her parents’ abode and had infinitely more amenities. With its comfortable, tasteful furniture, its fine art and modern conveniences, Mary would have felt blessed to be able to live in such a place.

Because of her condition and the train ride, Mary needed a couple of days’ rest until they could start touring the property. And considering what she was about to see, Mary may have asked for more time. It was overwhelming.

The main house had been under construction for a year and was designed in the style of a French Renaissance château. George had hired famed architect Richard Morris Hunt and landscape designer Frederick Law Olmstead to make his dream a reality, and he told Mary it probably wouldn’t be completed for another five years. The plans called for thirty-five bedrooms, forty-three bathrooms, three kitchens, and sixty-five fireplaces. There were countless other areas, including a bowling alley, a gym, and an indoor swimming pool. The château would eventually cover over four full acres of floor space. He had even had three miles of railroad track constructed leading to his house from the main railroad line so that it would be easier to transport materials for its construction. The magnitude of it took Mary’s breath away.

In order to view the land, they needed a horse and buggy. George had already bought over eight thousand acres, and he intended to own over fifteen times that amount.

“Are you planning to create your own state?” Mary quipped.

“I had thought of that, but the name Georgia was already taken.”

“How about the District of Vanderbilt?”

“Ah, that has a nice sound. I’m already warming to it. And I think my first act as—”

“King?”

“I prefer governor.”

“Oh, how very democratic of you.”

“Yes, I thought so. Anyhow, my first act will be to pass a law. At Biltmore, there will be no hypocrisy and no snobbery.”

“Here, here,” said Mary, playing along.

“And there will be no prejudice against anyone because of race, creed, color, religion,
gender
”—he faced Mary, who nodded her approval—“or poverty. People will be free to choose how they live their lives as long as they’re not harming anyone.”

“What about the rich?”

“Doesn’t that last section cover it?”

“Hypothetically, but you may need some protection after the workers see how you’re living.” She pointed to the elaborate châteaus he was having built. Suddenly, George got serious.

“Mary, I’m painfully aware that the source of my wealth is my grandfather, who didn’t use the most ethical methods. And frankly, neither have his offspring. Here, I am trying to accomplish something that will benefit the land, the animals,
and
the workers, whom I am paying handsomely. That’s a far cry from my father, who is best remembered for his statement ‘The public be damned.’ ”

Mary could see he was hurt and immediately sought to remedy that. “I’m sorry, George. I was joking. I didn’t mean to—”

“My one vice is that I love beauty of all kinds and want to immerse myself in it. I’m fortunate to have the money for it, and that’s what I’m trying to do here. Does that violate the first law of Biltmore? Am I a hypocrite?” He looked at her, desperately wanting her respect.

“No,” Mary said as she gently put her hand to his cheek. “It makes you honest, and generous, and incredibly human.” She then kissed him tenderly on the lips.

As they toured the estate, the scope and beauty of what George was trying to accomplish took over. Mary found it awe inspiring.

He showed her the dairy, which was already working and where there were close to two hundred cows. Next was the horse barn, and there were further plans for poultry, swine, and sheep. What was probably most impressive to Mary was that all the animals seemed to be well taken care of and thriving. There were also gardens and nurseries. Olmstead had already designed an area for a forest where the trees would be well preserved. As they traveled over the property, a combination of flat land and rolling hills with spectacular views and a seemingly perfect climate, it occurred to Mary that George was building his own little Garden of Eden. Correction: not so little.

Because of Mary’s condition, George didn’t want to take a chance of tiring her out, so they took two days to see everything. He really wanted to do it in three days, but by the second day, Mary was feeling much better and prodded him to continue. That night, as they were sipping wine after finishing their sumptuous candlelit meal, she lowered her glass and looked straight at him.

“George, I think you’re marvelous.”

“That’s fortunate, because I think you’re marvelous, too.”

She rose, went to him, and sat on his lap as she kissed him more fervently than she had ever before. He put his arms around her and returned her ardor. She had untied his cravat and started to unbutton his shirt when George stopped her.

“I see where this is going, Mary, and I’m concerned.”

George was a true gentleman, and he was worried about her reputation. She found it touching.

“I’m the one who should be concerned, and I’m not. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.”

They made their way to her bedroom, which was, of course, the larger one. George had seen to that. As they undressed each other, he was careful of her wound, which endeared him to her even more.

Making love that night was a bit awkward at first, as it often can be when two people are feeling out each other’s preferences for the first time. Then it progressed to an ecstasy Mary had never felt before. She only had one person with whom to compare this experience, and that was Charles. He was possibly more experienced than George at lovemaking, but he was also more like a lost boy than he was a man. There was something fulfilling about being with a man who had purpose and a sense of self. George knew who he was. Most importantly, Mary adored who he was.

They spent three more blissful days enjoying Biltmore and each other. On the morning of the fourth day, Mary and George were still in bed when she turned to him.

“George,” she started, but he already knew what she was thinking.

“It’s time to go back. You need to find out who killed Abigail Corday and why.”

“I hope you don’t mind. I know she’s not really my client, but—”

“You’re you, and I love every part of you, even the part that’s going to drag us away from the happiest days of my life.”

“Really? I’ve felt the same way.”

“Good, then I will proceed.” He turned, and now they were both on their sides facing each other. She thought he wanted to make love again, which was perfectly fine with her. Instead, he got very serious.

“Mary Handley, will you do me the supreme honor of becoming my wife?”

Mary took a moment to process his words, then replied, “If this is some misguided, gentlemanly attempt to make an honest woman out of me, it’s not necessary.”

“I know that.”

His words sent Mary’s head spinning. She found it hard to accept his proposal at face value. It might just have been that happiness had eluded her for so long that she couldn’t recognize it when it was in front of her.

“George, we’ve only known each other for a relatively short time, and what you think is love may just be a temporary infatuation. So I suggest—”

He gently put his two fingers on her lips to quiet her. “As a celebrated lady detective once told me, I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.”

Mary studied his face. There was no doubt he was being earnest. She was convinced. And ecstatic.

She sat up in bed. “George Vanderbilt, I want you to know that I am now officially consenting to your proposal, but only under the condition that you agree to one caveat. You must accept”—she interrupted her speech to lie down next to him again, warmly looking into his eyes—“that I am simply mad about you.”

The two of them kissed, and, naturally, made love again, which they found to be an infinitely more satisfying way to complete a deal than signing a contract. They spent the rest of the day enjoying Biltmore and each other before leaving the next day for New York.

When they arrived at Grand Central Depot and were disembarking the train, Mary spotted her mother waiting for them. Before they left, she had sent Elizabeth a telegram to explain that they had gone to Biltmore and were on their way home, so that she wouldn’t worry about her being gone so long. She had conveniently omitted that she had been shot but did mention that she had a surprise for her.

“Mother,” Mary exclaimed, “you didn’t have to meet our train. The surprise could have waited until I came to the house.”

Elizabeth was desperately trying to put up a good front, but her face betrayed her. This had nothing to do with her surprise. Whatever it was, it was grim.

“We need your help, Mary,” she said, quivering. “Sean’s been arrested. They say he murdered Patti.”

Abandoning any attempt at pretense, she crumpled into Mary’s arms, crying.