Praise for the Museum Mysteries
FIRE ENGINE DEAD
“[An] engaging amateur sleuth filled with fascinating characters, interesting museum information, plenty of action including a nice twist, and a bit of romance.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
LET’S PLAY DEAD
“Whatever your interests, add Let’s Play Dead to your list and enjoy reading this well-crafted cozy mystery.”
—Blue Moon Mystery Saloon
FUNDRAISING THE DEAD
“Skillfully executed . . . It’s a pleasure to accompany Nell on her quest. Fundraising the Dead is a promising debut with a winning protagonist.”
—Mystery Scene
“Old families, old papers, and the old demons of sex and money shape Connolly’s cozy series launch, which will appeal to fans of her Orchard and (as Sarah Atwell) Glassblowing Mysteries . . . [The] archival milieu and the foibles of the characters are intriguing, and it’s refreshing to encounter an FBI man who is human, competent, and essential to the plot.”
—Publishers Weekly
“She’s smart, she’s savvy, and she’s sharp enough to spot what really goes on behind the scenes in museum politics. The practical and confident Nell Pratt is exactly the kind of sleuth you want in your corner when the going gets tough. Sheila Connolly serves up a snappy and sophisticated mystery that leaves you lusting for the next witty installment.”
—Mary Jane Maffini, author of the Charlotte Adams Mysteries
“National Treasure meets The Philadelphia Story in this clever, charming, and sophisticated caper. When murder and mayhem become the main attractions at a prestigious museum, its feisty fundraiser goes undercover to prove it’s not just the museum’s pricey collection that’s concealing a hidden history. Secrets, lies, and a delightful revenge conspiracy make this a real page-turner!”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity award–winning author of The Other Woman
“Sheila Connolly’s wonderful new series is a witty, engaging blend of history and mystery with a smart sleuth who already feels like a good friend. Like all of Ms. Connolly’s books, Fundraising the Dead is hard to put down. Her stories always keep me turning pages—often well past my bedtime.”
—Julie Hyzy, New York Times bestselling author of the White House Chef Mysteries
Praise for the Orchard Mysteries
“Sheila Connolly’s Orchard Mysteries are some of the most satisfying cozy mysteries I’ve read . . . Warm and entertaining from the first paragraph to the last. Fans will look forward to the next Orchard Mystery.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
“An enjoyable and well-written book with some excellent apple recipes at the end.”
—Cozy Library
“The mystery is intelligent and has an interesting twist . . . Rotten to the Core is a fun, quick read with an enjoyable heroine.”
—The Mystery Reader (four stars)
“Delightful . . . [A] fascinating whodunit filled with surprises.”
—The Mystery Gazette
“[A] delightful new series.”
—Gumshoe Review
“The premise and plot are solid, and Meg seems a perfect fit for her role.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A fresh and appealing sleuth with a bushel full of entertaining problems. One Bad Apple is one crisp, delicious read.”
—Claudia Bishop, author of the Hemlock Falls Mysteries
“A delightful look at small-town New England, with an intriguing puzzle thrown in. And anybody who’s ever tended a septic system is going to empathize with amateur detective Meg Corey.”
—JoAnna Carl, author of the Chocoholic Mysteries
“A promising new mystery series. Thoroughly enjoyable . . . I can’t wait for the next book and a chance to spend more time with Meg and the good people of Granford.”
—Sammi Carter, author of the Candy Shop Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Sheila Connolly
Orchard Mysteries
ONE BAD APPLE
ROTTEN TO THE CORE
RED DELICIOUS DEATH
A KILLER CROP
BITTER HARVEST
SOUR APPLES
Museum Mysteries
FUNDRAISING THE DEAD
LET’S PLAY DEAD
FIRE ENGINE DEAD
MONUMENT TO THE DEAD
County Cork Mysteries
BURIED IN A BOG
Specials
DEAD LETTERS
AN OPEN BOOK
MONUMENT
TO THE DEAD
Sheila Connolly
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.
MONUMENT TO THE DEAD
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Sheila Connolly.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-62379-4
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2013
Cover illustration by Ross Jones.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While this is a fictional story, Edwin Forrest was quite real: he was the first great American-born stage star, and he was born and died in Philadelphia. The majority of the historic detail I’ve included in the book is accurate. Forrest as a person was a marvelous character, and long after death his legacy to both Philadelphia and the American stage lives on—I couldn’t write about historic Philadelphia and not include him.
