Brooklyn Legacies

Copyright © 2020 by Triss Stein

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Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Stein, Triss, author.

Title: Brooklyn legacies / Triss Stein.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks, [2019]

Identifiers: LCCN 2019027072 | (trade paperback)

Classification: LCC PS3569.T37543 B765 2019 | DDC 813/.54--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019027072

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Afterword

About the Author

Back Cover

Acknowledgments

Brooklyn Legacies is a book that needed a lot of background information. Any mistakes are all my own.

Tremendous thanks to:

Martin Schneider, who was active in the creation of the Brooklyn Heights Historic District and wrote the book. Literally. It’s called Battling for Brooklyn Heights: The Fight for New York’s First Historic District. He kindly shared many memories, answered questions and brought me the story of the Walt Whitman plaque.

Peter Bray of the Brooklyn Heights Association, who helped me connect with Martin and got me started on this story.

Sheila Lowe, author of the Forensic Handwriting Mysteries series, who repeatedly provided reality checks on that topic and also, with great generosity, shared her past as a Jehovah’s Witness.

Bernard Whalen and Marco Conelli, fellow members of Mystery Writers of America–New York Chapter. By cheerfully sharing information from their years in law enforcement, they save us all from silly mistakes.

Thomas Dunne, retired deputy chief and thirty-three-year-veteran of the New York City Fire Department, who answered many questions about what actually happens at, and after, a fire. More saving from silly mistakes.

As always, the extremely helpful and expert staff at the Brooklyn Public Library’s Brooklyn Collection and their invaluable files.

Queens Mystery Writers Group. We talk, we eat, we support each other, we figure it out. Laura Joh Rowland, Nancy Bilyeau, Jen Kitses, Mariah Frederick, Shizuka Otake, and Radha Vatsal.

And my family, as always.

Chapter One

When I was growing up in Brooklyn, I didn’t even know a place like Brooklyn Heights existed. In my neighborhood, people didn’t see much reason to leave home. An excursion to Manhattan once a year was considered plenty. On the way, I could see Brooklyn Heights as we crossed a bridge into the city, but I could not see much. There were the roofs of the low buildings. A sprawling complex with a gigantic mysterious sign—WATCHTOWER—on its roof dominated everything else. It looked a little ominous.

The first time I really saw the Heights was when a college professor commanded us to visit the famous Brooklyn Heights Promenade. We were studying the conflicts between neighborhood activists and city planners—not a new story and certainly not unique to Brooklyn—and the promenade was born of an important early battle over homes versus highways. He told us to find our way to Brooklyn Heights. Didn’t we know a direct subway line ran right past the Brooklyn College campus?

I discovered a whole neighborhood of quaint brick row houses interspersed with later, more elaborate brownstones, scattered apartment buildings, and a couple of gigantic, once-elegant, hotels. How had I not known about this?

As I wandered away from the busy commercial district, the streets became hushed, the houses even older. The pavement was dotted with patches of cobblestone. I had the strangest feeling that I might turn a corner and find something unexpected, even magical, a stray cat that could actually whistle up a storm, an antique shop where the owner was a magician, a mouse who had his own sailboat, a library with a book that told me how to become a wizard.

Back then I was still young enough to have childhood books still alive in my mind, although I thought I’d outgrown them all.

To my further astonishment I walked past a three-story frame house, built right out to the sidewalk, looking like a colonial house from—where?—New England? I’d never been to any other state except New Jersey, but I had seen pictures. How could this be the same Brooklyn I called home?

It didn’t look like the site of the vicious civic battles our professor had described. I shook off the fantasies and started taking notes for class. The charming surface was not our assignment.

Years later I was sneaking in a short, reminiscent look around before I had a genuine work meeting. It was a beautiful bright fall day with a crisp breeze off the harbor. I was a different person by then.

I had written a dissertation chapter on those civic battles. I had worked nearby for a while at a small Brooklyn history museum. By then I was a grad student in history, a single mother of a teenager, a widow with not one minute for exploring any neighborhood. Barely enough time to sleep.

Still, it was always worth stealing a few minutes for the promenade. The broad walkway with benches was built out over the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, effectively both hiding the highway and giving the pedestrians a spectacular view out over the majestic harbor and the dramatic skyline of lower Manhattan. The vastness of the view and the heart-stopping beauty astounded me every time.

There were sailboats, tugboats, and barges on the water, islands, a proud display of skyscrapers across the East River, and a series of magnificent bridges in both directions. All this was born because Robert Moses, the late city-planning czar, had wanted to run the expressway right through a living neighborhood, and the neighborhood had fought for its life and won.

