Brooklyn Legacies Read online

  “It would depend on what you mean by ‘a lot.’ Why do you ask?”

  “She seems like a person with an interesting past. I don’t know. The whole situation is weird enough to concern me a little. Maybe she really is in some danger? Maybe Daniel Towns is? Or, maybe she is actively involved?”

  “Come on!”

  She looked unimpressed. “There are others who are concerned about the situation.” She made a face. “It’s a Class A misdemeanor. We’re obligated to take a report at least.” She sighed. “What happens next is not entirely my call, even if it should be.” She only smiled ruefully before she left.

  Was she conning me? After the overheard conversation with her colleague, it was hard to believe she was genuinely concerned. They weren’t serious about any of these threats to this old woman I idolized. Their flippant attitude made me angry. I couldn’t just walk away. If I could find a way to help, I would.

  And then I returned to work, carrying a giant pretzel and a soda from a hot dog cart in front of the museum. Not the best lunch ever but not the worst, either.

  I did my work that afternoon, but my mind was still on Louisa. I remembered seeing her on television, many years ago, talking about the destruction and neglect of city life in scorching words. And I couldn’t shake thinking about her now, with her cane and her shaking hands. What else could I do?

  I could talk to Dr. Kingston. He seemed to be her friend. At least I could do that. I could even call it work, because I had a new idea about that plaque. Why not discuss it in person and lead the conversation to Mrs. Gibbs?

  I was in luck. He was available that evening. Hours later I waited for him at an old-school downtown Italian restaurant. No kale. No gluten-free pasta. Waiters in tuxedos. Lots of red sauce and Parm, like my elderly mother-in-law used to make. What a treat.

  Glasses of wine and plates of pasta ordered, Dr. Kingston said, “So, then, you’ve had a new inspiration about our mystery?”

  It took a second for me to remember that the first mystery we were going to discuss was not Mrs. Gibbs but the lost plaque.

  “Has anyone ever tried to find the owner of the luncheonette? Did he actually go home to Nicaragua? Did he ever come back to New York? “

  He smiled. “Any idea how many people named Manuel Alvarez there are out there?”

  I felt myself turn red. “I see.” Then I went on in a hurry. “I had something else on my mind. The plaque was kind of false pretenses. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I am intrigued.”

  I plunged in, telling him the whole story of the visit with the cops.

  “Louisa is getting letters, too? That’s a shock. And she never mentioned it to me.” He shook his head. “Didn’t want my advice, I suppose. Typical.”

  “What did you mean by ‘too’? Did you know about Daniel Towns?”

  “Oh, yes, I did. He told me himself. He is quite shaken by it. Crazy, isn’t it? That there is someone with a grudge? Making accusations? Amiable Mr. Towns—and he is amiable, even when we often disagree. Hate mail!”

  “But do you know what it’s about? Is it personal? Or about their business, the buildings and property?”

  “It does open up grounds for speculation, doesn’t it?” He chuckled. “It’s hard to imagine Daniel Towns has a secret life to write poison about.”

  “A secret life? Like…” I couldn’t help it. I was at the point of giggling. “Like a drug habit? Or gambling on horse races?”

  “Or a woman hidden away?” Kingston stopped, held up a hand. “The reality is that he was married, wife died years ago, no kids. Impossible to imagine him living a wild double life. This has to be about his work, but he didn’t tell me any details. It’s common knowledge he’s in a dispute with Louisa. You know the cops want her to come in and answer questions. Isn’t it obvious they would look at everyone like that?”

  “Is it a crime, if it’s no more than sending letters? They said a misdemeanor. What the heck does that even mean?”

  “No idea. I bet it’s the possibility of moving from words to action that worries them. Towns is, well, after all, he is a player in Heights business, especially now, though I’m sure he’d dispute that term.” His smile was a little mocking. “His ambition is not for worldly goals, you know.”

  “But you know Mrs. Gibbs well, don’t you? Why would someone be going after her that way?” I didn’t care so much about Towns. Yes, certainly there were people who dislike his beliefs. And for him, his beliefs were his whole life. So it was not unlikely that he had some enemies.

  “But she only turned to me because no one else was available.” I was thinking out loud. “Would she even cooperate about Towns’s letters? I don’t know her well enough to ask her something like that.”

  “Cooperate? Louisa? Ha! Trust me, she is not used to being questioned by anyone! But you’re kidding, right, asking why? You do know she’s made a few enemies along the way.”

  “Yes. I guess I do. I’d forgotten that. But aren’t they mostly businessmen? Politicians? It doesn’t fit. It’s so, so…”

  “Childish? Yes, unless it has already escalated up to crazy.” We both went silent, thinking that over.

  Then he said, hesitantly, “You, that is, we, all of us who are her friends, we do have to consider something else.” More hesitation. “Perhaps she actually is behind the Towns letters. The ideas sound like her, even if the sneaky method isn’t her style.” The sadness in his face must have mirrored my expression. “What if she is losing her grip? I know her memory is going. What if her judgment is, too? What if she even knows more about her own letters than she is telling? Think about it. How cooperative was she today?”

  “She did have quite a chip on her shoulder.”

