“Terrific. See you then,” Elizabeth said. Then Mary kissed Josie and left.
Mary had already decided to go to Lazlo’s Books, where she would be able to think in the privacy of her office. And if she got stuck, she could prod Lazlo for suggestions, not that he ever needed prodding.
When she walked into the bookstore, it was apparent that business at the moment was a bit slow. Lazlo was sitting behind the counter reading a book. When he saw Mary, his eyes lit up.
“Hello, Lazlo, what mischief have you gotten yourself into since I’ve been gone?” They both knew that was code for I’m back and all that implied.
“None at all. I was afraid to step outside without your expert counsel.”
“And well you should be.” Mary smiled. It was good to see her old friend. “Lazlo, I owe you an apology.”
“Nonsense. You were grieving. I would never count that against you.”
“Count? Sounds like you’re keeping score.”
“In a manner of speaking, I am. Your slate is happily blank, but I do give trusted confidantes like you three lapses in friendship during this thing we call life.”
Mary was amused. “What else would you call it?”
“What?”
“Life.”
“ ‘Farce’ would be infinitely more apropos. Not to worry though. I doubt whether you’ll acquire any lapses at all before I expire.”
“You’ll never expire, Lazlo. You’re the eternal watchdog of the intelligentsia.” She looked down at his book. “Speaking of which, what are you reading?”
“It’s a bit soppy but it is a tome I’ve been meaning to get to: a biography of Edwin Booth by his good friend Laurence Hutton.”
“Edwin Booth! That’s it, Lazlo! Thanks!” Fully energized, Mary headed for the exit.
Confused, Lazlo called after her. “Thanks for what? You do know Booth’s been dead for three years?” Her back to him, Mary waved at Lazlo, indicating that she knew. He continued, “I haven’t filled you in on the latest events.” But Mary was out the door and gone.
Edwin Booth had bought a mansion at 16 Gramercy Park South in 1888 and established the Players Club along with Mark Twain and ten other charter members. He used part of the building as his personal residence and made the major portion a social club for actors, writers, and others in the theater. Those who supported the theater were also allowed to join. Booth’s concept was to have actors mix with people from all walks of life in the hope of showing prominent industrialists who could afford to sponsor the arts that actors weren’t the wastrel vagabonds they were purported to be. Besides his genuine desire to help other artists and enhance the theater, he wanted to prove to the public once and for all that he was nothing like his infamous brother, John Wilkes Booth, and was out to accomplish good in this world.
The two people Mary was trying to find were theater people, and even though they may have been on the fringe, with any luck the Players Club would provide a place where she could find a decent number of experienced theater people in one location. She was hoping that maybe one of them might have once worked with or at least come across either of the two men and could help her find them. It was far from a sure thing, but it was the best that she had at the moment.
Mary’s presence at the club unsettled a good number of those present. Women had visited before but they were mostly actresses. There was a legendary story about famed dramatic actress Sarah Bernhardt’s visit. Supposedly, she’d gotten stuck in the club’s elevator and afterward vowed never to return. Whether it was true or not, Sarah Bernhardt was never a member. Typical of most nineteenth-century clubs, women were not allowed to join. The practice annoyed Mary, but she was used to it. Besides, her two suspects weren’t women.
As she entered, the strong smell of pipe smoke permeated the air in the club’s lounge. She could almost hear the craning of necks as one by one the men realized there was a lady visitor and turned toward her. It wasn’t long before an older actor rose from his large, cushy leather chair by the fireplace and approached. He was bent over, his manner low-key and polite, but he still had the intent of a bouncer.
“Good afternoon, madam. My name is Joe Jefferson and I’m the president of this club. May I assist you?”
Mary knew she had to do something immediately to ingratiate herself. It was not difficult to figure out what to do. She was dealing with actors. “Joe Jefferson, my name is Mary Handley and it is my extreme pleasure to meet you, sir. I saw you in Rip Van Winkle and yours was a brilliant, truly transformative performance.” Mary hadn’t seen the play but it was widely known that he had toured the world with the production for many years and that his career had been defined by the part.
Her strategy worked. Jefferson’s demeanor changed before her eyes. Pride encompassed his body, and he was soon standing up straight and tall. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, smiling down at her. “I just starred in a moving picture of the play. It’s odd work and I’m sure these moving pictures won’t last, but it was fascinating for me to actually be able to watch my performance. Spellbound. That’s all I can say about it. Spellbound.”
“Of course, I know I was when I saw you. I wonder if you—”
“Really? Where did you see it?”
Mary was stuck. Though he had toured for decades with the show, like most actors, he probably remembered the details of each and every performance. If she chose a city, she was sure he would continue the conversation with questions she might not be able to answer, or worse, he might have even played there before she was born. It was a dilemma that was soon solved as they heard a male voice from behind them.
“Probably Philadelphia, Joe. Makes perfect sense, don’t you think?”
