Brooklyn Gothic: A Modern Gothic Romantic Thriller

By C.G. Twiles

Can you love a man with secrets?

 

Casey Matos, an idealistic 26-year-old reporter, takes an unusual job in a Brooklyn Gothic mansion helping a reclusive multimillionaire give away all of his money.

At 32, Samuel Henry Foster III doesn't have much time left. A rapidly growing brain aneurysm will soon claim his life, and he wants to leave behind a legacy of good deeds. The last thing the pair want to do is fall in love... but they can't help themselves.

 

Just when Mr. Foster is given a second chance at life, Casey begins to suspect that her lover's generosity is rooted in secrets far darker than she ever could have imagined. But even when she thinks she knows it all, she learns she knows nothing...

 

Fans of the Brontes, Daphne du Maurier, Ruth Ware, and Silvia Moreno-Garcia will love this atmospheric and evocative but contemporary Gothic suspense tale with shocking twists. 

 

(Brooklyn Gothic was previously titled The Best Man on the Planet)

 

"The new Gothic classic!" E.D. Lewis Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Muradal Publishing
• Release date: Aug 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201554859

C.G. Twiles

C.G. Twiles is the pseudonym for a longtime writer and journalist who has written for some of the world's biggest magazines and newspapers. She enjoys Gothic, animals, traveling, ancient history and cemeteries. She writes suspense novels.

Book preview

1

It wasn’t the kind of place you’d expect to see in the middle of Brooklyn.

Looming like a fortress over a delicate side street fringed with yellowwood and sweet gum, the Venetian Gothic palazzo-style mansion should have been a heartbeat from the Grand Canal, not within shouting distance of Flatbush Avenue, with its dollar stores and rumbling delivery trucks.

Casey dug out her phone and pulled up the address in street view: 555 Sterling Avenue. This was it. She’d assumed the interview would be in an office building and was disoriented with the mismatch between assumption and reality.

A swirl of icy wind deposited hair into her gaping mouth as she took in the five stories of ruddy brick and terra cotta, the balcony with columns sprouting quatrefoil carvings, and the bell-shaped windows capped with stained glass and hung with jowly lion-creatures. A frieze of pilgrims shuffled along a third-floor loggia and a verdigris belvedere brightened the roof.

Compared to the earthy brownstones on all sides, the mansion was an architectural Zeus flanked by second-tier Gods.

At the top of the steps, the grimacing face of a beastly devil on the black iron knocker confronted her. The demon looked as if it might bite the hand brazen enough to grab hold of its nose ring, so she pressed the doorbell. The engraving to the side read: Foster House 1889.

As she waited, the cold seeped into her boots, numbing her toes. Casey wondered if there’d been a miscommunication. Maybe her contact—Miss Brock, she couldn’t forget a name like that—had sent her the wrong address. Maybe she should be on Sterling Place or Sterling Street. It wouldn’t be the first time a mix-up like that had occurred.

Seeking resourceful and compassionate researcher. Journalism experience preferred.

The salary had caught her attention first, the word compassionate second. Savvy, dynamic, detail-oriented. Those were the usual words in researcher job ads.

She toyed with the bell’s surface, ready to try again, when the door drew back. An older woman, possibly in her sixties, penetrated her with a look of deep annoyance, as if the ringing had roused her from a nap.

Miss Brock? I’m Casey Matos. I have an appointment at four.

The woman’s expression didn’t alter into a welcoming one, but she stepped aside. By all means, so you do.

Casey entered a mosaic-tiled foyer the size of her apartment. Despite windows spanning the length of one wall, stained glass filtered the light from the low-slung sky, leaving the foyer with the dim, melancholy feel of hanging inside a cloud.

Miss Brock ushered her into a side room with turquoise walls, and indicated she should sit on a settee with long slashes along the front, as if a cat had laid claim to the fabric. The room smelled piquant and subterranean, like fresh cement.

This is a beautiful house, Casey said. Not at all what I was expecting.

I imagine not. Miss Brock sat and fixed her with round, silvery-tinted eyes, like small mirrors. Her reddish hair was pulled into a neat bun, accentuating steep cheekbones.

Casey imagined the woman’s face must have been a burden in life, stirring up a riot of attention. She preferred her own more tepid features—dewy brown eyes, permanently flushed cheeks, dark caramel-colored hair to the plateau of her shoulders—which allowed her to put story subjects almost instantly at ease. Sometimes, if she got lucky, these subjects forgot she was there and said all kinds of things in front of her.

