Spirits in the Park (14 page)

“Don't be stupid,” Rory answered, his voice tired. “Our dad is the infamous Harry Meester, we just have to accept it. He was a bad guy.”

“But that was a hundred and fifty years ago,” Bridget pointed out. “Is he a god or spirit or something? Wouldn't that make us spirits? I don't feel like a spirit. No one at school had any trouble seeing me when Julie Menendez pantsed me in gym class. Hex has the wrong guy.”

“I don't know what Dad is. But I know I saw him on the Half Moon. And Verrazano recognized him in my face. So it isn't just Hex I'm listening to. It's all the facts.”

“They're stupid facts.” Bridget felt herself choking up. Tears came unbidden to her eyes. “And even if he was this Harry Meester guy, I'm sure he had a reason to do what he did. Maybe he was a double agent. Or maybe there was blackmail. Or maybe Bucky was really a bad guy and we just don't realize it. Or maybe—”

Rory cut her off. “There are a million maybes, Bridge. Maybe you're right. We're gonna track him down and find out. You're gonna get your wish after all.”

“But he could be anywhere! Out to sea, underground, anywhere!” As she made excuses for why they wouldn't be finding their father anytime soon, Bridget realized that she didn't want to see him under these circumstances. She was afraid of what he might say. “We should just follow the necklace and find Olathe. I bet she knows more than Dad!”

“I'm sorry, Bridget.”

Suddenly the wagon pulled up short, sending their heads banging into the ceiling again. Light streamed in as the false floor lifted away to reveal Diedrich's concerned face.

“Are you two all right?” he asked.

Bridget gave him her most withering glare. “I may never see straight again!” she announced. She pulled herself unsteadily to her feet, grabbing the papier-mâché version of herself for support. Diedrich helped her from the wagon, then turned back to assist her brother.

“Where are we?” Rory asked as he dropped to the sidewalk. They stood on a quiet street corner. The area felt secluded; not many cars passed by and the cozy street itself ran only six blocks or so before it ended in a small, gated park. Beautiful brownstones and ornate stone apartment buildings lined the sidewalk, with some well-maintained carriage houses mixed in. She spied a street sign that read IRVING PLACE, which would make the small park at the end of the street the exclusive Gramercy Park, for which you had to have a key to enter (which had never sounded very fair to her). All of Irving Place felt as if it hadn't changed in decades, and Bridget found herself wishing she could live on such a beautiful, peaceful street.

Their destination waited directly in front of them, a small brick building on the corner of Irving and 17th Street, red in color with a black wrought-iron fence around the base. On the 17th Street side next to a big bay window, a stone stoop led up to the front door, which had opened to reveal Alexa, Simon at her side.

“Come in! Quick!” she hissed. “We didn't sneak you all the way here to have you be discovered on the sidewalk. Come on!”

Rory ran up the steps, Tucket trotting right behind him. Bridget lifted her paper body and climbed after them. Halfway up the stairs, she saw an old plaque built into the outside wall. It featured a bronzed portrait of a handsome man with unruly hair, surrounded by scenes of people riding horses through the woods and holding muskets. It read: THIS HOUSE WAS ONCE THE HOME OF WASHINGTON IRVING.

So it was with little surprise that Bridget found herself, just moments later, being introduced to the man of the house, the great Washington Irving himself.

“Hello, hello!” Irving said, beaming with delight at his guests. He looked just like his bronze portrait, with his messy hair swept forward onto his forehead. “Wonderful to see you, simply wonderful. I'm happy to be home to accommodate you, as I've only just returned from a voyage deep into the mists, where I discovered a rare plant that enables all who consume it to speak any language they wish. Sadly, I've just eaten the last of it, but it was horrible-tasting, I can assure you! Waggo uncho licgitum! That's ‘welcome to my home!' in Swahili!”

Rory's eyes narrowed.

“I don't believe you,” he said suspiciously.

“Rory!” Bridget was horrified. That was no way to treat a possible benefactor.

Alexa burst out laughing. “Mr. Irving is the God of Tall Tales,” she explained, eyes twinkling merrily.

“Indeed I am, indeed I am,” Irving admitted, smiling un-apologetically. “Certainly you could tell the story of my recent travels another way. You could say I went to the market and bought some string beans from an Italian gentleman who taught me how to say thank you by saying ‘grazie!' But I've already put you to sleep with that version.”

“So you don't tell the truth?” Rory asked, not looking happy about that at all.

“Of course I do,” Irving replied blithely, unfazed by Rory's rudeness. “I just dress it up a bit. Make it more interesting. The plain old truth is so dull, isn't it? And rarely as ‘true' as most people insist.”

Bridget knew right then that she'd found a friend.

“I feel the same way,” she said fervently, and was rewarded with a huge smile.

“Do you?” Irving said. “Then we will get along fine. Ice cream?”

“Don't mind if I do!” Bridget replied, sweeping past a glowering Rory without glancing at him.

Minutes later, Bridget was happily licking away at a bowl of chocolate ice cream in the kitchen while Rory glowered nearby. Irving sat down next to her with a smile.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Very! I love your house.”

Irving exchanged a wry look with Alexa, who had sat down with an open satchel in front of her, rifling through the contents which consisted of all her old papers from the past two hundred years. She shook her head with a smile before returning to her bag.

“What is it?” Rory asked, suspicious. The boy can't relax for a minute, Bridget thought to herself.

“This actually isn't my house at all,” Irving admitted.

“What do you mean?” Bridget asked, helping herself to another bite. “I saw the sign outside.”

“Ah, the sign.” Irving sighed. “That sign is the bane of my existence. I've resided in many places in Manhattan, but never here.”

