Forty of the hidden family images were unknown to the public. The subjects ranged from quaint street scenes all over town, to one image, which surely must have been one of the very first taken in the Lower East side, of the shop street. The Reisman Portraits building looked lovely as ever, but the overpowering building, which stole the morning sunlight, was not there. Buildings that once stood there were a smoldering ruin.
The building that was overlooking the windows, was shorter, and took less of the sun, than what stood in its place now. So the first building had not doomed the studios to complete darkness, but the next one would. It seemed a miracle to see the undamaged shop right next to the ruined buildings. The plate was undated but it struck Evan as so terribly interesting he decided to visit the Times archives again, to see anything that might have been written.
“
Hey, aren’t you the guy who helped find those bodies on the Lower East Side a while back?”
Evan was surprised to be noticed at all in the archives. But there stood one of the kids who helped him with many earlier searches for stories about the missing children.
“
Yeah, I’m the unlucky guy who got that right. That was unpleasant.”
“
Whatcha looking for now? The police archives helped?”
“
Yup, they were the key to what we needed. But now I’m looking into a slum fire, sometime after 1889, maybe about five years or so.”
“
You just don’t get this archive stuff very naturally do you?” the kid asked, and embarrassed him. “There’s a lot less to look for if you go to the firefighter’s museum, or their archives. Why you come to the largest dump first, I guess you just like wasting time.”
And the kid walked off. Crime; go to the police. Fire; go to the firemen. Evan thought he might have learned his lesson now. But, why was he overlooking the Tenement Museum as well? They were a ready source and he just forgot to ever walk down there to look around. But, naturally, his family history did not take place in the slums, or the lower east side at all. He just was not part of that history. He sure needed to change that, it seemed.
The two sweetest little ladies at the Museum recognized him, from the party at the Reisman, the few weeks before. They welcomed him like one of their largest benefactors. And within minutes he found more information about the great fire than he thought possible, just a five-minute walk from where it had actually taken place. Evan was feeling embarrassed again. When he told them he was investigating a plate, with an image of the damage, one of them pulled out a book which showed the photograph, right there on one of the pages for him to see.
The one print they knew, had been at the firefighters archives when they used it for the book. The idea the original plate survived, made them giggle with excitement. The year of the fire was 1894; it occurred in September, the book caption dated the image as the very day after the fire. He’d found what he wanted, it was a deadly fire and it helped generate the need for a story. At least twenty-two souls perished in the inferno on the street. It happened five years after Papa acquired the family building, but, Evan noticed, just before Papa became owner of the other two properties on his shop street.
The timing of the fire and the purchase of two slum dwellings seemed so very odd to Evan, he decided to begin looking into the papers of that year and the one after, very carefully. It was going to take a terrible amount of time, but he felt there was a connection the family would like to know, and it would give him a reason to stay away from Dannie as much as possible, she was having too much fun, causing him grief, while she assisted with his new catalog of the images. And then he heard the golden words, which opened that other mystery for him,
“
Oh, remember all the hubbub about the lot sales after this fire? It made papers for a month. What was that, just a year later?” one of the ladies read it in some obscure history about the area, but she could not remember where. But she told Evan, at least two owners in the street tried to buy up the damaged lots, so they could be cleared and rebuilt.
But the story was more about the claims of swindle, and fraud, committed by the sellers. Just more tragedy, no insurance on the overcrowded dwellings, no funds for the victims and their families, just meager donations from the already depressed community. She just could not remember where she saw the information.
Evan was elated. He had hoped to hear that sort of thing. Now it was only necessary to check the dates on the deeds Papa signed and return to the Times archives. It took him three trips to finally get to the first hint of the story. After a few articles that dwelt mostly on the lack of insurance funds to rebuild the damaged buildings, he found one explaining the hounded owners of the damaged buildings would sell the properties, rather than do anything with them. And right in the middle of the entire sale event, was Papa Reisman. He owned the miracle building which survived, with hardly even smoke damage. The place even kept its windows while the building next to it collapsed. Papa was trying to get help, from some of his elite clients, to raise funds and get at least two of the lots. The article said nothing about which lots he wanted exactly.
Three months of old newsprint, page after blurry page, and Evan found his next clue. Nearly all the destroyed lots were sold, but not the two next to the now famous, unburned, Reisman Portraits. Those were being fought over by a few very angry buyers. But nothing at all specific. Another month of pages to read as quickly as possible, and the last clue fell into place. Mentioned only as M. Reisman, Papa was a winning buyer for the last two lots; but he was complaining foul deeds and fraud on the sellers. Two people bought the same lots, according to the charges, but one of the buyers was handed a deed for other properties and the sale was complete when the deeds were signed. The owners bolted, they were being sought in Philadelphia, where their offices were located, but those were found emptied as well. They took the monies paid for their burned out lots, and skipped off, leaving one of the buyers holding a building he never wanted. That was the extent of the story.
A week after this report, Evan found another item about two other buyers complaining they were given crossed deeds to sign at the purchase, and they were making complaints against the now invisible sellers. But they could solve their problem, they were happy to sell to each other, for only the legal fees to make the sale. Evan knew, the other cheated buyer, could never get relief from the error made against his good-faith payment.
Papa Reisman must have been the poor man, who was sold the property across the street, and someone else was given the claim to the next-door lots, and the monster tenement, which now ate all the morning light from the studio, was built in place of the burned out hulks. Papa wanted to return his light, and had been swindled with a deed for the building across the street. It must have been his second step to madness. The first was the loss of the light. Papa was consumed with the idea of winning those lots, and not building anything next to his shop. If he only applied his energy to finding a new shop, the family history might have been different.
