Brooklyn Legacies Read online

  I left to go to the Brooklyn history division of the library and dig through the clipping files. I called to the menfolk over the loud broadcast—why are sports programs so noisy?—and left to get some work done. The afternoon was disappearing too rapidly.

  Find random useful information about Louisa, as I had begun to think of her, and the Watchtower Society and Brooklyn Heights. I needed information not in the easy public records. Yes, there were tons of information that mentioned both parties, but nothing that told me anything new. But, I thought, she had lived a public life. There must be more.

  At first I found nothing I had not seen before. This call for historic protection, that concern over inappropriate historic reconstruction of old buildings, with them on opposite sides, and long since resolved. Nervous residents talking about the ongoing sale of the Witnesses buildings and what it meant. All very public, all very known by those who were interested, and sometimes hotly disputed, but nothing close to what I was looking for.

  I began again, anxiously checking the clock for the room’s closing hours. I looked this time very specifically at Louisa’s own home and the more modern Watchtower-built structure next to it. I tried not to become sidetracked by the oldest photos, showing the famous Gibbs mansion when it was new and a valued addition to the Brooklyn Heights streetscape.

  The exterior had changed only a little over time. Some minor changes made it more fashionable as tastes changed. In the society pages I found family portraits from the 1920s, as they hosted large Christmas parties. There were gigantic evergreens in the drawing room where we had tea. They were decorated with real candles, and a dressed-up family stood in front of it, a woman in a beaded 1920s chemise dress, a man and some boys in high-collared dress shirts and three-piece suits, like actors in silent films. The man had a watch chain draped across his elegant vest. And there was a tiny girl with a Dutch bob, a giant bow in her hair, and a belligerent expression. Louisa. She had the same fierce gaze she had now.

  Buried in there was a subfile, perhaps misfiled decades ago. It was clippings about a fire on that block.

  That got my attention. The old houses often did not have good fireproofing, or any at all. Some were wood, not stone, and some stone ones had old wood frameworks that caught fire easily and burned quickly. There was a famous wintertime fire that destroyed a hotel because the cold froze the water lines. I had seen photos of the fire trucks covered with ice.

  This one was in 1973, and it destroyed a building at what was—wait a minute, I thought. Did I have the address correct? I found a photo. Yes. The fire destroyed the old building next to Louisa’s house, the one on the spot where the Watchtower building now stood. And hadn’t Mr. Towns told me that it was a derelict building, demolished for the new construction? Impossible that he had not known about the dramatic fire. Something was weird about this.

  I took the time to read it all. This was a very old building, dry as tinder, with apartments above and the first floor long ago turned into small shops.

  It was the last article, which I skimmed quickly in the flickering lights signaling closing time, that riveted my complete attention. A week after that fire, it was established that there were three deaths. One elderly tenant who had not heard the alarms and trucks, and two workers in the shop.

  And then I read that the shop on the ground floor, completely destroyed, was a witchcraft store. How was that possible? I had to go back and read it again. And then one more time. I kept thinking that was impossible. I must have misunderstood.

  The library was closing as I read the article. No time even to make a copy of it, with a security officer walking through, clearing the room, so I noted the source—the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper—and went down the stairs and through the atrium with the other stragglers, still dumbfounded by what I had read.

  No historical imagination could put such a shop on that quietly genteel street. Mine couldn’t. I tried all the way home, and my highly trained historical imagination is more powerful than most.

  I wanted to look for more, but life engulfed me as soon as I went through the door. Chris needed help with an assignment and a chance to complain about her unrelenting teachers. My help was forthcoming; my sympathy was limited.

  Game over, Dad was gone and Joe had a big welcome hug and dinner still warm on the stove. I put my work in the mental compartment where it belonged and took out my other self, but late at night, in my dark, quiet house, I was suddenly wide awake. I had taken on a job and so far had produced nothing useful. Or was what I had stumbled on today useful? If not, would I still be paid for my time? Typical 3:00 a.m. thoughts suited to that dark, quiet time when anxiety attacks.