The house is modeled on the Ca’ d’Oro in Venice, Miss Brock said. And then, indicating small talk was over, My employer is Mr. Samuel Foster. He placed the ad. Did you understand it?

Mr. Foster. Foster House. The mansion must have been built for his family. No wonder the job paid so well.

He’s looking for someone to do research on crimes? Casey glanced at the reporter’s notebook inside her tote, more to avoid the woman’s reflective stare than to jigger her memory. Victims of crimes? It didn’t say much more.

Precisely. Mr. Foster is retired and runs a charitable foundation for those affected by violent crime. He’ll tell you the specifics. He prefers a full time person. No vacation. Sick days and weekends, of course, but he’d like to have this finished sooner rather than later. And he’d like someone who can start as soon as possible. He believes when people need help, time is of the essence. Does this sound like something you’d be interested in?

Definitely. It sounds interesting. He sounds like a good man.

The blatant flattery failed to loosen the woman’s reserve. Then let me take you to Mr. Foster, she said.

Casey followed her through a main room with elaborate cave crown molding, like tiered wedding cakes, and two monster chandeliers raining hundreds of crystal tear drops. The dark staircase rhythmically grunted with their footfalls.

2

Miss Brock stopped at a double door with arched tops and white paint bubbling up around the gold door handles.

"I should mention Mr. Foster can be direct, she said, in almost a whisper. Don’t take it personally. He’s eager to get started and has a lot on his mind."

Taking her cue that the man behind the door shouldn’t hear anything, Casey only nodded. She had no idea what to say anyway. She reoriented herself to the money. The ad had promised $10,000 a month for several months of research work. Money like that was inconceivable for a low-level reporter.

The door gave a plaintive yowl and Miss Brock motioned for her to step inside.

The room was a dark pit of scarlet walls, oak paneling and coffered ceiling, and the narrow Moorish windows had siphoned off the winter light, leaving the room crisscrossed in shadows.

Mr. Foster lingered in a corner. Casey was surprised. Miss Brock’s description of him as retired had led her to expect an old man. But he looked to be in his early thirties. Turbulent black hair, defiantly chaotic, as if to send the message, I not only didn’t comb out my hair for this meeting, I made it messier. Tall, with a boxy chest threatening to erupt from a dark dress shirt, and a slightly anxious expression.

Thank you, Miss Brock, he said.

The door clicked shut and Casey inopportunely remembered an article she’d read about female journalists who’d answered an ad for jobs in a foreign country, only to be kidnapped and forced into sex slavery. She realized no one, not even her roommate, knew where she was. The grandiosity of the mansion and the formality of its inhabitants, complete with Miss and Mister, had put her on edge.

Good afternoon, Miss … He pulled a small notebook from the crook of his arm. Matos.

He pronounced it the way her parents did, with the hard m and two-ss instead of toez.

Casey. Nice to meet you.

The man motioned towards a chair with gape-mouthed leopards pouncing from the armrests. Please, he said. Sit.

He bent over a small laptop on a large antique-looking desk. Casey sat and unzipped her bulky winter coat, but didn’t feel comfortable enough to take it off.

"So you worked at City News," the man pronounced. His voice was the slow gathering of thunder before it clapped.

For five years, yes.

Do you know how to find people, track them down?

Within reason, sure.

This project would be a step down from a newspaper. Why did you leave? Or were you fired?

Her leg jutted over her knee. Direct he was. She was pretty sure it wasn’t legal to ask that. But she came out with the line she’d mentally rehearsed in case someone did.

I gave my notice. The job was going in a direction that wasn’t well-suited for me.

Which direction was that?

I became a journalist to write about impactful human interest stories. She was sharply aware of how rehearsed that came out sounding.

Children starving in Africa? He half mooned his brows at her.

You don’t have to go to Africa to find underserved children. But I was switched from news to celebrities, writing about nip slips and selfies, things like that. I left the celebrity stuff off my resume, it’s not what I want to continue with.

What she’d also left off her resume was that she’d quit the News after getting an offer to join a start-up, Oblong, whose rallying cry was, Writing For Real: All the stories that truly matter. No nip slips, no celebrity selfies, no navel gazing personal essays. That’s what the site was supposed to be anyway. But it folded in two weeks, her only paycheck bounced, and $10 million in funding disappeared with the founder.

