17

Oddly, Mary woke up feeling well rested, as if nothing of significance had happened the night before. There were no ill effects of being shot at, destroying a trolley, and being knocked unconscious. However, Mary did smell a familiar scent. She smiled, put on her robe, and went to Charles, who was standing over the Franklin stove cooking, his shirt hanging out over his pants.

“I hope you like French toast,” he said as he scooped his creation onto plates and put it on the table.

“It had better not be burned. That’s my specialty.”

“Really, French toast?”

“No, burning it.” Mary smiled and Charles looked at her, thinking what a magnificent woman she was. He leaned over and kissed her. She welcomed it. A first kiss is very important. It can either live up to expectations or put a damper on the relationship. Charles’s kiss exceeded what Mary had hoped it would be, and she let it linger. When they broke apart, Mary gently patted his cheek.

“Thank you for last night. Your gallantry was far beyond the pale.”

And he had been gallant. Insisting she was perfectly fine, Mary had refused to go to the hospital, so Charles had taken her home. He had spent the night on two chairs, his feet propped up on one, making sure she was indeed fine. And now he had cooked her breakfast. This was a man she didn’t want to let go.

They were about to sit down to breakfast when there was a knock at her door. Mary froze. Seconds later, there was another knock.

“Aren’t you going to—?” Charles started to say.

“Shhh, male visitors aren’t allowed,” Mary whispered.

“Mary…Mary, I know you’re in there,” called a familiar voice. It was Kate.

Relieved, Mary opened the door, pulled Kate inside, and shut it in a hurry. Before Mary could say a word, Kate unloaded.

“I behaved awfully toward you, Mary. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” Mary replied, incredulous. “I never should have asked you those questions at that time. I was being ridiculously insensitive.”

They had just hugged, their spat resolved, when Kate spied Charles over Mary’s shoulder.

“This must be your Charles. My Charlie and I never got this far. He was consumed with being a gentleman.” Kate somehow managed to be both happy and sad at the same time.

“Luckily, that problem has eluded me,” responded Charles. “But even I was not cad enough to take advantage of Mary in her state.” And they told Kate what happened.

Kate reacted with shock. “My father always said a lady should know how to protect herself. You need a weapon, Mary.”

“Maybe in Haddonfield,” Mary responded, trying to make light of her friend’s concern, “where you might encounter a bear on Main Street, but…”

“Actually, Mary,” Charles chimed in, “that’s an excellent suggestion.”

Mary was a perfectionist. Unless she felt proficient in an area, she avoided it. And “proficient” to Mary was tantamount to being an expert. She had studied all aspects of detective work for most of her life. She had practiced jujitsu for even longer, but pistols, knives, and all other weaponry were not part of her repertoire.

“Weapons can be used against you,” she offered as an excuse. “But I’ll have the killer in my sights soon enough.”

It was false bravado. Mary was concerned, and Charles knew it.

John Pemberton was placing a crumpled piece of paper under the leg of a club chair to stop it from wobbling when Charles entered their boardinghouse room.

“Good morning, son,” Pemberton greeted him as he straightened himself. Charles was noticeably on edge, and Pemberton, forever the optimist, thought he could divert his attention and possibly cheer him. “You must be feeling pretty chipper.”

Charles responded with a quizzical look.

“Your young damsel finally succumbed to your charms,” Pemberton explained.

“Not yet. Fact is, she’s quite marvelous.” His words not only expressed his great admiration for Mary but also betrayed his own sense of unworthiness.

Charles took a case off the desk and opened it. Inside were hypodermic needles and a vial of liquid. He held up the vial for inspection.

“You’ve been hitting the morphine rather heavily, Father,” he uttered matter-of-factly. “I guess we have to dismiss your theory about cocaine curing the habit.”

Put on the defensive, Pemberton replied accordingly. “I was wounded in the war, dear son. What’s your excuse?”

Charles filled his needle. “I have no ambition, no confidence, and no shame. I, Father, am the perfect addict.”