For several years I worked at The Historical Society of Pennsylvania, where much of Forrest’s memorabilia could be found, including the imposing statue of Forrest in one of his favorite stage roles, Shakespeare’s Coriolanus. The statue has found a new home at the Walnut Street Theater in Philadelphia, where Forrest made his formal stage debut in 1820.
The Forrest Trust and the Edwin Forrest Home for Retired Actors also existed, though no more. The Forrest Home now houses the Freedom Theater in Philadelphia. To the best of my knowledge, none of the members of the Trust died under suspicious circumstances.
I am grateful to the Historical Society for providing such a wealth of information. I also can’t let another book go by without acknowledging Sandra Cadwalader, former HSP board member and, I hope, friend, who has finally figured out who she is in the series.
As always, thanks go to
my agent, Jessica Faust of BookEnds Ltd., and my tireless editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez of Berkley Prime Crime. Thanks also to Sisters in Crime and the amazing Guppies, the best cheerleaders a mystery writer could have!
The actor’s popularity is evanescent; applauded today, forgotten tomorrow.
—Edwin Forrest
Contents
Praise for the Museum Mysteries
Also by Sheila Connolly
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 1
Adeline Harrison was dead.
I couldn’t remember when I first started reading the obituaries in the paper, but now I did it daily, and that’s how I saw the news.
I had unfurled my morning paper as my commuter train rumbled out of the Bryn Mawr station. It seemed almost a shame to spend the ride reading when the June weather outside was so perfect. It seemed a shame to be inside at all, but I had a demanding job, and there was no way I could take a “nice weather” day, not when I was president of the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society. I had to set a good example for the rest of my staff, and we’d already had a “spring fever” party of sorts, on the outdoor balcony adjacent to the staff room. I made a bargain with myself: I’d read the paper until we came close to the city of Philadelphia, then I would allow myself to enjoy the view of the Schuylkill River where the train tracks ran alongside it, before the tracks plunged into and then under the city itself.
I scanned the front page for new crises, then turned to the Local section. As a member of the cultural community of the greater Philadelphia area, I had to keep my eye on cultural and other events that might affect the Society, not to mention opportunities to take advantage of new trends and new funding. We had a meager endowment and received little funding from the city itself, so I always had to be ready to sic my development staff on any opportunity that presented itself. And I had begun to read the obituaries—not out of ghoulishness, but because our board, our donors, and most of our members are well past the half-century mark. I regret the passing of each one, though selfishly, I always hope that the Society would be remembered in their wills. Of course, that remembrance could take the form of family heirlooms (possible treasure, but equally possible of only sentimental value), or it could be a financial bequest (much more welcome).
Today yielded only one such notice: former board member Adeline Harrison. She had left the board not long after I had first joined the Society as director of development a few years ago, but I remembered her for her alertness, her surprising grasp of our collections, and her kindness to everyone. I was surprised to see that she had been eighty-six years old; I would have thought her at least a decade younger. The obituary was long and glowing; she had been a member of many local institutions over the past few decades. I made a mental note to send some sort of condolence, or at least delegate Shelby Carver to handle it. Shelby had taken over my position as director of development when I was bumped upstairs (down the hall, more accurately) to Society president. With her well-bred southern background, Shelby was very good at following up on such social niceties.
I looked up to find the train skirting the Schuylkill River, so I put aside my paper. There were a few scullers out on the water, catching the cool of the morning. The Dad Vail Regatta was a few weeks past; then the river had been crowded with competing sculls. Now it was peaceful, and as always, it reminded me of Philadelphia artist Thomas Eakins’s sculling pictures. If you stood in just the right place on the banks, it didn’t look much changed from Eakins’s day.