Since then, she’d been squeaking out a living writing blog posts for various sites, usually ones dedicated to stoking female outrage (12 Signs He’s Just Using You). But no matter how many blogs she churned out, the anemic pay rates left her perilously close to homelessness. (Not really. She could move back home with her parents. But who wants to do that at twenty-six?)

Mr. Foster fine-tuned the angle of the laptop as if he was setting a dinner placemat, and stretched an arm behind his head. What exactly is a ‘nip slip’?

Casey froze. Why had she said that?

Oh, it’s… She stalled, hoping he’d move on to something else, but his you’re-not-getting-out-of-this stare let her know he wasn’t going to. It’s when a celebrity has a wardrobe malfunction and… She made a circling motion at her chest.

You can see a nipple?

So he wasn’t just direct, he was pathologically direct. No editor or human resources person would have dared to mention body parts in an interview.

That’s it, I’m afraid. Not exactly investigative journalism. She smiled, hoping to bait one out of him too. It didn’t work.

I admire you for wanting to tackle more important matters, no offense to nipples. But it’s important this project get done. I can’t have someone quit on me. How do I know you wouldn’t do that?

As long as you don’t ask me to write about anyone’s nipples or ass, we should be fine. Good one! Now she’d introduced an ass into the mix. The interview had taken a regrettable, and slightly pornographic, turn. Luckily, he didn’t seem put-off, and went back to studying her resume.

I liked your articles, he said, mercifully getting on topic. The ones about crime, not about nip slips. You did the story about a woman held hostage in a wooden box by her husband?

"Yes, and he was her ex-husband. She had a restraining order against him."

These things don’t disturb you? To write about?

It’s important to give victims a voice. She knew she was playing up to the compassionate prerequisite in the ad, not that she didn’t feel that way. What kind of research are you looking for?

I want to help such people.

And by ‘help’ you mean…

Money. Can you think of anything that can help a person as much as money?

She could think of several things—infinitely robust health, emotionally nurturing parents, an ex-husband who doesn’t put you in a box—but money couldn’t hurt. Unless you were a lottery winner; for some reason, they didn’t do so well. (Lottery Winner’s Cyanide Poisoning Remains Mystery Five Years After Death was a typical Lottery Curse story Casey had written.)

I’ve been very lucky in life. The man glanced around detachedly at the scarlet room, its baroque antiques, and the oil paintings in gilt frames (dramatic landscapes, the ones she could see). I didn’t earn any of this. I began to think how lucky I’ve been and wanted to do something for, as they say, ‘those less fortunate.’

Casey nodded politely, determined to be more careful about what she said.

But who to help? he went on. It’s best to be focused. I considered various possibilities—the disabled, the elderly, even animals. I like animals. I had a dog once. He played with the beaded fringe of a table lamp. I settled on crime victims. I picked people I’d read about who’d led an exemplary life, but who had something terrible happen to them. That doesn’t seem fair, does it?

Not really. So you’d want me to find these people for you? Casey asked, still uncertain exactly what he was looking for in a researcher.

That and more than that. A private detective could find people. I need a researcher with imagination, who can come up with ideas of how to honor those I’ve chosen in a meaningful way.

I see, she said, sounding more comprehending than she felt. What if you volunteered somewhere? A crisis center, a hotline—

He cut her off. I have plenty of money, Miss Matos. What I don’t have is time.

Feeling the interview slipping away from her, again, she racked her brain. How about if you donated to a cause the victim is passionate about? If someone loves flowers, you could fund a community garden.

His eyes were so dark they had no ending and no beginning, but now they gleamed as if a light had been shined into them. Exactly!

Casey was pleased with herself.

This is very compassionate of you, she said, echoing the ad.

He ignored her transparent compliment, saying only, Another thing, Miss Matos. I need a fast worker, accurate but fast. Slowness won’t be tolerated.

I’m fast.

I’ll be letting people know tomorrow, he said, abruptly.

Of course. This sounds like a very worthwhile project. Leaning towards him, she expected him to rise and shake her hand. He didn’t. Her arm rescued itself from embarrassment by detouring to her tote strap. On the way out, she shut the door, as if that would block out the exchange.

She couldn’t get over that she’d brought up celebrities’ boobs. At least it gave her an idea for a blog post: Eight Things Never to Say in a Job Interview. You Won’t Believe Number Four!