  “You see? Her usual combative self, or a way to deflect questions?”

  “No. No, I don’t believe it.” I was appalled to realize my eyes were tearing up.

  “Well, her friends must consider all possibilities, I believe, if we are to help her. And in spite of herself, shall we say, she does still have some friends and many, many admirers. We’ll rally as much as she will allow. Help her deal with this latest two-edged worry.”

  “You mean, even if she doesn’t appreciate it?”

  We promised to keep in touch, and he said he would add me to an e-list of people who knew she needed support, even if it had to be behind her back. I had been absorbed into Friends of Louisa Gibbs. I was honored to be there.

  All the way home I thought about Louisa and her friends. Who knew her well? Who could help her here? Who could I talk to without offending her? I had a hunch offending her was not difficult.

  I wished the short bus ride was longer, because I didn’t have a single good idea. And I wanted to talk to Joe, but I thought I shouldn’t. It was someone else’s life, not for idle chatter. And maybe I didn’t want his advice, either.

  I didn’t have an idea until the next morning. And when I did, it wasn’t about Louisa.

  I wanted to talk to Daniel Towns again. He was the missing piece. Or, anyway, one of the missing pieces for understanding what was happening to Louisa.

  I thought he must know something about those letters. That was my idea when I woke up. All I had to do was figure out how to make him want to talk to me. Not a tiny problem. First, he was a busy man. And I didn’t think mentioning Louisa’s name would get me very far down the track. Scratch that. It would get me way back behind the starting line.

  I wondered. Theoretically I was writing something, a fascinating, timely sample chapter for the editor who had contacted me. So far this was only theoretical, but could I use it as an entry? Very politely? Just ask a few questions? And see where it could go once I had Towns’s attention?

  I do have a devious streak, though I try to limit it to manipulating my child as needed. After all I am an adult, not a devious teenager myself. Anymore. But this was a s
ituation where it might work for me.

  I called and spoke to an assistant. A very polite one. She agreed that Mr. Towns would be willing to talk, briefly, to a writer who was not a reporter and said she could fit me in in the early afternoon as he had another meeting canceled. He preferred face-to-face to phone. Perfect, I said.

  I could take a late lunch.

  I spent the morning working at my actual job, except for the moments I used to jot down my questions for Mr. Towns. My possible strategy. Yes, I was a more than a little distracted. It did occur to me that my real grown-up job was interfering with my other activities. Helping Louisa, an actual idol of mine, felt more compelling to me than my role at the museum. I firmly tamped down any consideration of what that might mean. I already had way too much to think about.

  I made it to my appointment with thirty seconds to spare, no time at all to look around the vast complex where Towns’s office was located. I entered the elevator from my rushed walk through the complex, adjusting my clothes, and breathing hard, trying to reach the office looking a lot more calm and composed than I felt.

  His assistant spoke to him briefly and introduced me. There was not a flicker of recognition, but he welcomed me politely enough.

  “I am always happy to have a chance to tell our story. What exactly did you want to know for your book?”

  “Well, I am writing a chapter on Brooklyn Heights.” I think I am, I thought, but did not say. “Maybe about the various subcultures like your organization, all living in this one neighborhood? The side-by-side experiences?”

  “We hardly think of ourselves as a subculture.” His voice was frosty.

  “No, no, no. I did not meant to offend.” What had I done? “Maybe community is a better word. But there are many groups, let’s say, here as in any city neighborhood, and I hope to write a little about how you all have learned to live together.” Had that done it?

  “I see.” He crossed the room to a large rack of pamphlets and selected several. “This will give you some background, how we came to be here and what our blessed goals have always been.”

  “Well, thank you. This will be helpful. I know you yourself have been here for a long time.”

  “Yes indeed, my whole adult life really. How did you know that?”

  “We met, briefly, one day.” I’d better be honest with him.

  He looked puzzled. “Ah. Louisa Gibbs’s garden. You are her friend?” Had his voice become a few degrees chillier?

  “I had met her that same day. I gather there is a dispute?”

  For a second he looked a lot less serene. “Yes, and our lawyers say I am not to discuss it at this time. At all. With anyone. So if that is your goal, this will be a brief conversation.”

  “No, no, not really. I was really wondering—” And inspiration came. “What did you think when you first came here? And where did you come from?”

  “I grew up in rural Pennsylvania. Farm country. New York in the 1970s was, well…” His expression changed so rapidly I could not guess what he would say. “Oh, it was a shock. People didn’t act…didn’t dress… It was a shock, but not …”

  “May I ask, was it confusing? I mean it was before my time, but I know, I’m a historian; it was confusing for many people.”

  “But I had my faith to show me the way. What more did I need?”

  A light knock on the door, and the assistant came in.

  “Here is the mail, Brother Towns. You said you wanted it right away. I put the important envelopes on top.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you, Sister Joan.” Turning to me he said, “Please excuse me for a moment. We are so busy with real estate and legal matters, I must be on top of all documents whether by mail or digital.” He sifted quickly through the stack, pulling out the top one and opening, nodding with satisfaction.

