Brooklyn Graves

by Triss Stein

  Brooklyn Graves

  An Erica Donato Mystery

  Triss Stein

  www.TrissStein.com

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2014 by Triss Stein

  First E-book Edition 2014

  ISBN: 9781615954711 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

  Poisoned Pen Press

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  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

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  Contents

  Brooklyn Graves

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Afterword

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Dedication

  For Miriam and Carolyn,

  who have grown up a lot faster than Chris.

  Acknowledgments

  Deepest thanks again to Mary Darby and Jane Olson, writing group partners and cheerleaders, and to Bob, as always.

  Chapter One

  The day my friend Dima was killed, I was thinking about Tiffany. Of course that was before I heard the dreadful news.

  Say Tiffany to most New Yorkers and they immediately see a box covered with glazed paper in a shade of blue that has been saying Tiffany since 1845. Maybe it holds a diamond engagement ring or the emerald earrings that will begin an affair or end a marriage, or perhaps the silver key chain that says, with that touch of Tiffany & Company class, thank you for another year of hard work.

  Myself, I saw a cemetery. Not just any cemetery, mind you, but a famously beautiful one, the eternal resting place of the deceased rich and famous, a National Historic Landmark, Green-Wood Cemetery. Yes, a few of the founding Mr. Tiffanies, including the great Louis Comfort himself, were buried there under surprisingly simple stones, but I was not going to visit his grave. I was going to visit his work.

  That was not my plan when I started this day. I work part-time at the Brooklyn Historical Museum, and I was worryingly behind on an assignment. The job was only one of the many balls I kept up in the air, so sometimes one of them knocked another to the floor. My plan for that day was to power-through and get entirely caught up.

  Those balls began dropping all over the room the moment I walked into the cubicle I share with other part-time assistants and interns. I arrived late due to the rain snarling up the traffic. Eliot, my boss, was already there leaving a note on my desk.

  “Erica. Glad you are here. Did you by any chance drive today?”

  Driving is the least sane way to get from my neighborhood, Park Slope, where street parking is only difficult, to my work neighborhood, Brooklyn Heights, where it is impossible. Sometimes I do it anyway because I have later errands. Or because I have temporarily lost my mind. He knew that.

  “We have a distinguished visitor today, one of the great experts on Tiffany, and he needs some chauffeuring around and some note-taking assistance at Green-Wood Cemetery. It involves Tiffany windows. You know how to get there, right? It’s near where you live? Sarah is the logical choice, in fact, but she is out with the flu.”

  Denying I had my car was a tempting option, but Eliot has been a great boss and mentor. I owed him.

  “I did drive,” I answer, “but my car is not exactly a luxury ride.” My car, in fact, is a twelve-year-old Civic with pothole-damaged shocks and a backseat covered with work papers, school papers, daughter papers. A lot like my house.

  “You are a lifesaver. Come be introduced in the conference room at ten, and join the meeting. It’s not exactly your field, but I promise it will be interesting.” He left without telling me anything more.

  One more ball hit the floor, but my job is only a small step above intern. The tiny salary is useful; the flexible work hours are necessary; the experience will make me a little more employable when I finally finish my PhD. Maybe. Maybe I could take home my sure-to-be-unfinished work and fit it in with dinner, my schoolwork, my teenage daughter’s schoolwork. Oh, yes, and maybe sleep.

  I hurried up the institutional-steel back-stairway, through a fire door and out into the oak-paneled magnificence of the original building.

  Eliot was in the conference room along with a chunky woman in a checked flannel shirt, her pepper-and-salt hair in a long braid. Also sitting at the table was a tall, thin silver-haired man in an elegant navy suit, a tie even I knew was silk, and cuff links even I could guess were gold. The distinguished expert? The rest of the crowd was the head curator, some department heads, and the museum’s managing director—all heavy hitters. I wished I had spent a little more time tidying myself up, and took a seat as invisibly as I could. My boss smiled at me and passed me a note. “Her name is Bright Skye (!!!). She has a story.”

  Three large liquor cartons stood on the conference table beside the woman who was explaining in a soft, tentative voice: “…so you see, just by accident in a doctor’s office, I read that you have a Tiffany collection here. I have been away from New York for a long, long time. I live in the desert near Sedona now. I wasn’t even sure I could find you, but I had already found this.” She gestured to the boxes. “I didn’t know what it was at first, and I’m still not exactly sure, but when I read about your collection, I realized someone might want these things, and they might be valuable, and I came to see you to find out it they are worth anything.”

  She stopped abruptly, as if she had run out of words.

  “Thank you,” Eliot said politely. “You showed us a promising folder of samples when you first contacted us, so perhaps now you could show that to everyone? And tell us where they came from?”