Halfway down the hall, a flat, rectangular shape on the floor caught her eye. Picking it up, she smoothed her fingers over a hundred-dollar bill, pushing aside the base impulse to keep walking, especially as she was unlikely to be hired. A hundred dollars would go a long way in her world.

But returning a hundred dollars to its owner might go even farther.

Yes?! came his bark from behind the door when she knocked, making her want to drop the bill and hurry off, but the salary was too tantalizing.

Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Foster, she said, poking her head in. But I found this in the hallway.

What is it?

Looks like a hundred dollar bill. I’ve seen pictures of them on the Internet. She smiled at what was supposed to be a joke, but realized that was the truth. She couldn’t remember having seen a hundred dollar bill in real life. How pathetic.

Coming around the desk, Mr. Foster took the bill and stuffed it in the front pocket of his black trousers. He didn’t thank her.

Up close, she noticed a lopsided tug on the left side of his mouth, and she wasn’t certain if he was expressing displeasure with her or if that’s the way his mouth had settled after a lifetime spent expressing displeasure with others.

Can you start Monday? he asked.

Sorry?

Monday, for the job. Five candidates today and you’re the only one who returned my money. Back at his desk, he eyed her. That was a test. I need an honest person.

Oh. That makes perfect sense. She could not find the sense anywhere.

I want to be part of the process, so I have an office set up for you, if you’d like the job. Would you want a thief in your house, one with valuable antiques? The level of dishonesty in your fellow journalists disappointed me.

I’ll pass along the message.

He laughed, more like a prisoner outbreak of sound. And I liked your answers. Do you need time to think about it?

No. This sounds like an excellent opportunity. She did need time to think about it, but the money sucked her into a non-thinking vortex.

You’ll feel comfortable working in my home?

Certainly, she said, not quite meaning it.

Then come at ten on Monday, Miss Matos. And before you leave, be sure to tell Miss Brock you’re my researcher.

3

Casey met her roommate, Astrid, at their usual dive bar, The Hungry Hog, around the corner from their cramped, railroad apartment (two bedrooms, supposedly, the second more a windowless, oversized closet—that was Casey’s).

They’d decided to have a few drinks to celebrate. But she felt a little guilty. She shouldn’t be spending money on booze, even cheap booze. Her account, after she’d paid her $900 rent, was down to $101.57. Who knows but she could get a call rescinding the job offer. Her new boss seemed mercurial enough to do something like that.

It sounds interesting but also a bit vague and weird, she told Astrid, the malty taste of four-dollar beer foaming on her tongue. And I don’t know what to make of the guy.

In what way? Astrid asked.

Casey put down her beer and scratched at the side of her scalp. One second he’s sort of nice, the next he’s cutting me off and acting rude. But here’s the kicker. He did this test with a hundred dollar bill, left it on the floor and waited to see if I’d return it or pocket it.

And... you returned it? Astrid looked skeptical.

I know! I’m in the minority.

Thank goodness she’d returned the money and not left it on the floor. Thank goodness she’d even seen it. What kind of person comes up with such a stupid plan?

Astrid sipped her wine and contemplated. Sure you want to work for him?

Well, it’s temporary and the money is great. I’ve got to get out of this business and save for grad school.

Casey had ill-defined ambitions of a job that allowed her to work towards social change while getting in some world travel. But she hadn’t figured out what type of social work she wanted to do or how she would afford further schooling. Her parents, who lived in a small ranch home in a dying (or possibly dead) Pennsylvania suburb, couldn’t help her. Her mother was doing administrative work for the local high school, and her father, a retired construction foreman, was living on Social Security. She had no siblings and no wealthy aunts or uncles.

She’d hoped journalism would mean breaking open stories that changed lives, but so far it hadn’t happened. Getting into a top-tier publication like the New York Times had eluded her. She’d thought a city paper would give her enough experience to get into a place like that, but was unprepared for the sensationalistic and inaccurate angles her editors ice-picked out of the chilly depths of their frozen souls.

The research job seemed like the perfect chance for her to do something meaningful. And she’d get paid well to boot!

I’ll deal with him, she said.

Sliding her almost-drained beer on the counter, Casey tried to catch the eye of the inattentive bartender. I’ll be working at his house. It’s an old mansion by Grand Army Plaza, takes up the whole block.

The mansion was written up in a few blogs. She pulled one up called Architectural Wonders of Brooklyn and passed her phone to Astrid, whose eyes bugged.

That’s his house?

