Brooklyn Legacies Read online

  Chris was home, too, phone set aside, putting plates on the table. A glass of wine for Joe and me, a fancy gourmet soda for Chris. She said, giggling, “I like its aroma and full blackberry body.”

  “Have you been watching cooking shows?” My daughter? Impossible.

  She giggled again. “No, but Jared’s dad? He’s a wine collector. Jared does it even funnier.”

  Joe had a story about his day, and then I threw out mine, the contractor with a mysterious secret. Telling it I thought it sounded like I really was telling a story, adding drama to something that probably had an ordinary boring explanation.

  “I like that motto on the shirt. It’s like, gutsy.” Chris nodded emphatically. “Defiant. Girls who stand for something.”

  “Except for hiding it under her T-shirt?”

  “OK. Yeah. So, um, maybe she wants to stand for something, but isn’t quite ready to come out and say it?”

  I found myself staring at my child, wise beyond her years. It was obvious now that she was saying it. I should have put it together myself.

  “I don’t know Nancy that well.” Joe laughed at my appalled expression and went on, “She’s known for great work, famous, really. That’s all I’ve got, but I can ask around. Yes, I’ll be discreet. Do you think I’m a complete yahoo? I have an architect pal who’s worked with her company. But why do you care? Aside from the obvious?”

  “That I am nosy?” I was smiling when I said it.

  Chris said, “Yeah, that’s totally it.”

  “What else?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that.” She stood up, taking her plate to the sink. “But seriously, Mom. I thought Leary knows everything.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know. Mostly, he does. But this is probably too current for him to know about. Besides, he looked pretty wiped out last time I saw him. I don’t want to bother him.”

  Chris snorted and Joe shook his head. “You know it wouldn’t bother him. It would cheer him right up.”

  “Go away.” I flapped my hands at them. They were ganging up on me. “Both of you. I need to think. While I do dishes.” I didn’t really need to think. I needed to call Leary but, somehow, not admit they were right. It would take some strategy.

  I did think it was too current. He was no longer reporting, and, sadly, many of his sources had died, moved to retirement homes, or left for warmer, low-tax states. Plus quite a few were not speaking to him anymore.

  Later that night, Chris emerged from her cave and slapped some bright printouts on my desk. There were many pictures of T-shirts.

  “You need new shirts? Not too expensive, I hope?”

  “Always, but not from here.” She looked horrified. “But look what I found for you.”

  A website I’d never seen. Leaving Faith for Freedom. What an odd name. It included a page for shopping. They offered mugs and pads and shirts, all printed with messages aimed at encouraging—who, exactly? There was no description, no “Who We Are” tab, but I was getting the idea. People who were leaving or were trying to leave or were disillusioned with a spiritual organization. Like Jehovah’s Witnesses? Yeah, could be. They sold the tank top I had seen on the girl at Nancy’s door.

  Enough tiptoeing around. I found Nancy’s business web page and called. I considered lying about a possible job, thinking it might get a quicker response, but I didn’t. And I didn’t tell her what I wanted to know, either. That might risk getting no response at all. In as firm a voice as I could summon, I simply said, “It’s Erica Donato. I have some very urgent questions for you. Can I take you to dinner or breakfast? Please call me back, any time.” I left all my numbers, home, work, cell, and my email addresses, too. “And I will follow up with a daytime call, just to make sure you got this. Thanks so much.”

  A gracious ending. A bribe of a meal. And a slight threat? Definitely. I hoped one of those might do the trick.

  Chapter Twelve

  It took a day of work, stopping to check for messages way too often, followed by an evening at home and an after-dinner walk to the supermarket, just because I was so distracted.

  In the end, it was not my little bribe or my little threat that got a response. It was Louisa Gibbs, and I kicked myself for not doing that first.

  Late that night, a call without even a hello. It began with an abrupt, “Louisa told me to talk to you. She says you are good people. I can meet for coffee tomorrow before work. I start work at 7:00.” She named a small café on a Heights side street.