Mary turned and saw the twinkle in the man’s eye. She realized he was trying to help, so she played along. “Yes, Philadelphia. You took the words right out of my mouth, Mr….”
“White. Stanford White.” When Booth had bought the building they were standing in, he had hired White to redecorate it. Possibly a better description would be to totally revamp it. White had been a member ever since. His friends James Breese and Lance Fuller were with him. The three of them had been sitting around a small table just large enough to accommodate drinks and ashtrays before he had left them to assist Mary.
“Ah, Mr. White, I’m so sorry. I’m very much aware of who you are, as is all of America and beyond.” Like most of New York, Mary knew about Stanford White, ranging from his brilliant architectural designs to his status as a socialite bon vivant and all the way to Susie Johnson’s accusations. He was helping her, so she wisely avoided any controversial topic.
“As I am of you, Miss Handley. Your reputation also precedes you.”
“Then I feel doubly foolish for my faux pas. Please excuse me. I must be off my game.”
“Whatever your game is, I’m sure it’s delightful,” said White, emitting his most charming smile.
“That’s so very kind of you.”
The conversation had wandered from Joe Jefferson’s acting, and he wanted to steer it back toward him. “In which theater did you say you saw my performance?”
“She didn’t,” said White. “But it had to be the Walnut Street Theatre. Is there really any other in Philadelphia?”
Mary followed his lead. “Yes, Mr. White, very astute. The Walnut Street Theatre is where I saw you perform, Mr. Jefferson.”
“That is my favorite theater in the world. I remember the engagement well—back in ’92. Philadelphia is my hometown, you know. It was an honor to perform for them. Standing ovations every night. Extremely gratifying.”
Mary poured it on. “Surely you are no stranger to standing ovations, Mr. Jefferson. I imagine you get them every night.”
“Well, not quite,” said Jefferson before he looked up with an impish glint in his eye, “but nearly every night.”
“T
hat’s it, Joe,” said White as he stepped closer. “Toss the humility aside. It’s better suited for people who haven’t accomplished much.”
Feeling Jefferson might now be more receptive to her request, Mary decided to move forward. “I wonder if you can help me, Mr. Jefferson. I’m looking for two men who have spent their careers in the arts: a writer by the name of Harvey Iglehart and also John Smith, a stage manager and occasional actor. Now, I realize John Smith is an awfully common—”
“I never heard of the writer, but John is a different story.”
“So you know John Smith?”
“Many people aren’t aware that Edwin Booth was an extremely charitable man. If an actor, a stagehand, or really anyone in the theater fell on hard times, Edwin was there to help. John’s acting career never really surfaced and his stage manager work was intermittent at best. He became ill, and in a very short time John was destitute. As he had done for so many others, Edwin paid his doctor bills and gave him room and board here. Even on his deathbed, Edwin made me promise to take care of John. That’s the kind of man Edwin Booth was.”
Mary immediately reasoned that a man who is destitute could easily target a person who he believes wronged him and is responsible for his dire situation. She tried to hide her excitement when she asked, “Does John still live here? Might I see him?”
“Would that you could. John died over a year ago. Consumption. I believe it was in September…or was it August? Though it might have been…”
As Jefferson droned on, Mary felt the excitement escape from her body like the air from a pricked balloon.
“I met him several times,” said White. “Shell of a human being. John should’ve chosen a different profession. He wasn’t cut out for show business.”
Disappointed, Mary still forged ahead. She had to. “And you’re sure you’ve never met Harvey Iglehart?”
“I’ve known several Harveys: a Jones, a Dawson, but never an Iglehart. I would definitely remember that.”
“It is a memorable name.”
White interrupted. “Think, Joe. It’s obviously very important to this lovely lady.”
“I always like to please the ladies, especially one as pretty as Miss Handley.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jefferson. That’s very kind of you.”
“Kind is for the needy. What I said was a fact. I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true, not that I can do anything about it at my age.”
“Why, Mr. Jefferson, I’m sure you have some very active years left.”
“Now who’s being kind?” He paused and Mary smiled at him. “Unfortunately, it’s also true that I never met a Harvey Iglehart. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’ve succeeded in narrowing my suspects down to one. That is very helpful.”
“Suspects? What is it you do, Miss Handley?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Private investigator. I find that to be very sexy.”
“I’m sure you’re not the only one, Joe,” said White with a rakish grin.
Jefferson’s brow crinkled as he joked, “Maybe I do have some active years left.”
Mary laughed. “I’m flattered, Mr. Jefferson.” It was time to leave. “Thank you for the assistance, gentlemen. I greatly appreciate it.” Mary nodded to both of them, then headed for the door.
Jefferson returned to his club chair by the fireplace while White rejoined Breese and Fuller. Fuller leaned over and whispered to White. “Leave her alone, Stanford. By all reports, she’s a remarkable woman and you know very well that she just lost her husband.”
“Pity, but that does mean she’s available.”