  “I’m cleaning out my mother’s big old house, over in the Midwood neighborhood. It’s been in her family since it was built, maybe about a hundred years ago, I guess. Maybe more. And there’s about a hundred years of junk, too. I found this in the attic behind all the other junk. There’s a whole box of letters and other things. There are some sketchbooks, I guess, and a pouch of jewelry with pins and bracelets and little pieces of colored glass. I don’t even know what they are called. I don’t know anything about all this kind of stuff, but I saw the name Tiffany in the letters a lot of times. And these pictures seem very nice.”

  She shook out the contents of a large envelope. The drab table was suddenly covered in a rainbow— pages of watercolors, brilliantly glowing. They were familiar Tiffany designs: lacy red dragonflies, exuberantly blooming wisteria in vivid lavender blue, rosy cherry blossoms, daffodils that radiated
sunshine, pale opalescent magnolias and shimmering blue-green peacock feathers.

  The entire room seemed to take on the glow. I couldn’t stop staring. “Very nice” didn’t even come close.

  The well-dressed expert, who seemed to have appointed himself in charge, was the first to reach for some of the papers, whipping out a pair of white archivist’s gloves to protect the paper from any damage.

  “Hmm,” he said. “Certainly the style and colors are right. Some of these are very well-known—the wisteria would scream Tiffany even in China! But some, I don’t know.” He was talking quietly and quickly, murmuring as if to himself, his face flushed with excitement. “I’ve never seen them before. Perhaps never produced? And the signature is simply unknown, at least to me. Maude Cooper? But if even I have never seen it—and I’ve seen everything—it’s extraordinary, if true. Extraordinary.”

  He snapped out of his reverie and looked directly at the owner of the papers. “This Maude Cooper. Who was she? Come on, woman, you must have some idea.”

  Bright Skye whispered, “No, I have no idea at all. I think my grandmother had some Cooper relatives, but I’ve never heard about a Maude that I remember. My mother’s family name was Updike before she was married a few times.”

  “And, umm, Skye was one of those married names?”

  She flushed and whispered, “No, that is my own true name that I found.”

  Goodness, I thought, what a wimp. A New Age wimp at that.

  He sighed deeply and turned to the museum director. “You spoke the truth. This is indeed very interesting and may even be of real importance, possibly even exceptional importance. Or not. Of course I want to be involved. Of course. I’d never forgive you if I were not included.”

  “Just what we were hoping to hear you say.” He was all smiles. “Our staff has some thoughts, but we felt we needed more true expertise. Ladies and gentlemen, for any latecomers, let me introduce Dr. Thomas Flint, who is probably the leading expert on the artwork of the Tiffany studio. We are lucky he has consented to join us for this project.”

  “I don’t know about that ‘probably.’” He smiled stiffly. Was that meant to be a joke? “Yes, yes, but unfortunately I need to leave today for a conference in Rome, and I have an appointment at Green-Wood Cemetery first. I must verify a few details for my presentation. Really, I had to squeeze you in.

  “Let’s do this. Your driver gets me there and back here efficiently. Give me a room for an hour and let me see what I can make of this. While I’m abroad you take care of basic preliminary cataloguing and physical preservation. I already see terrible damage. Dear lord, they have been in an attic for a century! I’ll send my assistant over to help tomorrow. When I return next week, we will be ready to begin a full analysis. A good plan, don’t you think?”

  An excellent plan, they all thought, and he was given the conference room on the spot.

  A small voice rose from the end of the table.

  “Do you think that these papers would be valuable? And the jewelry? I mean, for money?” It was Ms. Skye. She had been completely forgotten in the excitement.

  Flint turned to her and said, “Did you understand that I am an expert on everything about Tiffany? His works and his life? This may indeed be very valuable, or perhaps it is not what it seems. It will take us some time to work that out.”

  “But I was hoping…” She said it softly, and then she looked away, her voice fading. “I could use the money.”

  “Miss…Skye, is it?” He raised one eyebrow as he said her name. “May we—that is, the museum—borrow the contents of these cartons for a few weeks? They will take excellent care of it, you can be sure of that, better care than it has had for decades in your attic, and then we will have an answer for you.”

  “I guess so. I mean, I have no use for it.” She fiddled with the end of her braid, and then said, “I don’t like old things, personally.”

  “You will be given a receipt for the items, and they will be kept locked up here. Yes?” He looked over at the director, who said, “Absolutely.”

  Ms. Skye drifted off, escorted by the director’s assistant, who was explaining what needed to be signed.

  Eliot motioned me over to meet the intimidating Dr. Flint.

  “This is Erica Donato. Erica, Dr. Thomas Flint. Erica here will drive you, in her own car, and provide all the assistance you need.”