  I said yes before thinking how much I did not want to begin a working day at 6:00. I’d have to take the bus or subway. I’d never find parking around there. Much as I dreaded it all, I was elated, too. Answers would be mine. I set my alarm, announced to my family that I would be out at the crack of dawn. I pretended I didn’t hear Joe’s “You? Up before me? Never.”

  It was so early the café was nearly empty. The caffeine-seeking crowds on the way to the day job weren’t out yet, only the occasional early morning runner. Nancy sat in the back, her own large mug tight in hand. I ordered a muffin and an even larger mug, and joined her.

  “What is it that you want from me?” Her words were wary, but her expression was not hostile. Or defensive. Then again, maybe I wasn’t awake enough to read it. “Louisa said I’d be safe talking to you, but that depends.”

  “Would you like to share the muffin?” It was huge. I hoped she would say yes, but she shook her head.

  “I have a long, demanding day, doing what I am comfortable with, in addition to this, that I am not comfortable with at all, so I had a great big breakfast before the sun was up. This is a favor to Louisa.”

  “I was so impressed to meet her. She was a big influence…” Instantly, Nancy looked impatient, and I stopped my babbling.

  “I’m sort of trying to help her. You talked about the Witnesses next door. Can I ask you more questions?’

  “That was my mistake. I never, ever talk about that. It’s all in the long-ago past. I don’t think…ah, hell, I’m here. Ask, but there’s not much to tell. And no promises that I’ll answer, either.” She sighed. “The truth is that mostly they are good neighbors. I hate to admit that, but most people would say so. Clean sidewalks, fall and winter. Keep up the buildings well. How do you think I learned my skills?” She laughed at my surprise. “Not that they let girls do men’s work, but I tagged around after my father, who was a master carpenter. Their way is to do every task the best way possible. And no loud parties and no garbage on the street, either. Like I said, good neighbors. And have you seen them with Louisa? Who is, let’s face it, a little hard to disagree with?”

  I nodded.

  “Patient, right?”

  I nodded again.

  “Nicest people you would ever want to meet.”

  “But?”

  “But they never, never, never give up, if they figure they are right. And they are never, never, never anything but right. Louisa looks tough, but compared to them, she is a noisy little terrier barking at a Saint Bernard.” She took a long swig of coffee and helped herself to part of my muffin after all. “That’s it. My take on what used to be my people. The end.”

  “Well, so. You think Louisa doesn’t have much of a chance.”

  She looked amused. “Watchtower and a real estate deal? Did you hear what I said about never giving up?”

  “How did you leave?” It popped out with no plan involved. I guess I really did want to know No, I was dying to know.

  She leaned back with a hard stare for me. “That would take a lot more time than we have. And it was a long time ago, too. I’m not the person I was then. Hell, is anyone? Are you?” She looked straight at me. “Twenty, thirty years down the road from when you were a kid?”

  “Not thirty years yet. But no, I’m not.” I thought about it. “Not even close.”

  She shrugged. “What does the past matter now?”
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  “Well, I’m a historian.” I tried a warm smile. “It always matters to me.” I could make a whole speech about why.

  She looked baffled. “What matters to me is what I see and hold and build. The details of what holds up a structure. Getting it right, the way it was meant to be at the start, well, that’s a tribute to those old craftsmen. They left all the instructions there in the work, if you know how to read it. And yeah, yeah, some of that, the doing it right, is a Witness teaching. But my own history?” She shuddered. “Good grief.”

  I waited, looking as interested as I felt. The caffeine was kicking in nicely.

  She shook her head again. “They’re all about faith. Believing what you can’t see or touch, because. Just because. You choose to.”

  “Because you want to.”

  “Yep. And I don’t choose to. Or maybe it’s that they’re afraid to be in the world without that. It’s too lonely.”

  “And you’re not afraid?”