  The true solution was to stop squeezing my eyes shut in the vain hope that doing so would force me back to sleep and get up to do something. It would involve a computer and more research in my silent house.

  I found the article I’d seen in the library folder and typed in the name of the shop. There it was, a very old photo, older than I am, a streetscape with the store’s facade. Wise Women Krafte. An old building, not quaint, not elegant, in fact barely livable, right next to Louisa’s elegant home. I thought about the bizarre neighbor interactions it must have created. So. Proof that I had not imagined the whole thing. Now I was wide awake

  And were there stories. Most were fascinating, absurd, nostalgic, and highly suspect as history, written by people who had sampled the witchcraft scene of the time. Yes, to my astonishment, there really was such a scene, complete with self-designated witches. And it was not in a dark German forest or an ancient Celtic hilltop but right here in Brooklyn. Before I was even born, there they were amid the striving young families who were starting up nursery schools and renovating brownstones with sweat equity. There amid the clean-cut, clean-shaven, clean-thinking, fresh- from-small-town-America Jehovah’s Witnesses. There amid the fashionable young people in their flowered, baggy shirts, long hair, miniskirts, all the swirling Day-Glo of a Peter Max poster. And recreational drugs. The lyrics of “White Rabbit” were quoted often: “Feed your head!” Articles took it for granted there was some overlap between psychedelic styles, psychedelic substances, and the mysticism of the other realms.

  As my head was drooping toward my keyboard, I went back to bed, to a confusing sleep full of bright paisley swirls of color that became progressively darker, and a kind of droning music. Sitar? Lovely at first, then hypnotic. And then, disturbing.

  It was a relief to wake up to my everyday world of chilly fall rain, coffee and toast, Joe singing in the shower, Chris’s after-school agenda. It pushed away those disturbing dreams in an instant.

  At work I wrote a mundane report, lunched with a friendly colleague, avoided a supercilious one. OK’d Chris’s text about after-school plans. Sent a smiley face emoji in response to Joe’s “Spaghetti tonight?” And still heard the drone of that sitar in my mind.

  And then I got the first letter. When I came home, it lay on the floor of my foyer, in between the outer and inner door, under the mail slot, mixed in the pile of junk mail and worthy and unworthy requests for money. As if I had a cent to spare. No stamp. No postmark. A thick luxurious envelope with my name in ink, elegantly handwritten. It looked like a wedding invitation. Odd, I thought. I wasn’t expecting any special events. It said, “Stop looking at matters that don’t concern you. Consider this a warning.”

  I dropped it as if it burned my hand, and then picked it up again. If the sender wanted to get my attention, he—she? they?—had succeeded. Then I set it aside. Then I picked it up again and put it in my desk drawer. I did not want Chris to see it lying around. I did not want Joe to see it, and…hmm. Because I did not want to have the discussion that would follow? Not yet. I didn’t think it out very thoroughly. Possibly I thought if I could hide it and not tell anyone, it would disappear.

  That didn’t work at all. There was another envelope the next day. This time it said, “Pay attention.
We are watching. We know.”

  That scared me, even while a voice in my mind said, “This is all bravado.” What could they be watching? And what could they know? Whoever it is.

  But the smarter part of my mind reached for the phone and called Sergeant Torres.

  When I told her, there was a long silence before she said “That’s not good.” Then there were the questions. Any vandalism? Face-to-face threats? Or by phone or social media? Had I been followed? By car or on foot?

  I had a clear no to most of them. The one about being followed had to be “Not that I know of.”

  Another long silence, then, “You’re not qualified to give a definitive answer, but what is your overall impression? Does it look at all like the handwriting of the ones Towns was getting? Or Gibbs?”

