“And ‘some of you’ includes me?”
“I can see I’ve offended you,” she said. “I apologize. Please, you do the honors.”
“Mary Handley—”
She immediately interrupted him. “I sincerely hope you’re not down on one knee.”
“If I were, I’m sure you’d kick it out from under me.”
“Even I can’t do that over the telephone,” she said.
“I wouldn’t bet against it.”
Mary laughed. He joined her then continued. “I must admit you excel at making the simple hard.”
“Oh, so you thought I was easy?”
Surrender was Fulton’s only option. “Okay, it stops right here. I concede. I lost this competition.”
“Wise decision.”
“Now, might I have the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight?”
“Ah, this is a perfect example of why you need guidance. I give you free rein and you insult me,” Mary said, acting outraged.
He protested. “That was a fine, gentlemanly offer. Stellar, really.”
“Try presumptuous. A last-second proposition of dinner. Do you think I’m a pitiful woman who sits by the telephone waiting for your call?”
Fuller laughed. “No, and it’s not the last second. We have a couple of hours yet.”
“Oh, well in that case, the answer’s yes. I’d love to.”
“Mary.”
“Yes, Lance.”
“Are you going to put me through the wringer every time we speak?”
“Not every time, just enough to keep you on your toes.”
“I can accept that.” Their conversation having reached a reasonable level of normalcy, he felt it was safe to ask what was usually a straightforward, harmless question. “Is seven a convenient time?”
“Perfect,” she answered.
Relieved that he was right, Fuller continued. “What’s your address?”
She had fooled with him enough. She gave Fuller her home address and told him that she was looking forward to that evening. Mary was, but not in the conventional sense.
She had preparations to make before her date, the most important of which was to get her mother to watch Josie while dodging questions as to what she was doing that evening. Not an easy task.
“I’ll see you both in the morning if that’s agreeable.”
“Make it early or meet me at my butcher shop on Union Street,” Elizabeth said as she took Josie in her arms. Josie immediately began crying. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll teach you to walk. Mommy’s too busy.”
“She’s a little young for that, Mother.”
“You were walking at this age. I certainly hope what you have to do is important enough to abandon this poor child for the evening.”
“It is.”
“On a Monday night? It can’t be business.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t have any business, Mary. Thank God you stopped that ridiculous detective nonsense.”
“Not completely true.”
“Oh no, you’re at it again. When are you going to learn?”
“I’ve got a hard head. I take after my mother.”
“If you truly took after your mother, you’d have already joined me here in the butcher shop and would be making a good living without putting your loved ones in danger.”
Elizabeth had never fought fair in her life, and considering what had happened to Harper, this jab was considerably below the belt. It upset Mary, but she had become as skillful as Gentleman Jim Corbett when it came to dancing around her mother’s punches.
“Thank you, Mother. I’ll take your suggestion under advisement.”
“I’ve heard that before. It’s your way of denying me your true feelings.”
“Then allow me to elaborate….No way in hell.” With that comment, Mary headed for the door of the butcher shop.
Elizabeth’s ire was raised and thus her Irish accent came flying out. “ ’Tis a fine way for a daughter ta speak ta her mother.”
“I’m sorry. I truly am. I wish we could relate in some other fashion, but you’ve made it abundantly clear over the years that the only feelings you respect are your own.”
“It’s called self-preservation, girl, and I need ta keep the barrels full of it with children the likes of ya and yer brother.”
“So be it then,” replied Mary as she continued toward the door.
Elizabeth then did something that Mary in her wildest dreams would never have expected. She apologized. “I’m sorry, Mary. That was wrong of me. You’ve been through enough. The last thing you need is me nagging at you.”
Mary didn’t know what to make of it. “Why…thank you…Mother.” She stared at Elizabeth, expecting the next shoe to drop. It didn’t.
In a pleasant, congenial voice, she called to Mary, “The man I mentioned to you the other day, the one who is a magician with a butcher’s knife, is coming again tomorrow to the Union Street shop. Three P.M. to be exact. Please try to make it.”
“I can’t guarantee it, but I’ll try, Mother.”
“That’s all I ask of you,” Elizabeth said behind a sweet smile.
Mary was completely flummoxed and stumbled out the door, wondering what Elizabeth had up her sleeve.
* * *
Mary’s date with Fuller was very pleasant, so pleasant that there were times she almost forgot why she was out on this date. When she did remind herself, it only made her feel guiltier that she was using a man in whom she might have been interested under different circumstances. She had to force those thoughts out of her mind. She was on a case, the most important case of her life.
It was ironic that Fuller had chosen Carl Luger’s Café for them to have dinner. Mary and Harper had gone there on their first date. She had to brace herself and fight off any sentimental feelings. She needed to be charming and positive that evening, and moping over her murdered husband was not going to accomplish that goal.
“I don’t know Brooklyn well, hardly at all, really,” said Fuller, “but this restaurant comes highly recommended.”