  “Oh, hell, no, not of the things that worry them. I’m afraid of maybe falling off a roof. Or a boiler exploding. Reality.” She was silent, munching more muffin. “Thanks for the muffin, but I have to get going. To look at replacing a boiler, as a matter of fact.”

  “One last question? Your business office is on Atlantic Avenue, so what are you doing in a building on Henry Street?”

  Her almost friendly face shut down instantly. She shook her head and walked away.

  So all I had really learned from my early morning effort was that Nancy Long had some secrets. Everyone I met lately seemed to have secrets. Even Louisa Gibbs, whose life only appeared to be all public. What a waste of a few hours of my sleep. And I still had a whole day ahead to keep my eyes open and my mind working.

  I went through the motions very well. I wrote some memos, located important records for my architectural sculpture project, roughed out some copy for the exhibit about what these objects tell us about their time and place. Gave out intern assignments. Shared a joke with a colleague. It was sort of fun, and I knew I was doing it well, but there was a part of my mind processing in the background all day long, like a computer. I went over and over this newest of Brooklyn Heights questions. And how interesting a chapter I could write on my spec assignment if I could find some answers. And how I needed to do some more digging for Sergeant Torres.

  No, I was not obsessing. Not at all.

  Finally, I called Dr. Kingston. I could not confront Louisa. I could not bring myself to do it. But Dr. Kingston had studied Brooklyn Heights for years and years. He wrote the book. Literally. I had it on my office shelf. And he was a former professor, well known for liking to share wisdom and knowledge, as professors usually do. Sometimes to excess, as professors do. Anyway, he was more forthcoming than Nancy and more approachable than Louisa. At least I thought so.

  He was there. He was not busy. He needed exercise. He suggested meeting me after work for a short stroll in Prospect Park near my home. Perfect.

  We met at the park entrance, a massive display of civic sculpture in itself, located at the end of the even more massive circle of Grand Army Plaza, with its gigantic arch and multiple lanes of terrifying traffic. At the sight of his good-natured smile, stress from work, the need to accomplish things, deadlines, rolled away. He held two hot dogs from a street cart. Their unhealthy deliciousness, all garlic, crisp fatty skin, and mustard, would just hit the spot.

  We munched as we walked into the park, shuffling the fall leaves underfoot. Runners passed us, a school team, and some bicyclists. The road was theirs, the park having long since been closed to auto traffic. It was ours too.

  We turned to walk over a gracefully arched stone bridge. The sun was bright but low, and there was a bracing hint of chill in the air. I started to believe I might find a way through the muddle of my questions.

  “So what’s on your mind, young lady? Louisa hasn’t been up to anything dangerous, has she? I haven’t heard of anything lately.”

  “Not that I know about. They are sure she did not write the threatening letters, you know. But I have a feeling…well, I can’t help thinking the cops are still keeping an eye on her.”

  “Without a doubt. Too bad, but she has brought this on herself by her feuding. It will all go nowhere. She’s not a threat to anyone. She sounds fierce, but she’s all bark.” He looked at me sideways. “I assume you have already figured that out.”

  “I’ve been told that by others. Absolutely. But it’s still reassuring to hear it from you too.”

  “And what else is on your own mind? Have you picked up anything about the fire investigation?”

  “No, not a single thing. They say it takes a while, but I am so frustrated. Do you know anything? You seem pretty connected.”

  “Know? Not really, but I hear talk. No one believes for a second that it was an accident. No one. Last board meeting, no one could talk about anything else.” His smile then was a wry one. “Not one item on the meeting agenda was addressed that night.”

  “Seriously? What do you do then?” I couldn’t help being curious about how that could work.

  “Send a memo telling them what was decided! They know I’m doing the deciding, but they’re okay with that. But is there something else on your mind? Something about Brooklyn Heights history, hence your call to me?”

  “Did you mind? I am so grateful to tap into your expertise.” True, if also blatant flattery.

  “It’s yours for the asking. What’s the question?”