He sat down on his bed, injected himself, then leaned back, relieved to know that he’d soon be lost in his escape.

Mary was right. Once again, Edison had canceled at the last minute with no regard for her time. Mrs. Embry tried to mitigate the damage her boss had wrought.

“Mr. Edison had an emergency meeting. I assure you, Miss Handley, it was totally unavoidable.”

“I need to see him as soon as possible.” No matter how strongly Mary uttered those words, she knew it would make no difference. She was powerless in this situation.

“I’ll squeeze you in at the earliest possible spot. I guarantee it.” They both knew her guarantee was of little value.

Before they could say their good-byes, a man burst through the door. Mary recognized him as Eadweard Muybridge, an odd name and an even odder man. She had seen him on a previous visit being forcibly removed by guards. An Englishman in his late fifties with a long gray beard, Muybridge seemed as off-balance now as he had then.

“Where is he?!” he shouted.

The ever-composed Mrs. Embry replied, “Mr. Edison isn’t here, Mr. Muybridge.”

The two guards who had disposed of him before and were now in pursuit rushed in. Muybridge immediately raised his hand to stop them.

“No need for mindless thuggery. I’m leaving.” He turned once more to Mrs. Embry. “Tell that bloody thieving bastard I’ll be back!”

His head held high, trying to salvage whatever dignity he thought he had, Muybridge strutted out with the guards close behind him.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that, Miss Handley. Geniuses like Mr. Edison seem to attract an equal share of the brilliant and the deluded.”

“You’re being kind, Mrs. Embry. ‘Crackpot’ seems more appropriate.”

Mrs. Embry smiled, tacitly agreeing but knowing full well that verbally acknowledging her accord would give voice to an opinion, something a person of her position was not supposed to have.

As Mary left the complex, she wondered where she fell on Mrs. Embry’s scale. She was a woman attempting to do a man’s job in a man’s world. The “deluded” category seemed likely. Mary spotted Muybridge out of the corner of her eye sitting on the curb, his back propped up against a lamppost. By keeping her eyes ahead of her and quickening her pace, she hoped to avoid contact. But crackpots pay little attention to others’ intentions.

“Be smart,” Muybridge called out to Mary. “Leave now while you still have all your fingers and toes.”

Mary walked faster, trying harder to ignore him, but he would have none of it. He jumped to his feet and jogged over to her, staying by her side.

“Ask yourself,” he shouted, wanting the world to hear. “What kind of fellow steals another man’s life? He requests a joint venture, then poof! My zoopraxiscope becomes his kinetoscope. No regrets, not so much as—”

“Sorry, but I need to go,” she blurted out curtly, trying to discourage any further conversation.

“What you need,” Muybridge declared, matching her step for step, “is to heed my words. Don’t think being a woman will protect you. A scoundrel is a scoundrel.”

“I have nothing that Mr. Edison could possibly want.” She hastened her gait, but he also hastened his.

“Ah, famous last words of the swindled.”

Mary finally stopped and faced him. “Look, I’m just here about Charles Goodrich. Now please let me be.”

Muybridge strangely transformed before her. His demeanor completely calmed. His voice was genuine and devoid of rant. He actually seemed normal.

“You’re the woman working on Charlie’s murder?” he eagerly asked. It was the familiarity and warmth with which he referred to Goodrich that got her attention.

“You knew Mr. Goodrich?” she said. Charles Goodrich was a levelheaded man, not the type who befriended crackpots like Muybridge.

“Charlie had the proof I need. Without it, my accusations are just words.”

“Proof?”

“Charlie was a stickler for detail. He recorded all of Edison’s transactions.”

“You mean a journal exists?” Mary was being drawn in deeper with each word. As Lewis Carroll’s Alice would say, things were getting “curiouser and curiouser.”

Muybridge nodded. “A journal that can expose Thomas Edison for the fraud that he is.”

And curiouser.