  I reminded her, perhaps with attitude, that she’d never shown me the ones Towns got. I’d seen them at Towns’s office, though. She said softly, “Oh, yeah. Sorry. It’s the end of a long day for me. Okay, I need to see yours. I could pick them up at your house. I’m leaving for home now if nothing else happens. Swing by?”

  What could I say? I said yes, and thanks, and tried to remember if Chris would be home. Or Joe. I was creeped out enough that I would have been happy to have some company right now. Even my Dad. And just determined enough to protect them all that I hoped they would not be here when the sergeant arrived.

  OK. Protect Chris. I would need protection myself from Joe’s comments. Dad? Well, I’d been ignoring his since I was fourteen. I could deal.

  Chapter Ten

  I had barely enough time to manically pick up the living room, find the first letter in my desk, and check the whiteboard calendar in the kitchen. Chris would be home any minute. Joe had a client consult and would be home later.

  I had an inspiration and quickly texted Chris. “Get takeout. Your choice. Charge $$. OK?” There was an instant “K,” and I knew she would be delayed a little. Busy time of the evening for picking up takeout dinners.

  Brew coffee? Pour wine? Snacks? That was my mother whispering in my ear. I told her ghost this was business, not social. No hostessing required. In reality, busy hostess tasks might have calmed my nerves.

  Torres was there soon and found parking immediately in a no-parking area. I thought enviously that must be a perk of being a cop. We sat at the dining table, where there was good light, and I handed her my letters. She took some photocopied pages from a large envelope and compared them, handling my two notes very carefully.

  “The letters Towns got. See? They do look similar. Not that I’m qualified to make that judgment, either, but just by eyeballing.”

  Yes, I saw. Elegant, old-fashioned penmanship. Copperplate? Spencerian? Italic? I had no idea what it was called. It had never come up in my history studies. But it was similar.

  “There’s a surprise, though.”

  “Oh?”

  She nodded. “New letters to Mr. Towns.”

  “Since I saw him? He told you about the one from the day I was there?”

  She nodded again. “One more, even stranger. I brought you a copy.”

  Then she very carefully picked up my two notes and read them again. “Let me take these, show them to the analyst, get prints. We might need yours to compare.” They went into a zippered plastic bag. She took a deep breath. “Honestly, I think this is to rattle you, and not more than that. Is it succeeding?”

  I wanted to say, “Hell, no.” Some dumb schoolyard bully notes? I really wanted to be that person, but I told the truth and admitted to being rattled.

  “Well, it is bizarre. Here you are, acting like a normal citizen going about your business. You work in a museum. Not exactly a high-risk job. Homeowner. Taxpayer. PTA member? What could be more boring?”

  I nodded. That’s me, as ordinary as can be. Except for a few accidental adventures.

  “Still. This is like a very vague, boogeyman type of threat. Know what I mean?”

  I did.

  “Interesting, maybe, that this is all so old-fashioned, isn’t it? No email, Twitter, or anything else. Not even typing. Plain old paper. “

  “Like it’s someone old? Goes with the handwriting?”

  She sighed. “Or maybe it means not a damn thing. Anyway, for now, please use more than usual caution. Keep your eyes open and wits sharp.”

  “I always do.” At least I liked to think so. There were those who would disagree.

  “And you must call me ASAP if you get more. Or if anything else happens, OK? I’m giving you my direct number. Keep it. Use it.”

  “I will.

  She stood, collecting her possessions.

  “Wait. I want to ask you about the fire.”

  “Do I look like a firefighter?” But she smiled when she said it. “Why do you think I know anything?”

  “You said it. The police force is gossipy.” I wasn’t going to let her brush me off. “I’m betting you have sources in other departments, too? And it’s your turf.”

  “Yeah, all true.” She sat down again. “OK. I can say this. It’s not our investigation unless someone is killed. So that didn’t happen. But, yes, I know a few people. We overlap around situations sometimes, sure.”

  “And? Do they know what happened? Last public word was ‘still under investigation.’”