Crazy, right? I thought mansions that big were all converted into apartments or museums.

The write-ups of the mansion had led Casey to the Foster family, which even had a Wikipedia entry. The family’s birth listings went up to the early 1900s. The first Foster listed, John Samuel Foster, born 1680, had become a highly successful merchant operating a fleet of privateers carrying opium, rum, and slaves. What a way to make your fortune.

Foster House was valued at $28.6 million on a real estate site. More digging around unearthed the mansion had cost $300,000 to build and was designed by one of the country’s premier architects of the day, Francis H. Kimball, back when Park Slope was said to be the richest zip code in the country.

Casey had never come into contact with this side of New York, had vaguely assumed it had gone the way of railroad barons, medicinal leeches, and the copious use of smelling salts.

As for the guy, the Internet contained too many Samuel Fosters to quickly locate him. She’d do more cyber sleuthing over the weekend. If she found out something she didn’t like, she’d come up with an excuse to quit before she started. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. The idea of $10,000 a month had given her hope for a new future.

How old is he? Astrid asked.

Casey slugged the last of her beer, her head bopping to the jukebox. The song had a frisky, banjo bounce and it was almost easy to overlook the singer was begging for someone not to leave her. Sure, that came up. ‘So, what type of research are you looking for and, by the way, what year were you born?’ When the sarcasm failed to smother Astrid’s beseeching look, she said, Looks to be thirties.

Way to bury the lead, as you would say. Astrid snapped her fingers. Get to it. What does he look like?

Casey thought of the man’s tall, bulky body, wayward hair, and lips dripping to the left. He looks… feral. Like he woke up from a bad dream.

Feral? Astrid practically shrieked. What does that mean? Is he hot or not?

He’s kind of… Casey tipped her hand in a so-so gesture. Semi-attractive.

Living in a mansion cancels out the ‘semi.’ Is he married?

I wasn’t checking out his ring finger. It’s called a job interview.

If this guy is single, get with him. Then I’ll move into the east wing. Her palm went up. I’ll be quiet. You’ll never know I’m there.

Astrid, a redhead with a doll face who worked as a lingerie model, was preoccupied with male attention and assumed everyone else was too. Men were fine, and Casey had dated a little since she’d broken up with her post-college boyfriend last year. But it was like a full time job figuring out if anyone liked you, and if you liked anyone, and how much or how little to do about any of it. That was energy she’d rather put into other things, that’s all.

"I’m there to work. And he could be gay, for all I know."

"Is he?"

If I didn’t ask about his marital status or age, you can be relatively certain I didn’t ask about his sexual orientation.

Astrid smirked disapprovingly. And you call yourself a reporter.

4

Casey sat at a Georgian writing table and looked to the throng of trees lurching with skeletal fingers out of a peaceful dusting of snow in the small park across the street. The tableau was a pleasant change from her tenement-clogged neighborhood.

The room, with alpine ceilings, fireplace, bookshelves, and chandelier, was a radical departure from her former sweatshop office, a grid of gray desks slathered with fluorescent lighting and sickly-pale reporters. But the room’s swirly chestnut walls, theatrical red velvet curtains, and rows of mullioned windows left the interior gasping for light. She pulled the chain on a reading lamp.

Mr. Foster came in and slid a sheet of paper on the desk. These are the people I’ve picked out, he said. The printout contained five names, though two of those names were on the same line, apparently a couple. Underneath everyone’s names were towns and states. Only the funds won’t be going to them. They’re dead.

Casey glanced up at him, surprised. It hadn’t occurred to her that his crime victim beneficiaries wouldn’t be alive. So they were murdered? she asked, breathlessly.

Yes.

If they’re dead, aren’t they beyond help? She regretted that her question sounded like sarcasm, but he didn’t seem to notice it.

Their families and whomever relied on them aren’t. Make sure you get them right. Some have common names.

Being murder victims should narrow it down, but thanks, she said, a tad snappish he would direct her to do something so patently obvious. Do you have dates?

Dates? he snapped back. You’re the reporter. Get it right.

Her blood quickened. She indulged a brief fantasy of stonily walking out the door, but the thought of losing the salary kept her in her chair. Of course I will, she told him, smiling stiffly. That’s my job. But I have a tendency to work better in a respectful environment.

He stared at her for a moment, a mixture of bafflement and astonishment in his eyes. Apparently people didn’t speak up to him very often, if ever.

Point taken,