“Then why is there a plaque outside saying you did?” Rory asked. “Isn't this, like, a historical-landmark street and everything?”

“At the end of the nineteenth century, two women lived here,” Irving explained. “One was a famous interior designer, the other one of the world's first literary agents. So let's just say they knew something about the power of a good story. They began to tell people that I had lived in their home, to generate publicity for themselves. It didn't matter that my nieces and nephews all wrote in to angrily denounce the tale. They knew I had never set foot in this place. But in the end, the story won.

“Eventually someone stuck that plaque out front, and now everyone thinks I lived here. And what's worse, because they all believe it, now I have to live here. Ironic, no? That the great storyteller is trapped by a story. I'm not angry, anymore. Frankly, I'm impressed. Sometimes you just have to tip your cap.”

“If you like a good story, you should check out the scorcher in that necklace of theirs,” Simon said.

“I'm intrigued,” Irving said, his eyebrow raised. But further discussion was interrupted by a cry from the corner.

“I knew it!” Alexa exclaimed as she pulled an ornate card out of her bag. “I knew I heard it somewhere!”

“Whoa, calm down.” Simon threw up his hands to ward off the crazy. “Heard what?”

“Harry Meester!”

Bridget glanced at her brother, but he looked away. Alexa didn't notice, too busy with her find. “Look, it's an invite,” she said, waving the card. “It was given to me by Jane van Cortlandt and Robert de Vries, back when we were friends.”

“You were friends with them?” Simon asked, shocked. “They don't exactly seem like your kind of crowd.”

“They were different in those days. More hopeful. But you know how hard it is for the children of the gods. It's tough to hold on to hope when you're trapped between immortality and divinity. I mean, even Nicholas was a hopeless layabout when I met him. He used to spend all his time with Teddy and Martha, drinking and gambling.”

“Nicholas was friends with Martha Jay!” Simon exclaimed. “She's horrible!”

“Yeah, well, now Jane and Robert are horrible, too. But fun at parties, right?” Alexa looked pained. “Sometimes I feel like Martha and I exchanged friends. But I'm nowhere near as fun as she is.”

“No, you're not,” Simon agreed. “That's part of your charm.” Alexa made a face at him.

“What about my dad?” Bridget cut in, exasperated.

“Right,” Alexa replied, getting back on track. “It was the last conversation I had with them before we went our separate ways, that's why I remember it so well. They said they were going to a party and gave me this invite. I wanted them to stay away from that crowd. But they didn't listen and ever since they've been with Martha and her cronies.”

“And . . .” Simon encouraged her. She handed the card over.

“Look who hosted the party,” she said.

“Harry Meester,” Simon read aloud. He passed the card to Bridget. There it was, in intricate script, her father's other name.

“I need to talk to them, tonight,” Alexa continued. “Maybe they know something.” Simon suddenly started to laugh. “What?” she asked, annoyed.

“I know where they are tonight,” Simon gasped, turning red with mirth. “But you're not going to like it. It's the start of the season.”

The blood drained from Alexa's face. “No.”

“That's nice,” Irving said, patting her hand. “You'll have a wonderful time.”

“I think I've got the right outfit,” Simon said thoughtfully. “Maybe something in lime green?” Bridget shuddered at the thought of the clothes that must hang in that boy's closet.

“It's not fair!” Alexa said, teeth clenching. “I refused to ever set foot in one of those debasing, inhuman, soul-destroying carnival freak shows ever again! They go against everything that's good and clean and worth saving in this world. I can't do it! I'll never be able to wash the stink off my soul!”

“What is it?” Bridget asked, horrified. Alexa turned to her, her face in anguish.

“The Debutante Ball!”

W
ell, this is a big disappointment!” Sergeant Kiffer said, staring at the dead body in the alley behind the boarding house.

Fritz didn't reply, spurring Clarence to ride up the stairs of a nearby stoop to get a better look at the corpse. The man certainly fit the description Nicholas and Alexa had given him of the drunk who'd tipped them off to Harry Meester. There was no way to know for sure, of course. The sailor who gave them the tip on where to find this poor fellow had four different names for the guy, none of them Alberto. But too many pieces fit. So, Alberto had been one of Tew's Boys. It made sense. Fritz sighed; this was becoming more and more of a lost cause.

It hadn't been easy, trying to find some trace of Meester or Tew's Boys. No one knew much about the former, and as to the latter, apparently most were shipped out. No one seemed to know how many of Tew's Boys there were, maybe five, maybe twenty, but the one thing everyone could agree on was that they were hard to find. They never stayed long in port, they drank too much, and they always seemed eager to jump on the next ship leaving the harbor. Stories floated about that Captain Kidd had done something horrible to them when he shipwrecked their captain, and Kidd said nothing to deny it. It was noted, at least, that none of Tew's Boys ever worked Kidd's boat.

Fritz had met people who could account for at least two deaths, three if he included the poor body at his feet. He prayed that Rory's dad wasn't one of them.

Hans looked up from where he'd been checking the body's head and throat.

“It looks natural, boss,” Hans called up. “I think the drink got him.”

“Or his own guilt,” Kiffer added.

“Don't be melodramatic.” Fritz sighed. “All I know is that the one guy who seemed like he wanted to talk is now gone.”

“So what do we do?” Hans asked. “Keep looking?”

“Boss, what about the clan?” Kiffer asked. “We're supposed to be looking after our own people, too, you know. Captain Liv can't cover for us forever.”

Fritz sighed. “The fate of the whole city, not just M'Garoth village, hangs in the balance. We can't give up now.”