The Death Dealer

“So you know more about Poe than you’ve admitted?”



He offered her a sheepish grin. “When I was a kid, my folks bought a video of The Raven. The movie had little to do with the poem, but Vincent Price, Boris Karloff and Peter Lorre were magnificent. It was pretty silly, really. They turned the poem into a battle between magicians. But I watched it over and over, and then went on a Poe binge.”



She laughed. “Maybe you should be a Raven.”



They were on Nassau Street now. “I think it would have been right about here,” Joe said.



Genevieve frowned. “What would have? I don’t think Poe lived here.”



“No, but not far away,” he said, flashing Genevieve a smile. “No. I’m thinking about ‘The Mystery of Marie Roget.’ It was based on a real murder case that put New York City into a state of upheaval. Journalists had a field day. Politicians were shaken to the core…and Poe wrote his story. The girl who was killed lived on Nassau Street. Her name was Mary Rogers, and she’d worked at a cigar shop where Poe had almost certainly been. She was considered to be beautiful, and she was from a good family whose fortunes were in bad shape. Her mother opened a boarding house on Nassau Street. And it was from Nassau Street that she left…and never returned. The summer of 1841 was stifling. A steamboat ran across the river to New Jersey, and people went to escape the heat and the crowds. It was like going to a park to play. P. T. Barnum staged wild west shows over there, and people flocked to someplace called Sybil’s Cave to drink the waters, which were considered to be restorative. Anyway, three men took the ferry over one day, several days after she disappeared, and as they were walking north along the river, heading for the pavilion at Sybil’s Cave, they spotted something in the water. It was Mary Rogers. Poe turned Mary into Marie and he moved the whole thing to Paris. He had already written ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ and he wanted to use his Parisian detective, C. Auguste Dupin, to solve another mystery.”



Genevieve was staring at him.



He shrugged. “Hey, it’s common knowledge.”



She laughed. “So common I didn’t know it. I did see The Raven, though, and I loved it. And of course, I’ve read the poem. I’ve even been to his grave site in Baltimore,” she admitted.



He turned and walked toward Broadway again. “Poe didn’t live here when Mary Rogers was killed—he had left the city for a job in Philadelphia. But he lived here from eighteen-thirty-seven to thirty-eight, and there was a bookstore near here, owned by a Scot named William Gowans, where Poe spent a lot of time. Gowans was totally eccentric and only catered to those he considered serious readers. The shop where Mary Rogers worked was only a few blocks north, and Gowans roomed at the boarding house Mrs. Rogers kept. So they were all acquaintances, one way or another.”



Genevieve cocked her head, looked at him with a slight grin tugging at her lips. “You’re very serious about your Poe facts—for a man who said that that note was just a smoke screen.”



“And it might be.”



“Then why are we here?”



“Might as well get the feel for what’s going on,” he said.



He started walking faster, though he didn’t realize how fast until he heard the sound of her footsteps as she tried to catch up.



“Joe?”



“Yeah?”



“There was poison in Thorne’s wine. That doesn’t have anything to do with ‘The Mystery of Marie Roget.’”



“I know.”



“Then…?”



“Right now, I’m just trying to get a feel for Poe himself, and his life and times.”



“Ah.”



“New York back then…the Five Points area was like a haven for thugs, drug dealers, murderers and thieves. I think the population of the city back then was about three-hundred thousand.”



“Wow,” Genevieve said dryly.



He laughed. “Okay, nothing by today’s standards, but back then, it was huge. Just like now, people came here from all over to make a living. You know, if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere? Well, that’s always been true before. So Poe came to New York with his sights on becoming financially secure and finding real respect for his talents. According to those who knew him, he was a fine literary critic—but a vicious one at times.”



“The best critics are vicious at times, so they say.”



Joe shrugged. He indicated the doorway to an old bar. The Dingle Room. A sign boasted that it had stood on the same street for over two hundred years, acting as a tavern for over one hundred of them.



“Think he might have lifted a beer or two here?” Genevieve asked.



“Maybe. Meanwhile, I’m thirsty. And hungry.”



