Near Prospect Park

by Lawrence H. Levy

  Near Prospect Park is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Lawrence H. Levy

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Levy, Lawrence H., author.

  Title: Near Prospect Park: a Mary Handley mystery / Lawrence H. Levy.

  Description: New York: Ballantine Books, [2020] | Series: Mary Handley; 4 | “A Ballantine Books Trade Paperback Original”—Title page verso.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019037426 (print) | LCCN 2019037427 (ebook) | ISBN 9780451498465 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780451498472 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3612.E9372 N43 2020b (print) | LCC PS3612.E9372 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2019037426

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2019037427

  Ebook ISBN 9780451498472

  randomhousebooks.com

  Cover design: Tal Goretsky

  Cover illustration: Mark Summers

  v5.4

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Lawrence H. Levy in the Mary Handley Mystery Series

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  A bead of sweat rolled down Susie Johnson’s cheek. It dangled briefly at her jawline before disappearing into the darkness below. It was pitch-black and the silence was eerie, but the bead of sweat bothered her the most. She could swear she heard the splat as it landed on the floor. Nobody wants to see a girl sweat, she thought. It’s horribly unattractive, très gauche. Susie was only fifteen (almost sixteen if someone asked her), but the pretty blonde knew all about what was très gauche. After all, it was May 20, 1895, and any information she desired was at her fingertips. She religiously consumed Vogue, the Queen, Ladies’ Home Journal, and every other women’s magazine she could find. The worst fight she’d ever had with her mother was when she threw out Susie’s sizable collection.

  “They have absolutely no purpose at all,” Mrs. Johnson said. “I despise clutter.”

  “These women are everything I want to be!” Susie protested.

  “And what is that?”

  “Beautiful, famous, and rich.”

  “You’ve got your head in the clouds, girl. Forget that nonsense, come down to earth, and maybe one day you can meet a solid, sensible man like your father.”

  A life with a man like her father was everything Susie didn’t want. Oh, he was solid and sensible, a decent man by any standard, but she wanted more. Her father was a mechanic. Ever since Susie could remember, he had ground away ten to twelve hours a day, six days a week. He made a reasonable living, but surely not enough to do the things she wanted to do, and his work wasn’t prestigious enough to allow her family to socialize with the right people. What was more, the price he paid physically far outweighed that reasonable living. Most nights he’d come home too exhausted to speak, filth clinging to his skin. The jet-black dirt under his fingernails was a permanent fixture, an image that both repulsed and embarrassed her. Though she hated herself for feeling that way, she hated him more for being so classless. No, no man like her father. She was going to have money and fame, entry to ritzy parties with society’s best, and, most important, adoration. This was America. Anything was possible.

  Two more beads of sweat! Her face was going to look streaky! The only thing worse was being smelly. Suddenly, that possibility shot through her brain. She couldn’t be smelly. That would be awful, an utter and complete catastrophe. She quickly sniffed her underarms. Nothing yet. Thank God!

  * * *

  The boys were out to have fun. Only a couple of them knew what was planned, and they clung to their secret with a smugness that both irritated and excited the rest of the group. There were thirty-two in all gathered, and speculation was rampant. Some expected a wild adventure while others were certain it was all an elaborate joke. The only indisputable fact was that, in spite of the significant number, there would be no game of baseball, no trip to an amusement park or even a benign round of mumblety-peg. They were beyond that. The youngest in this group was thirty plus, and it escalated from there. When “boys” of that age were out to have fun, it was hard to predict the outcome, especially when they were among the entitled.

  This illustrious group of prestigious artists, businessmen, and scientists gathered at famed photographer and financier James Breese’s studio at 5 West Sixteenth Street to celebrate the birthday and tenth wedding anniversary of John Cowdin, a popular American polo player. It wasn’t exactly on his birthday or anniversary dates, but it was a great excuse to have a party. Stockbroker Henry W. Poor (wealthy in spite of his name) was footing the bill for the affair, and among the New York luminaries present were Augustus Saint-Gaudens, one of the most sought-after artists of the day; architect Stanford White, a New York society favorite; and scientist Nikola Tesla, who was battling Thomas Edison for supremacy in the electricity market. The atmosphere was filled with male bravado and little-boy snickers. Once freed from their respective spouses and fiancées, and the discriminating eye of outside society, this group defined the saying Boys will be boys.