“When has availability ever been a factor with you?”
“Good point,” White replied. “A bit hostile but perceptive.”
“She’s not your type,” said Breese. “The woman’s pushing thirty.”
“She’s thirty?”
Breese gave a definitive nod. “At least.”
“Interesting. She looks so young for her age.”
White turned toward the door, where Mary had already exited. Breese and Fuller exchanged looks. Nothing they’d said had dampened his interest.
10
“You’re what?” exclaimed Mary, then she flinched. She had been rocking Josie to sleep in her carriage. “Did I wake her up?”
“No, she’s out,” said Mary’s good friend Sarah Cooper.
“Thank God.”
From the foyer of Sarah and her husband Walter’s house, they tiptoed to the dining room table, where they were safely out of range. The dining room was large and could easily seat sixteen people. Walter was a successful lawyer, and they often had to entertain. In spite of the table’s size, they sat in two chairs next to each other.
“Repeat that, please.”
“You heard me quite well the first time. Walter and I are trying to have another child, and please try to keep it down. Walter doesn’t like anybody knowing our private business.”
“But, Sarah, that would be your fifth child. Are you going for an even dozen?”
“You should know better than that, Mary. My father has worked in a bakery all his life, so, naturally, a baker’s dozen would be more appropriate.”
“I’m serious, Sarah. These are modern times. You can be more than a baby factory.”
Sarah shook her head. “Mary, you know as well as I do that times aren’t so modern. We’re not all trailblazers like you. Talk to me when women have the vote, can be elected to office, and can work at any job a man can.”
“You’re right about that but—”
“Please, don’t be concerned. And I’ll only say one more thing: Walter and I both want another child. I can’t imagine a job I could possibly like better than raising my children. And what’s more—”
“You said just one more thing.”
“I lied.”
“You never lie.”
“Then I miscalculated. You can’t reject that. You’re the one who got me through math class.”
Mary smiled. “And that wasn’t easy.”
“I still have nightmares about school.”
“Is it the one where you panic because you’re about to take a test and you don’t know what the subject is? I get those.”
“No, I panic because I know the subject: algebra.”
They both broke into resounding and hearty laughter. After a few moments, Mary spoke. “Okay, what’s the more in addition to your one more thing?”
Suddenly, Sarah became serious. “The more is, Mary, I can’t you tell how good it is to see you like this. I feel like I have my old friend back. For a while, I thought I had lost you.”
“I’m not all the way back yet. Maybe I will be when I catch the bastard who killed him.” Mary looked at her friend. “I love you, Sarah.”
They scooted their chairs closer to each other and hugged, squeezing each other tightly. As tears came to their eyes, Walter entered. “Sorry for keeping you waiting, ladies—” He stopped. “Why do I feel as if I’m intruding?”
“Because you always are,” said Sarah as she wiped the tears from her eyes. “Now, sit down. I’ll go see if Sophie has dinner ready yet.” She got up and went into the kitchen.
There was a moment of silence as Walter considered the question he wanted to ask. He decided to just blurt it out. “So, Mary, how is the search progressing?”
“I’m down to one suspect. To be honest, if he’s not the one, I don’t know what my next move is.”
“How many suspects did you have?”
“Only three. There was a stage manager who couldn’t have done it because he’s dead.”
“An excellent alibi.”
“Seamless. And the other was Lillian Russell.”
“Lillian Russell? The Lillian Russell?”
“J
ust Lillian Russell. I don’t think ‘the’ is her first name.”
“How well did the two of you get along?”
“Fine.”
“ ‘Fine’ like she enjoyed your company or ‘fine’ like you insulted her and she’s posting Pinkertons at the theater to keep you out?”
“Walter—”
“Mary.” His glance reminded her how well he knew her and that the Pinkertons were indeed a possibility.
“If you insist, much closer to the former than the latter.”
“Good, then I have a big favor to ask of you.”
“No, I will not get her autograph. I don’t like doing that. I won’t even do it for myself.”
“You would if she were Kierkegaard.”
“I would because it would be evidence one could return from the dead. He died before I was born.”
“You know what I mean: some famous philosopher like Nietzsche.”
“He’s infirm, but I see where you’re going, even though the connection between Nietzsche and Lillian Russell is a bit of a stretch.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want her autograph. I want something more.”
“Now you’ve got my interest, Walter. But remember, Sarah is my best friend.”
“No, it has nothing to do with that. How could you possibly imply—”
“I’m not implying.”
He leaned forward. “Mary—”
Mimicking him, she also leaned forward, and said, “Walter.” After a moment they both giggled. “Teasing you is one of my favorite sports.”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’ll be right back.”
Walter rose and disappeared into his office. Mary had no idea what he was doing until he emerged with what looked like a manuscript and plopped it down in front of her.
“What’s this?”
“A play I wrote: a musical comedy that is perfect for Lillian Russell.”
“You’re a busy lawyer. When did you have time to write a play?”
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