  She nodded. “True. They are careful and it takes time. Very picky work but, yes, they are treating it as arson. My friend says not a doubt about that. They are sifting through the evidence to lock in how.”

  “And who?”

  “Working on it. Slow and steady. Arson cases are tough to solve. Why are you asking?”

  “How could I not be interested? I saw it. I was right there. It was directed—okay, okay, maybe directed—at someone I care about. And landmarked property might have been destroyed. I care about that, too. I want to know!”

  “You could have been a cop. You think like one. Give it a thought, if this history gig doesn’t work out.” She looked me up and down. “You might need a bit of boot camp physical training first.” We both started laughing. “I’m heading off home now. Get in touch if you have any further thoughts on the letters? I’ll be interested.”

  As soon as she was gone, I pulled out the new Towns letter, hoping to get somewhere before Chris came in.

  The first ones I read in Towns’s office had sounded like Louisa, much as I wanted to deny it. They accused him of stealing and of hypocrisy. I could hear her voice.

  I started making notes, to refresh my memory.

  Those letters appeared coherent in a way. Real sentences, real punctuation. It was only when you thought about the content, what those sentences said, that they actually seemed crazy.

  Another reminder to myself: ask Torres if there had been some kind of psych evaluation.

  This letter was different. It read like an escalation of craziness. Or a mind breaking down. More hateful words but even less sense. More random and even vaguer threats.

  Maybe I needed to track down those biblical-sounding phrases, though. Maybe there was a theme. Then again, maybe it was complete nonsense.

  Maybe I needed to put it all away for now. Chris was wrestling with the sticky front door and trailed clouds of delicious garlic and soy smells.

  Later that evening I heard from Leary about our dinner with Louisa. He wanted me to pick him up in my car tomorrow night and chauffeur him over to the hotel where she was staying until her house was repaired.

  That night Leary came out of his building on crutches instead of his wheelchair, looking determined. I could see it was hard for him, but he muttered something about standing up like a man. I also noted that he was wearing a jacket and a tie.

  I was surprised he even owned a tie, let alone a jacket. He had shaved, too.

  “You’re all duded up tonight. Just how well did you know Louisa Gibbs back in the day?” I
was teasing, expecting his usual grumpy response.

  Instead there was a long silence and then a very faint, “Not as well as I would have liked. I was a kid then, young reporter. She was, oh, hell.” He said it softly.

  “Sounds like you liked her a lot. I am shocked.”

  “Shut up. She was like…like Katharine Hepburn in a movie. Know what I mean? A woman of the world. Certainly not my world. But I covered so many of her stories, we finally got acquainted.”

  I was pretty sure that was the most personal thing I’d ever heard him say.

  Finally, I was able to choke out a soft “Would you like to tell me more?”

  “No. Not at all.” That didn’t surprise me, but then he added, “I was real young, a raw kid from the outer part of the outer borough. You know?”

  “I do. My home turf, too.”

  “To tell the truth, I’d never met anyone like her, then or since. Not afraid of anything. Didn’t care what people thought. She looked like Mrs. Astor on the society page, but she could lead a demonstration like…like… I don’t know. Lady Liberty on a poster, at the front of an army.”

  More interesting by the moment and shocking, too. Leary waxing poetic? I didn’t think he had it in him. I waited, concentrated on the traffic, and waited.

  “Not that she ever saw anything in me except a baby reporter kid she could feed information to. And she’d been married twice and wasn’t looking for love anymore. She was more than okay with hero worship, though.” My eyes were glued to the traffic, but I could hear the smile in his voice. “I was happy to have a drink with her occasionally and scoop up whatever she was tossing my way. She was using me, sure, though I was too green to know it, but I wouldn’t have cared. It was like there was a special spotlight on her, all the time.”

  Leary in love? Or in awe? I couldn’t tell, but it was a revelation either way.

  “But you stayed friends?”