  As they plowed through the seventeen-course gourmet dinner, refreshing their champagne glasses at will, they were serenaded by jubilee singers backed by a band of banjos, stringed instruments, a flute, and drums. Inhibitions disappeared and anticipation grew. The general consensus was that, since this affair was being held at his studio, James Breese certainly knew what was planned, and of course, whatever Breese knew, Stanford White also must have known. The two were close friends. Breese had just purchased the Orchard, an estate in Southampton, and he had hired White for a complete redo. It had plenty of acreage, but the main house on the premises needed considerable wo
rk in order for White to turn it into the mansion Breese desired.

  When asked, Henry Poor responded, “I merely wrote a check. I’m as much in the dark as the rest of you.”

  “Enough mystery, Stanford,” said Charles Gibson, leaning in toward White so he could be heard above the room’s chatter. “So far we’ve consumed sixteen glorious courses and more champagne than I care to remember. Though it has all been magnificent—thank you, Henry,” he said, nodding to Henry Poor—“a cloud of secrecy hangs over the room.”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” replied White with an impish grin, his flaming red hair and bushy mustache looking even redder, if that were possible. “I certainly hope that doesn’t mean you won’t partake in the seventeenth course.”

  “Stop being so cheeky. You do have that tendency, you know.”

  “Charles, you’re engaged to the most sought-after woman in New York, possibly in the world. One would think that would calm you a bit.”

  Gibson had recently announced his engagement to Irene Langhorne, and the wedding was to take place that fall. She was one of five Langhorne sisters from Virginia who, with their charm and good looks, had taken New York society by storm. Irene was considered the most beautiful of the five (and that was quite an accomplishment). A successful illustrator, Gibson was in the process of developing the “Gibson Girl,” for which Irene was the ideal model. The Gibson Girl was his vision of the new woman. She differed from former, extremely dainty images of femininity in that not only was she beautiful but she was also athletic and independent. Of course, not too independent: the Gibson Girl believed in women’s rights, but she didn’t participate in protests. They were considered unladylike.

  “Oh, I am definitely much calmer but also less tolerant of childish tomfoolery,” Gibson said. “You had sent me a note stating that ‘all hell will break loose.’ So far the only hell I’ve experienced is what this lavish dinner is wreaking on my waistline.”

  “Don’t fret, my friend. You will see that tonight, as always, I am true to my word.” With that, White nodded to one of the waiters who was standing in front of a set of double doors. He returned the nod, then disappeared behind the doors. White stood, lightly tapping his crystal champagne glass with a spoon. “Gentlemen. Gentlemen.”

  Being good employees, the musicians and singers immediately stopped, leaving the room filled with the noise of light conversation, except for Henry Poor, who was lecturing a few guests on how much money could be made in a down stock market. A few turned toward White, but most of them were too deep into their discussions to bother.

  “I must have been mistaken,” White continued. “I thought we had invited gentlemen and I find myself in the company of boorish louts.”

  “You’ve never been a good judge of character, Stanford,” Robert Bacon retorted almost immediately. “Might I suggest you limit your discernments to your buildings and your monuments?”

  Bacon’s comment succeeded in getting half of the party guests to turn toward the two men, a spatter of chuckles showing their appreciation.

  “In concept, it’s a fine idea, Robert,” said White, “but not very practical. It’s like telling J. P. to limit his relations to his wife.” The laughter grew, becoming almost thunderous. Bacon was J. P. Morgan’s right-hand man, and Morgan’s late-night dalliances with prostitutes were well-known. Bacon yielded, nodding his head as if to say, Touché. All eyes were now on White.

  “Gentlemen—and given the lack of decorum, I use the word loosely,” White joked, evoking more laughter, “I sincerely hope you’ve enjoyed this lavish dinner that Henry has so generously provided for us.” A round of applause and shouts of “Hear, hear” followed. “But as we know, all good things must eventually come to an end.” This comment was greeted with boos and pounding on tables. White glanced at Breese. They were both delighted.

  “Stanford, you forgot the seventeenth course,” Breese chimed in as if on cue, motioning with his head, making it appear as if his stiletto beard were urging White to continue.