  “That is for Sister Joan to file. The rest can wait.” Then he reached the last letter and suddenly turned pale. I could see there was no stamp on the envelope. His eyes kept shifting to it as if it exerted magnetic force, all while he pretended to listen to my further questions.

  Finally, I had to say it. “Please don’t let me keep you from important business. I don’t mind waiting while you open that.” And maybe I would be able to read it upside down.

  Chapter Seven

  He opened it and read it while his hands trembled. His pale face grew paler, and his eyes stared vacantly, as if he were seeing something that was not his neat office and was not ordinary me. The letter fell onto his desk and then to the floor, so, naturally, I picked it up for him. I couldn’t help it that my eyes glanced over it as I called for his assistant.

  She hurried in, but by then he’d regained his self-control. His color had returned, and he was focusing his eyes on the letter still in my hand.

  “You dropped this. I’m sorry; I didn’t look at it.” The appropriate white lie for the moment.

  He rubbed his hand across his forehead and stared at the phone.

  “I have to call the woman sergeant, don’t I?” Was he addressing me or his assistant? “Torres?” He started flipping through an address book, growing frantic as he became frustrated by his inability to find the right page.

  “Let me.” The assistant took the book from his hands. “I’ll get you her number. And a glass of water for you?”

  He nodded, and she left. He stared at me.

  “You did see the letter, didn’t you? That vicious, lying piece of paper? I don’t know what will be next. Don’t know.” Then he swallowed hard a few times. “You are from outside, not in our fellowship and not from the law, so maybe you have a useful, objective thought. I have never before in my whole life had a question that could not be answered by our teachings.” He shook his head as if trying to clear the fog. “They keep coming and coming. And I don’t understand. I don’t. But you have already seen this.”

  He handed it back to me, and now I read it, my curiosity at war with my sympathy for this obviously frightened, elderly man. I read it a few times, and each time it seemed stranger than the last. I was relieved to see that it did not sound like Louisa, except for the anger. Biblical quotations were certainly not her style.

  There were random words of hatred that sounded biblical to me. “We were told a man or woman who is a medium or spiritist among you must be put to death.” A reference to the fire that time and what of the fire later? And to demons. Demons? Seriously? I began to feel I had gone through a looking glass into a strange world.

  The perfect old-fashioned handwriting said, “And Jesus rebuked him, and the demon came out of him, demoniacs, epileptics, paralytics; and He healed them.” Well, that certainly sounded like the New Testament, though I had no idea where.

  The last, chilling lines were, “But the fire does not purify and Jesus does not heal. Not me. Not them. That is the lie you told.”

  The actual sentences read like normal sentences, coherent and punctuated, but they did not make any sense.

  Might there be some reality, filtered through a delusional mind, angry and wounded? What it couldn’t be, I was convinced now, was anything to do with Louisa Gibbs. She’d have to have a whole second personality, which was ridiculous.

  I had to say something. Anything. “I know there were other letters. Were they all like this?”

  He shook his head. “At first they were only angry. Someone was angry at me. At me. I don’t understand. And then they started talking about justice, saying I would get what I deserved. To think I have spent my whole life trying to deserve eternal blessing.” He stopped, then started again, very slowly. “Trying to deserve the rewards we have been promised, but that was not what the writer meant. That much was clear.” He gave me a shaky, teary smile. “The only thing that was, perhaps.”

  “Is it just me, or is he quoting from the Bible? Some part of the Bible?” I really wanted to know. That was certainly not Louisa’s style, I though
t. And hoped.

  “Yes and no.” He sounded a little more sure of himself. “Some are verses of the Bible, and some only have a biblical sound.”

  “The rhythm? Vocabulary?”

  “Yes. I suppose, those things.”

  “The ones from before, where are they now?”

  “With Miss Torres. I mean, Sergeant Torres. Evidence, she said.”

  Like Louisa’s. That made sense, but I was disappointed.

  “But I have copies.”

  “I should have guessed. Could I see them?”

  “Yes, yes, why not? I have already said more than the good sergeant would like, and shared outside the fellowship more than I ever should have.”

  There they were, five letters in all, handwritten the old-fashioned way, like the newest one. Nothing to create a disguise, like cut-out and pasted letters or a word-processed page. Or even a typewriter. Not a very smart harasser, I thought, and immediately wondered what the police might have learned.

  The letters did escalate, from somewhat mild comments about hypocrisy to the loony ravings I had just read. The earliest actually could have been something Louisa might say, though it was impossible to imagine her slipping out late at night to drop off secret mail. The later letters could not possibly be from her.

  “Did you know Louisa Gibbs is also getting threatening letters?” I said it softly, no accusation, but I watched him carefully.

  “Louisa?”

  Was that an almost smile? It quickly changed into a face of serious concern, the frank open look he usually wore.

  “That is very strange, isn’t it? Someone harassing Louisa? Though she certainly has made enemies over the years. I myself…” He stopped, tapped the desk with his fingers, looked away from me. “We have had our difficult moments over the years, when appropriate manners and, um, respect, were worn very thin. A scary woman, to be sure.” He looked back at me, less frightened now and more curious. “What did they say?”

  “I have not seen them.” An easy out and conveniently the truth.