My dissertation chapter was about the local activists, a coalition of young families who had settled in Brooklyn’s posh old neighborhood, old families who already had deep roots, and urban activists who passionately believed that preserving neighborhood life was essential for any city. It was something new for a Brooklyn neighborhood. Jane Jacobs was their patron saint. The powerful and secretive Robert Moses loomed over the dispute, expecting his much different vision to win out in the end. The building developers wanted to tear it all down and build towers.

I finally found out what Watchtower meant. The sign marked the world headquarters of the Jehovah’s Witnesses religious organization. To my surprise, the denomination was one of the biggest property owners in Brooklyn Heights.

Having finished my degree—finally!—I now had a real job at a famous art museum. Health insurance, a title, and everything. I swung between panic that I did not understand how a real job situation worked and a firm belief that I knew what I was doing.

This day I was going to see a man about a piece of art.

We were planning to bring out of storage more of our quirky collection of architectural art. The sculpture garden already had ancient-Greek-style winged horses, a bronze dying Indian on horseback, and a miniature Statue of Liberty. No kidding. They were relics of a time when commercial building owners used art to make a statement about their property’s importance and their own superior taste.

Being new, I was working hard, acquainting myself with the records on everything relevant. That’s how I came across the Case of the Missing Whitman Plaque. Yes, I did secretly think of it that way. Very Nancy Drew.

The folder I found contained only a tattered local newspaper clipping from 1961 describing the bronze plaque created to identify the building where Leaves of Grass had been printed. Whitman himself had helped set the type.

By the time the article had been published, the organization that had commissioned the plaque was long gone, the printing shop was longer gone, the location was a small luncheonette, and the building was scheduled for demolition. Middle-income housing was going up on that shabby block. Attempts were being made to purchase the plaque and house it at the museum. And that was it. My research dead-ended there.

I had an appointment with a Dr. Kingston, a local historian who might know more. He was a retired history professor and longtime manager of the historical society in Brooklyn Heights.

An elderly man, he welcomed me with a genial smile and apologized for his office, which was crammed with file cabinets and a few pieces of shabby furniture covered with piles of folders. When he made a joke about the mess, and I replied with one about how it looked just like a historian’s office should, we knew immediately that we spoke the same language.

He had a decades-old letter from the Nicaraguan consulate to the owner of the luncheonette, a Nicaraguan immigrant. Another memo established that there was no clear ownership of the plaque. A photo of the actual plaque showed an elaborate piece of bronze bas-relief, a portrait of Whitman, Brooklyn’s very own genius. But there was nothing to say where it had gone. Not one thing.

Before we were ready to draw the obvious conclusion, there was a sharp rap on the outer door, and, without waiting for a response, someone came in.

Jeremy, I must talk to you. Right now. When she appeared in the doorway of his office, her face was furious and his was red.

Now, Louisa. Louisa! You can see I have a visitor. You’ll have to make an appointment.

I will not. I certainly will not. I must talk to you about the latest outrage from that Bible-thumping snake in the grass. I’ll wait in your foyer. She turned but said over her shoulder, Don’t forget I can hear every word you say.

Who was a Bible-thumping snake? And why was this very erect white-haired woman in such a fury? In her ladylike navy suit, nylons, a smart hat with a feather, and a double string of pearls, she didn’t look like someone who made a habit of going into furious rages. Her appearance was emphatically old-fashioned for these casual times. Expensive, too, if the pearls were real. The purple running shoes were a startling accessory, though, as was the gold-headed cane.

Dr. Kingston looked both annoyed and resigned. He silently mouthed to me, Do you mind?

Mind? I was tingling with curiosity.

Come on in, Louisa. Meet Dr. Donato, from the Brooklyn Museum. She’s going to wait to finish our meeting. For which she had an appointment, by the way.

The woman walked back in briskly, ignoring her elegant cane. She ignored me, too, and leaned on the edge of the desk instead of sitting.

He’s done it again, that old hypocrite! Sent me a claim that my garden impinges on their property line. Brotherly love, my old Brooklyn ass!

Well, I’m not sure brotherly love in general…

Oh, stop it, Jeremy. I don’t care what they believe, as long as God being on their side doesn’t mean stealing my property. They seem to believe I am too old to fight.

He looked at her with a calm I suspected he did not feel. You’ll never be too old to fight.

Damn straight. She fell silent.

So what is it this time?

That building they have next to me. They are selling it. Did you know?

Everyone knows. They’re moving their headquarters upstate and selling off all their properties here.

Was he talking about the Jehovah’s Witnesses and their Watchtower Society?

They took over this whole neighborhood. Or they tried.

He silently looked at her with a faint smile, and she dialed it down a notch or two.

Oh, all right. Only part of the neighborhood. A tax-exempt conglomerate, that’s what they are. But they can’t have my little bit, too.

We were getting to the heart of the issue, I thought. Could I discreetly take notes? Or maybe turn on the recording function of my phone, if I remembered how?