  “Ah yes, thank you, James. I nearly omitted the best part of the evening: the coup de grâce in celebration of our good friend John Cowdin, a sweet delicacy you will never forget. Gentlemen, I give you—dessert!” He gestured toward the double doors, which flung open, and in stepped four waiters. They were carrying a gigantic pie sitting on a large platform. The poles jutting out from the platform rested on their shoulders and they walked in step, giving the appearance of a royal procession. The spectacle was greeted with applause, along with some spontaneous oohs and aahs as the waiters made their way to the center of the room and gently placed the platform on the floor. All the men spontaneously gravitated to the huge pie, surrounding it, some merely curious and others in awe.

  “Yes, it’s a real pie,” White announced. “I beseech each and every one of you, doubters and believers alike, to reach onto the top of the pie, peel off a small piece of crust, and taste it. I think you’ll find it quite delicious.”

  At first, the group was hesitant. White’s penchant for practical jokes was well known, and they were concerned they might wind up chewing on a piece of plaster or paperboard. To show them he was serious, White himself walked to the pie, reached over, broke off a piece, and ate it. His action relieved any concerns, and the others followed his lead.

  Strange sounds began to emanate from the pie. Suddenly, a blackbird broke loose from inside of it, shortly followed by a whole cluster of them. As they flew wildly around the room with the excitement of new freedom, the band immediately struck up a tune and the jubilee singers burst into song.

  Sing a song of sixpence,

  A pocket full of rye.

  Four and twenty blackbirds,

  Baked in a pie.

  When the pie was opened

  The birds began to sing;

  Wasn’t that a dainty dish

  To set before the king.

  The men were both electrified and impressed by the elaborate lengths to which White and Breese had gone in order to entertain them. As they were showered with cries of “Good show!” “Hats off to you,” etc., White and Breese feigned modesty, raising their hands in protest that the praise was too much. But they both knew the show wasn’t over.

  Suddenly, from the center of the pie arose Susie Johnson. She was wearing a very sheer black lace dress that left nothing to the imagination, and a silk blackbird was pinned to her hair on the top of her head. The band immediately changed the tune they were playing to “A Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.”

  The party was now officially kicked into high gear. Men usually only saw women dressed as scantily as Susie in brothels or in their bedrooms (and wives didn’t really count). Susie played to them, posing suggestively before she was lifted out of the pie by two waiters and placed on the floor. The men eagerly gathered around her, keeping a respectful distance.

  “Where’s the birthday boy?” asked Susie in the sexiest voice she could muster.

  No one responded. The guests got impatient. Cries of “Come on, John,” “Stop being such a killjoy,” “Never thought you’d be a namby-pamby,” and other such male coaxing followed. Finally, a few gentle pushes and “attaboy” slaps on the back got the reluctant Cowdin to step forward. Cheers accompanied his move.

  “Back off, fellas. I’m not in the mood,” he said as the crowd propelled him toward Susie. The boos from his cronies were instantaneous.

  Dr. Reginald Larrabee stepped forward to hush the crowd. “Leave poor John alone. It’s his party, and it should be his choice.”

  “Listen to Dr. Larrabee, everyone,” Breese said facetiously. “He should know when something’s not cricket.”

  A titter floated through the room. Larrabee wasn’t a medical doctor but rather had a PhD, and they all knew he had recently returned after spending many years in England, where his father was still the U.S. ambas
sador. Larrabee had gone to school at Oxford and then taught philosophy there. He had thick brown hair, a long nose, and a cockiness that screamed privilege. The Larrabees were one of the richest and oldest families in New York. It was often joked that they had advised the Dutch on the purchase of Manhattan. His family’s impeccable lineage provided plenty of fodder for his friends to amuse themselves at his expense.

  Breese continued. “Seriously, your sympathy is commendable, Reggie. I hope your ancestors were as sympathetic to the Indians when they landed at Plymouth Rock?”

  “James, James, James. That is so wrong. First of all, my family didn’t come over on the Mayflower. Secondly, no self-respecting Larrabee would be caught dead in Massachusetts.”

  Howls of laughter followed.

  Lance Fuller spoke after the noise level subsided. “James, it was my ancestors who came over on the Mayflower—though I wouldn’t be caught dead there either.”

  “So that explains the slipup,” said White. “Jimmy merely confused you with your better half.” He wasn’t referring to any romantic or sexual relationship but rather to the fact that since Larrabee had returned from Oxford, he and Fuller had been spending a lot of time together. It made sense. They were about the same age and came from two of the oldest families in America.

  “And might I add,” White continued, “that John should have our complete support. After all, he hasn’t been the same since that unfortunate polo accident rendered him useless between the legs.”

  The crowd exploded with the loudest roar yet.