Evan decided he knew as much as was needed to please the family and he took his photocopies back to the shop, to show all the information to Shelly. Driving back, he took time for an eerie side trip, to make two secret images with the Bryant Waterbury, which he hoped would put an end to someone’s torment in the Reisman Portraits. That task thankfully done, he was on his way back to the shop, his mind wandered over the shape of the family story.
Papa tried to prevent new construction when the offending building was destroyed, but was left with apartment slums, and tenants who called him landlord. He must have hated the money; so much, he could never use it. Evan thought it a bit poetic, that if Papa could not bring himself to use it, he must have had no qualms his family should have it, and he began to purchase the bonds, to put the money to use, never for himself. Why the family was never told, or why at least it never left his children’s lips, Evan could not understand. That would be for the family to work out on their own. There would be no newsprint about that secret. Evan felt the first truly satisfied feeling about what he discovered. It did not lead off to other secrets; it was nicely complete. If the opening of
The Studio
went so well, Evan could finally relax and stop worrying about the ghosts. Just stay away from the one who murdered people, and ignore the other who screamed a lot of gibberish at people about keys.
Evan’s mind squeezed so tightly onto the word…keys…he nearly parked his car into the trunk of the cab ahead of him, when it stopped for their red light. His car died from the exertion of stripping its tires to stop before they collided. He was so focused on the word
keys
he ignored the cab driver shouting and waving his fingers at Evan for being so stupid. Keys. Evan knew for a fact, Shelly made a display of every key the place ever needed.
The rear door of the shop had modern deadbolt locks installed, but over the original lock, which was no longer ever used. Evan had an awful feeling of nausea when he wondered, if the shop keys might also work the locks of the offensive hole under the sidewalk across the street. The putrid taste rising in his throat was nearly enough to convince him. Papa owned the defiled building for years. He would have a set of keys. Evan did not want to investigate this.
He told himself to leave this utterly alone.
Evan begged himself to forget he even though about such a thing. But his legs were wobbly when he walked into the back of the shop a bit later. Shelly kissed him and bit his lip to let him know he was in physical danger should he turn is back on her, and Evan knew, he was going to find a way to get at the secret, of the keys Papa could use, to open Caraliza’s prison, any time he wanted.
***
Shelly granted her first interview only ten days before the opening event. She agreed, at the museum’s considerable pleading, to allow a news crew into the studio and let them ask a few questions about the family history. She placed a security guard at the door into the storefront so none of the film crew could sneak passed and get a scoop, and ruin her with criticism of the renovation. Evan thought either of the ghosts could have done the job, but she would have to ask them, he declined to even try.
When the afternoon arrived, it was so bright in the studio the film crew asked if the drapes could be pulled a bit, to lessen the glare. They were not drapes for blocking the light, but for modifying it, and the room took on such a remarkable, honey glow, Evan felt a twinge of sadness, for his last lovely kiss from the angel in the closet. Shelly did not sit for the interview, an idea of her own the producer raved about, she stood, and every few minutes would turn, and the camera would move to follow her. The affect took the viewer into the whole room, in a sweeping motion, throughout the interview. They taped thirty minutes.
Shelly told them as much of the family history as she could, without mentioning the horrible murders upstairs. But she did please the reporter by being frank about the ghosts. She always loved the idea of spooks in the endearing old shop, but yes, she was scared utterly shitless several times. The cameraman was tickled pink she used profanity. Ghost stories and bleeps in the dialogue. They were terribly impressed. They begged her several times for a repeat on the night of the opening, but she refused. No television would be allowed for the opening night, but cameras were welcome, and if you got an image of a ghost, your evening was on the house; provided you let them have a copy of the image. She was perfect. Shelly Reisman could advertise, and she was very, very hot. Evan began to think he might need to do some serious jewelry shopping, and soon. Eligible bachelors, from all over the city, were going to want a few more glances at the Reisman with the curves, and they knew where they could find her, five nights a week.
“
How can we be sure this place will produce ghosts for your guests when you open?” The studio went silent when the producer asked Shelly this question as the crew was packing up. “You base lot of hope…on people believing you.”
“
I can show you, but your team stays right here,” Shelly surprised everyone, including Evan. “You have to close your eyes and follow me, if you open them you’ll never get back in here, even if you bribe this guard, he’ll just take your money and laugh.”
The guard winked at the producer, because he thought the idea was cool. The producer closed his eyes as she instructed, and Shelly took him passed the guard into the storefront, switching off the lights as she went.
“
Spooky noises won’t be enough to scare me Ms. Reisman,” he said as he disappeared out the door.
“
Oh, you aren’t going to hear a sound,” she sang back at him as she pulled him along into the gloom.
Evan held his breath.
He was certain Shelly was going to shove the producer into the closet, and he hoped Caraliza was really gone; the fellow might not want to leave. But the screaming changed Evan’s mind about where Shelly might have taken the man. It started with low moans, which sounded like chanting, but was quickly punctuated by some shrieks that raised the hairs on Evan’s neck. The crew rushed to the doorway and the guard was looking back into the gloom, which swallowed Shelly and her guest. He was stupid enough to ask the creepiest chick in New York City for a scare and she’d had the balls to put him at the foot of the attic stair. He knocked the guard into the wall trying to get back into the light in the studio. His crew scattered like excited little kids.