Now are you going to tell me what’s on your mind, or continue to waste my time? And Dr. Donato’s? Yours, too.

She smiled a little, but not happily. Right. At my age, I don’t have time to waste. She took a deep breath. The buyer’s surveyor claims the property line extends all the way into my garden. In other words, they own a strip of my land. Did you ever hear of anything so ridiculous?

And…?

And? Isn’t it obvious? I need you to help dig up the old deeds, prove them wrong. That’s all.

Louisa, Louisa. You know I’m sympathetic but haven’t we been here before? It’s not my job. I’m only here part-time, and I don’t even have an assistant. You’re going to have to break down and hire a real-estate attorney.

Nope. No. No. Why should I spend the money when they are in the wrong? He tried to respond, but she cut him off. You could talk to him.

Their lawyer? Not a chance.

No. Try to follow along, Jeremy. I want you to talk to your Watchtower buddy for me. Daniel Towns. He’s behind all this.

I was intrigued by her, but I was having a lot of trouble following her scattered tale of woe.

A long way from being my buddy. We’ve merely worked together cordially over the years. You know very well they’ve done a first-class job of restoring some of their buildings.

Cordial? You mean unlike my dealings with him?

He made a protesting gesture, but she went right on. Come on. You know that was what you were thinking. She stood up at last, looking the tiniest bit less furious. Well, that’s what I came to say. Talk to him for me. Get him to see reason. You will, won’t you? I need to get this done. It’s my home, and my last preservation project, I expect.

She shook his hand with old-fashioned courtesy—not that she’d shown any until then—and left.

I was exploding with questions, but Dr. Kingston held up his hand.

Give me a minute. I need a little recovery time after a visit from the grand duchess. He saw my face, shook his head, and gulped the last of his coffee from a paper cup. No, she’s not really a duchess, though she might have some delusions in that direction. She is Louisa McWilliams Gibbs, who is certainly the duchess of Brooklyn Heights.

Seriously? I squeaked. "The Louisa Gibbs? I didn’t know she was still…I mean, I thought…"

Oh, yes, she is still around. That’s what you’re not saying, isn’t it? Alive and kicking and still able to be a serious pain in the patoot for the local history community.

I read her books in at least two classes. She is a giant. I wish I had known. I would have said something. She was…she is…

He smiled at my incoherent fan-girl reaction, and I was embarrassed. What am I, a teenager meeting a rock star? Actually, my real teen daughter would be cooler than me. A humiliating thought.

But Louisa Gibbs was a genuinely important figure in my world, the world of urban neighborhoods and urban history. In a city famous for daily destroying the memories of yesterday, she was one of the early voices for preserving city neighborhoods and honoring the city’s past. And she had been a leader in the battle to turn Brooklyn Heights into the city’s very first protected historic district. How could I not be excited?

I said it out loud.

Oh, yes, she was a trailblazer in her day. That’s why I tolerate her now, in spite of everything. I’ve known her forty years or so, and she was famous even then. That’s her right there. He pointed to one of the framed photos on the wall, and I moved to see it up close. It showed a respectable-looking line of protesters, the men in suits, hats, and ties and the women in high heels and hats, holding up signs, with a tall woman leading them. Louisa Gibbs. She was a well-dressed crusader.

She’s past her demonstrating days now, though I’ve seen her whip out a petition in a supermarket line to demand signatures. But she’s too frail for crowds, even in well-behaved meetings. She did make it to this year’s holiday party though, for a little conversation and few cups of punch. He shook his head, smiling. I started to suspect that he was fond of her. Ah, well, I’m sorry about the interruption. Let’s get back to work here.

It didn’t take us long. We concluded there was no one who knew what had become of that Whitman plaque. The plan was that the Nicaraguan consul would purchase it from the luncheonette owner for a reasonable price before he returned to his home in Nicaragua and then the consulate would graciously donate it back to Brooklyn. Nothing about that plan made sense to either of us, and the paper trail had no more clues.

Before I left I took one more look at the photo of Louisa Gibbs leading a demonstration, and then some of the other pictures on the wall: Margaret Truman with her father, Harry S Truman, who was then a senator, christening the battleship Missouri at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Framed headlines from when the Dodgers beat the Yankees in the World Series. Fireworks at the opening of the Brooklyn Bridge. Odd, intricate drawings signed Kingston in flowing script.

When I left it was too late to go back to my office, and besides, I had one more reason to walk around the neighborhood and refresh my memory about its surprises.

A little article I wrote for a local blog had caught the eye of a book editor. He emailed. Then he called. He said all things Brooklyn were hot. Neighborhood change was hot. He said I had a relatable writing style. He urged me to write a few sample chapters of a possible book. He didn’t accept that I had more important things going on in my life. With his deep voice and self-assured words I pictured a middle-aged man who looked a lot like Jason Robards