The train stopped at 30th Street Station, and then we went underground. I got out at Suburban Station and climbed the stairs out into the fresh air of City Hall Plaza. Well, as fresh as Center City air could be, but this early in the day it was still fairly clean. I set off, glad for the walk to the Society. I stopped for a cappuccino before I mounted the stone steps and pulled open the heavy metal door. Front Desk Bob, a former policeman but quiet about it, was already in place behind the reception desk, getting ready for a new day, and we nodded at each other as I headed for the elevator to the third floor where the administrative offices were. While I waited for our lone, elderly elevator to make its stately way to the ground floor, I saluted the monumental statue of Edwin Forrest, which stood guard over the hallway. Edwin had been a superstar in his day, a larger-than-life actor who had risen from the slums of Philadelphia to command adoring audiences all over the United States and even Europe, scattering scandals in his wake. The statue was also larger than life (the sculptor had kindly added a couple of inches to Edwin’s actual physical stature), and the actor appeared dressed in Roman garb as Coriolanus, one of his favorite Shakespearean roles. It had been occupying its rather dreary location since before I began working at the Society, but I had become increasingly fond of him since I had taken over running the Society. At least he didn’t complain or demand something from me, the way some of my employees did.
It was still barely past eight thirty, but I liked to allow myself some quiet time to prepare for whatever my day might hold, to check my never-ending to-do list and to look through any messages that had come in after I left. Eric, my assistant, wasn’t at his desk yet, but since his jacket was draped over his chair, I assumed he must be down the hall in the staff room. He liked to control the coffee-making process, and since I enjoyed the results, I wasn’t about to stop him. Eric and I had worked out a deal when he had started working for me: whoever arrived first would start the coffee. I didn’t want to stick him into an antiquated administrative assistant role, but I had to say that the quality was greatly improved now that he was making it at least part of the time. In any case, he usually beat me to it.
“Hey, lady!” Shelby said, dropping into the eighteenth-century damask-covered settee on the wall opposite my desk.
“Hi, Shelby. You’re in early. Any particular reason?”
Shelby grinned. “Probably the same as you; I wanted a little quiet time. Besides, it was such a pretty day that I couldn’t stand staying inside a minute longer, so I walked over.”
I knew that Shelby lived on the other side of Independence Hall, and sometimes I envied her that walk, so rich with history. Okay, I had the giant wedding cake that was City Hall to admire, but otherwise my walk led me past prosaic stores and restaurants. “I hear you! I felt the same way myself.” I took a long drink of my cappuccino and sighed. “Anything we need to worry about?”
“No, ma’am,” Shelby replied promptly. “Oh, did you hear about Adeline Harrison?”
“I saw the obituary in the paper this morning. Did you know her?”
“Not from the Society, but we’d crossed paths now and then at other events. She was always very kind and remembered me from one time to the next, which I can’t say about many of the older people I meet around here. Should I send flowers?”
“I think the family asked for contributions to one of her pet causes in lieu of flowers, and I don’t think we’re in any position to send money. But do see that we send a nice
card. I’ll sign it.”
“Of course. See you later.”
Shelby left, but the early morning spell was broken. Another week had begun . . . following a memorable weekend. I hadn’t done much, but what I had done had been in the company of Special Agent James Morrison of the FBI, so I really hadn’t cared what we did. James and I had been seeing each other seriously for a couple of months now, but neither of us was hurrying the relationship. We both led busy lives, with schedules that resulted in as many canceled dates as not, on both sides. But neither of us was in the first flush of youth, so we weren’t impatient. And I was loving every minute of it.
James was . . . something special. Neither of us had said the L word yet. We were so cautious, so careful. He had never been married, even though he was past forty; I’d been married once before, in what seemed like another lifetime. When that had ended, without acrimony, I’d never looked for another long-term relationship. I’d been close to a few other men, but generally we had understood and respected each other’s boundaries. But with James, I was finding I had to take another look at those boundaries. Especially since we didn’t have any more professional conflicts to deal with at the moment. We’d first come together when a significant theft at the Society had been discovered, and been thrown together over various crimes within the cultural community since then. After the most recent problem, James and I had mutually decided that it was silly to keep waiting for external events to do the work for us, and started “dating.” The pace felt almost old-fashioned, but hey, I work in a history museum, and he works for the government, so slow and stately suited us both.
Looking over today’s agenda, I saw no official meetings, although plenty of official business to attend to—signing solicitation letters, reviewing grant proposals that Shelby prepared, looking over the list of prospective donors and/or board members to see who needed a personal touch again. And then there was the kindergarten.
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