  He frowned. “What happened to Sarah? She was a student of mine and she is reasonably capable.”

  “Down with the flu.”

  “Then you’ll have to do, I suppose. And you are also a decorative arts specialist, I hope?’

  “No, I am an urban historian. Historian-in-training, really. But I’ll be happy to assist today.” It seemed like the right thing to say.

  His cool blue eyes got much cooler. I added quickly, “I’ll try not to ask foolish questions.”

  “See that you don’t.”

  And that is how I ended up sucking down coffee in my car, peering though the streaming window, hoping the puddles were not deep enough to damage my old engine and hoping I had mastered taking pictures with the museum’s camera.

  It was raining too hard to look over the spectacularly Gothic stone gate. We splashed our way into the visitors center and were greeted by a woman Flint’s age, somewhere in late middle age on the verge of old. My quick glance took in that she was small, gray-haired, no makeup, wrapped in a faded beige raincoat, with faded khakis and stout orthopedic shoes showing below. She reminded me of the older women of my youth, before they all discovered gyms and plastic surgery. Mrs. Mercer, she told us.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.” She kept repeating it. “There has been a problem. The cemetery is closed to all visitors this morning. I cannot take you…”

  “All the arrangements were made for me personally by Dr. Reade,” said Dr. Flint. “Just call her and get this straightened out. I don’t have any more time to waste. Give me a phone and I’ll call her myself.”

  I stopped in my tracks. No one even noticed me.

  “Dr. Reade is very busy today. I would not dream of disturbing her.”

  “Well, I would! Her office is still in the administrative building over there?” He gestured with his right arm.

  She nodded. “But…but…”

  “Come along! If I can find Nancy Reade, perhaps I can rescue this monumentally wasted morning.”

  We stepped outside to find the rain had stopped and bright rays of sunlight were streaming out from under the massive dark clouds. I always think that particular phenomenon looks like a Renaissance painting of a deity at work. The massive gate with its pointed arches and soaring towers provided a suitable backdrop, too, but Dr. Flint did not pause to look at it, and I had to hustle to keep up with his long, furious stride. The drab woman from the office trailed behind, but we did not get very far.

  A man in work clothes stopped us where the road curves up the hill into the cemetery itself.

  “Sorry, sir. No one is allowed to enter right now.”

  “I had an appointment. I am a personal friend of Dr. Reade and several of the trustees as well, and I have important work to do here today.”

  “Sorry, sir. No one is allowed in.”

  Behind us I heard the lady from the office take a deep breath, but ahead of us I could see a group coming in our direction. Dr. Flint quickly walked over to a tall woman with a Burberry umbrella. She looked elegant and stressed.

  “Nancy, what is the meaning of this? I had an appointment and as you know very well, I don’t have time to waste, here or anywhere.”

  She stopped her group with a lifted hand, and drew Dr. Flint away from them.

  “Oh, Thomas, we are dealing with an unexpected problem today. We had to close for a while. It is a…a safety issue. Of course I will personally reschedule your visit as soon as we…um…get this…um…resolved
.”

  “That is not helpful. I leave for Rome tonight. I came to confirm some old notes on Tiffany’s work here. I have a presentation coming up.”

  I could swear she turned pale.

  “Surely you can make an exception for someone like me, whose work you know so well? Under the circumstances?” The tone was not as polite as the words.

  She looked back nervously and said, “Tom, you know I would, if it was just up to me—of course we know you—but there are other issues.”

  She returned to her group and finally motioned Flint over. I followed behind him, and the lady from the office trotted along, too.

  “We will allow you in, but only under escort from our security staff. One of the locations you wanted to see is…is where the problem is. There has been a collapse, a dangerous situation, so you cannot go there at all, and you cannot leave the paths anywhere. Will that be of any use to you?”

  The red spots on his cheeks got redder, but he said, “Better than nothing. I suppose I’ll just have to write around whatever is missing.”

  “Mrs. Mercer can take you to the other site, as planned. The Konick Mausoleum is the one off-limits.”

  Mrs. Mercer nodded and led the way, but Dr. Flint took Dr. Reade by the arm, gently leading her from the others, and whispered urgently. She whispered back, looked apologetic, shook her head. He looked furious. He stalked off into the cemetery itself. I hustled to keep up with his long legs, and Mrs. Mercer, the guide who should have been leading us, trailed behind, along with the cemetery’s rent-a-cop security guard. Our parade would have been funny if tensions had not been so high.

  The guard, an older man and not in the best of shape, did eventually outpace us all and stopped Dr. Flint with his bulk planted across the path.

  “The other way, sir.”

  He led us around a lake with flocks of birds, including brilliantly blue teals, some stately Canada geese, and a pair of swans as perfect as Dresden china ornaments. With the sun now shining, it was lovely.