They went inside, and not only did the place appear to have been in business as a tavern for more than a hundred years, Joe wasn’t sure it had been cleaned in all that time, either. But answering the question Gen had asked, there was a sign above the bar that read: Edgar Allan Poe drank here. Imbibe and find your inner genius.



Those words were followed by a hand-painted addendum that said: At least, we think he drank here.



“Just like Washington,” Genevieve said.



“How?”



“He slept everywhere, and Poe drank everywhere.”



Their waitress, a gum-cracking woman of about fifty, offered them a tired smile. “What’ll it be?”



“What’s good here?” he asked.



“Nothing,” she told him honestly.



“A Coke—in a bottle—then,” Joe told her. “Gen?”



She opted for the same, and then the woman smiled and told them that the home-style meatloaf and mashed potatoes were actually quite tasty, so they went ahead and ordered food.



“So…” Genevieve said, when the waitress had gone.



“So?”



“What were you doing all morning?”



“Talking to the police.”



“And?”



“They don’t have any answers.”



“Do they think the Poe angle is a smoke screen?”



He tilted his head thoughtfully. “If they have any ideas right now, they’re not sharing. And I think they would if they did. I know the two lead detectives on the case, and they’re both solid guys, good at their jobs. The killer was careful and seemed to know how not to leave any clues he didn’t want to. Maybe a professional, or maybe just someone who reads or watches television and has learned how not to leave trace evidence behind. There was no forced entry, and Bigelow apparently had a visitor earlier, so it’s likely Thorne Bigelow knew his killer. But as far as the Poe connection goes, though he was killed via his beloved wine, he wasn’t walled up.”



“What about Sam Latham?”



He hesitated. “They’re looking into the accident, as well, trying to find out exactly what happened. Lots of people apparently saw the same car I did, but no one can agree on the details of what it looked like, and no one caught the license plate. Maybe a better witness will come forward in the future.”



It was inevitable that she asked him, “What about that psychic?”



And dammit, she knew him well enough to catch something in his hesitation.



“You think she does know something!” Genevieve exclaimed.



Luckily their meals arrived just then and saved him from having to answer.



But the minute their waitress moved on, Gen pounced on him again. “Well?”



He shook his head. “Who knows? I sure don’t.”



“I want to meet her.”



“She can’t know anything,” he insisted.



“But I want to meet her anyway.”



He glanced at his watch. It was already nearly six.



“Too late. We have to go pick up your mother and get to that New York Poe Society board meeting.”



“Tomorrow, then,” she told him.



He shrugged. “We can stop by and talk to her, if you like.”



“Tomorrow, definitely. And you won’t put me off. Promise me, Joe.”



“Yes, all right, I promise. You can really be a pain in the…butt, you know.”



“I work hard at it,” she assured him solemnly.



“I’m not at all sure you need to make much of an effort,” he said.



She shrugged, and silence fell between them.



“Hey,” she said softly a little while later, and smiled a little crookedly.



“What?” He’d sounded gruff and impatient. He knew it.



“The meatloaf wasn’t half bad.”



He offered her a half smile in return. “Actually, I think it was more than half good.”



When the check came, she reached for it, but he got there first.



“You agreed to take the case. We’re talking about the case…working, so I should pick this up,” she told him.



“I’ll take the check,” he said in a tone that brooked no interference.



“Chauvinist,” she accused, but her tone was light.



“Exactly,” he assured her.



“But you’re on the clock.”



“I’ll bill you, then. But I’ll still take the check.”



A few minutes later, as they waited by the register for his credit card to be returned, he noticed the large wooden plaque over the doorway. It had a giant etched raven on the right side, with just a few words of Poe’s immortal poem on the left.



Quoth the raven…



CHAPTER 6



Not everyone on the board of the venerable society was in attendance.



Thorne, of course, was dead.



Jared Bigelow, Thorne’s son, and Mary Vincenzo, his sister-in-law, were understandably absent. Because Thorne’s body had been held at the morgue, the funeral was planned for Monday, so both Jared and Mary had sent their regrets to Brook Avery, who was chairman of the board.



Sam Latham wasn’t there, either. He was still in the hospital, but even if he hadn’t been, he might not have been in the mood to attend.



Four missing. Eight in attendance, including Eileen.