“By whom?”
“Ah, you’ve been here and you don’t like it. I should have asked you first.”
“No, I have been here and I do like it. I was just simply asking who had recommended it to you.”
“Sorry about that. I’m never sure how to react. I always feel like I’m walking on eggshells with you.”
Mary’s response was calculated. “I do feel a tinge of irony that you feel that way when I am the one walking on eggshells. You are a man of significant means, and I am just a lowly—”
“Stop right there, Mary. Humility doesn’t suit you, and you’re not very good at it.”
“Was it at least a good effort?”
“If I hadn’t already been verbally thrashed by you, I’d say yes.”
“Let’s forge an agreement then. I won’t thrash you, so to speak, and you won’t walk on eggshells with me.”
“That sounds lovely, though I do doubt you will stick to it. You appear to have a compulsive desire to toy with me.”
“I’m sorry if you interpret it that way. It’s actually a compliment, my way of flirting.”
“If this is flirting,” he said, considering her explanation, “how do you copulate? With a sledgehammer?”
Mary genuinely laughed. She found this man wittier and brighter than she had thought he was before. They were qualities she required in any man she would seriously date. Though this wasn’t a date per se, but rather a case, she still felt herself being drawn to him.
After the waiter came to the table, got their order, and left, the conversation took on a more serious tone. It was the type two people have when they’re first getting to know each other. Fuller told her that his family made their mone
y in the stock market and wanted him to join their brokerage firm. He had no interest in the market. In fact, he had a tendency to fall asleep whenever they dragged him there.
“I want to be a painter,” he confessed.
“Have you painted anything?”
“I do, every day.”
“Then you are a painter,” Mary assured him.
“I mean the kind that can support himself by selling his paintings, one who doesn’t have to go to Mother and Father for a monthly allowance.”
“Don’t be so impatient. Monet had wealthy parents and he was considerably older than you when people began to appreciate his work.”
He shrugged and modestly said, “I don’t presume to be Monet—”
“Yet,” she said, finishing his sentence.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not Monet yet,” she explained. “Monet wasn’t Monet at your age.”
“Mary, I honestly can’t see myself as—”
“If you’re going to dream, dream big. I’m sure you’re talented.”
“How could you possibly know?”
“It’s just a feeling, the same feeling I had when I met a struggling Cézanne.”
Fuller was taken aback. “You know Cézanne?”
“No, but it did make you feel better, didn’t it?”
“You mean as opposed to how I feel now?” They both laughed. “If you’re interested, I would like to show you my work.”
“Isn’t it a little early to lure me to your home with the promise of seeing your etchings?”
“It’s nothing improper. I’m inviting you to a showing of my art at the Mink Gallery in Manhattan tomorrow evening.”
“How can you say you’re struggling? Mink is one of the top galleries in New York.”
“Truth be told, I’m renting the establishment for the evening, but it does give a good impression.”
“An excellent one. I’ll be there.”
Mary felt that luck was finally turning her way. She didn’t have to suggest a meeting with White and Breese. They very likely would be at the Mink. That problem was solved. The bigger dilemma was how she was going to get them to admit their guilt in Susie Johnson’s rape and, even more crucial to her, reveal whether Harper was involved.
20
Elizabeth agreed to watch Josie for another few hours on Tuesday while Mary went to Roosevelt’s home to discuss progress on the Susie Johnson case. Mary didn’t reveal what she was doing, and she was surprised when her mother didn’t put her through the third degree. She still hadn’t figured out what Elizabeth’s ulterior motive was, but she decided not to worry about it. Whatever it was, it was momentarily making her life easier.
When Mary arrived at Roosevelt’s home and was ushered into his office, she was surprised to see that Jacob Riis was also there. Riis was a friend of both Roosevelt and Harper, but his presence at what was supposed to be a secret meeting over a clandestine case did seem odd. After greeting Roosevelt, she turned to Riis.
“Jacob, how are you?”
“The question is: how are you?”
“Thanks for asking. I don’t know. It’s still early. I guess it’ll be a while.”
“What you experienced was horrendous, everyone’s nightmare. Don’t rush it. Take your time.”
“Everyone says that. Do I really have a choice? I can’t forget. I’m positive I never will. It’s the feeling. I have no control. It just comes and goes. And it’s strong, often overwhelming.”
“Unfortunately, it’s understandable. I’ve never seen two people as much in love as you and Harper were. I could see it on your first date.”
Roosevelt had been patiently listening and finally spoke. “Jacob, you went with them on their first date? Did Mary’s parents demand a chaperone?”
“No,” Mary replied. “It’s a long story.”
“Well then, before we get into it, what do you have to report, Mary?”
“What news I have is very distressing, especially to me.” She related the whole story of her meeting with Susie Johnson, emphasizing her spotting the picture of Harper and identifying him as Reggie Larrabee, one of her attackers.
“That makes sense,” said Riis.