  “Do you know a renovation contractor named Nancy Long? “

  “Everyone in Brooklyn Heights knows Nancy. She’s very sought after. I’ve tried to get her to bring her expertise into the Historical Society but so far, no luck. She’s not too sociable and says she hates meetings. Too much like her childhood. You know she was a Witness?” He stopped walking and gave me a kind of hard look. “Why do you ask? Surely she is not a suspect for arson?”

  “No, no, certainly not. But I’d like to know more about her. She seems interesting. As a person? “

  “Nancy? I am surprised. Usually she fades into the woodwork, and I’ve always believed it’s her choice. The only interesting part of her is what she does with her hands. Her work is exquisite, I must say.”

  “So you don’t think there is something more than what she lets people see?”

  “Hard to say. You might have a point. But is what’s there interesting enough to excavate past that surface?” He gave me another sharp look. “And you didn’t get me over here merely for idle speculation, did you? What’s really on your mind?”

  “I think she’s got a big secret.”

  “Nancy? Beyond her secret recipe for cleaning up stained antique wallpaper? I’m sure she’s got one of those. And being raised as a Witness? And that’s not even a secret, though she never discusses it. Believe me, Louisa’s tried to pry out information and never got anywhere. She finally decided she’d rather have Nancy’s first-rate work than more ammunition for her fight with the Witnesses.”

  “It’s something else.” I thought about all she’d blurted out to me, and then regretted, and decided to stick to one thing. I told him about the building where she had disappeared, and who followed her into it. Did I have the address? Yes. I had a photo in my phone.

  He stared at it for a while. “I know that building. I have a board member who lives there. I never ran into Nancy, though. She has her own very fine house on Orange Street and a warehouse and offices way down near the docks. It’s not a one-woman operation by a long shot.” As we approached a different park entrance, the one with the elegant panthers perched on stone pillars, he pulled out his own phone and scrolled to an address.

  “It’s my board member. I’ll talk to her, and maybe she can tell you something useful. But may I ask why? What does it matter?”

  “I don’t know.” His look then was so kind, yet curious, I had to backtrack.
“I sort of know. It’s this article I’m trying to write. A chapter, really.” I was having trouble saying it. I felt pretentious, but then I gave myself a mental slap. Academics do write books.

  Once I’d explained how interesting this story might be and what it could lead to, he smiled broadly.

  “Good girl. Now is the time in your career to take every opportunity and run with it. We scholars—it’s too easy to get lost in the research and forget about how to function in the world.”

  “But wait.” I almost laughed. “Aren’t academic politics supposed to be as vicious as anyplace else?”

  “Or even more so. You know the joke? Because there is so little at stake! But jokes aside, you have a career now.” He pointed to a bench. “Sit.”

  He took out his phone. “Hi, Gloria, it’s Jeremy.” Pause to listen. “Oh, fine, fine. I have a young lady here with a question about your building. Does Nancy Long have a place there?” A pause. “What? Hold. Hold! I’m going to put you on speaker.” He fumbled. “Now say that again.”

  “She’s a mysterious one.” Her voice was humming with speculation. “She rents an office, and trust me, we all wonder about it. She’s only there a couple of days a week, but then there are kids in and out. What the heck is that? You know, the building’s a co-op. We’d all be responsible if there’s a problem.” Her voice went up. “Is there a problem?”

  I was listening hard to the crackling voice as Kingston snapped, “What in the world are you talking about?” He made an annoyed gesture to me as he listened, a tap on his head. He thought the speaker was a little off center.

  “Exactly what I said! Aren’t you listening? Something is not right there.” Her voice dropped. “What do you know? Anything?”

  “Gloria, you are imagining things.”

  “I am not! People on her floor are asking questions.” She gave a completely phony little laugh. “I’d suspect drugs, except for the fact that Nancy is Nancy. That’s impossible, isn’t it? But those kids seem so sneaky. You know, furtive.”