“How can that possibly make sense to you? Harper, a rapist? I can’t even get close to absorbing that.”
“What I’m about to tell you I should’ve told you earlier, but all along, like you, I thought Harper was killed because of that incident in Prospect Park.”
Mary rolled her eyes. She didn’t have the strength or patience to correct him.
“Now that I’ve found out, I realize what I know may have some relevance in his murder case.”
Mary looked at him anxiously. “What is it, Jacob? Do you have evidence?”
“Not exactly. Harper had heard the rumors of Stanford White and James Breese’s penchants for drugging women and having their way with them. He hated what they were doing, deemed it despicable, and wanted to expose them. He did some research and came upon Reggie Larrabee, who had been in England for years and would be easy to impersonate.”
“So he was writing an article on them?”
“At first. He went to the newspapers with it, but by that time the Susie Johnson story had already been out, the police had shunned her—”
Roosevelt immediately raised both his hands in the air. “She didn’t come to me, Mary.”
She nodded. She did believe him.
“Anyhow, the newspapers didn’t want more of the same thing. But Harper wouldn’t give up. So he decided to write a book.”
Mary shook her head in disbelief. “My husband was writing a book? And I didn’t know?”
“I understand you and he had some sort of agreement.”
“My idea. I’m such an imbecile….Was he at White’s apartment when—”
“Sorry, I should have mentioned that first. Susie Johnson must have been confused when she told you what had occurred. I don’t blame her. She was drugged shortly afterward and everything about that night must be in a haze.”
Roosevelt interrupted. “Tell her about her husband, Jacob. That’s what she wants to hear.”
“Of course. He was there, but he left before the rape occurred in order to get home to you. It was frustrating to him because he couldn’t say he was an eyewitness to it. No one believed her. Only Harper did.”
She wistfully mused, “Harper. Always championing the underdog.”
“That was him all right.” Riis smiled in fond remembrance. “He said he wanted to make the world safe for Josie, so that she could grow up in an environment free of predators like Stanford White.”
Mary was silent, moved by her dead husband’s gentility and love, feeling guilty she ever suspected him.
“This is all well and good,” said Roosevelt. “I’m glad this uncertainty has been cleared up. I can only imagine how torturous it must have been for you, Mary. But what are we doing about these scoundrels?”
“I have a plan in place.” Mary told them about Fuller, the art exhibit, and her intention to coerce information from White and Breese.
“That won’t be an easy task,” Roosevelt said.
“Being rich doesn’t exclude you from perversions, and perversions do make you fallible.”
“Well put.”
“If this had anything at all to do with Harper’s death, I will investigate so thoroughly that Stanford White will feel violated.”
“Harper had been working on it for a while,” Riis said. “I don’t know what progress he had made. It could have been enough to get him killed, or it could have been nothing.”
“Knowing him, he was onto something or he would have stopped.”
She thanked Riis and before she left, she told Roosevelt she would report back to him as soon as she had anything new. She hoped it would b
e soon. Roosevelt and Riis watched her walk out the door and exchanged concerned looks.
By the time Mary had arrived home, she was frantic. She tore through everything in her apartment in a whirlwind search for Harper’s book. Soon, the floors were littered with their and Josie’s belongings. Breathing heavily, she sat down in Harper’s chair, the one at his desk where he used to write.
Damn it! They stole it, she thought, dropping her head into her hands. All her doubts and fears had been erased. What was left was an overpowering fury that she would have to learn to control in order to get what she wanted. She had a lot to accomplish. Mary called her mother and asked her to keep Josie until Wednesday. Surprisingly, Elizabeth immediately agreed without putting her through the wringer.
Mary had never been a person who had craved revenge, but now she could think of nothing else.
21
On Tuesday morning, Fuller was at the Mink Gallery discussing the final preparations for his showing with the owner, Armen Mink. He was hoping this would be his big entrée into the art world, and he was understandably nervous. It was before opening time and therefore the gallery was empty. They could speak freely.
“Make sure the still life is in the center of the room so it attracts the most attention. That peach is my best work.”
“Yes, Mr. Fuller. You’ve told me numerous times. Trust me. I’ve had many exhibitions at my gallery. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m sure you do. And tonight will tell us if I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m sure your friends will be happy to purchase your paintings.”
“That’s just it. I don’t want my work to be admired out of friendship. I want the world to admire it.”
“Ah, the world’s a big place. Might I suggest you take a longer view of tonight? Think of your career as a luscious multicourse meal that you want to savor one bite at a time.”
“So you don’t have faith in my work?”
“Oh, I have faith: in my family, in God, in my knowledge of art. What I don’t have faith in is the vagaries of this business. I’m not a betting man, but the odds that your first showing, or any artist’s first showing, will vault you into the rare atmosphere of Rembrandt, Van Gogh, or even Lautrec are far from being in your favor. Overnight sensations rarely ever happen.”
Near Prospect Park Page 14
