“I do. Excellent summary, Shelby.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but does it get us anywhere? I mean, somebody at the FBI could probably come up with that much without cracking open a file.”
“Probably.” My phone rang, and Eric said, “It’s Agent Morrison.” I picked up.
“There’s another death,” he said without preamble.
I felt sick to my stomach. Shelby was watching, and I nodded then swallowed. “Is that person on the short list?”
“She is. Which makes it an order of magnitude more likely that we’re on the right track.”
I couldn’t decide which question I wanted to ask next. How had this woman died? How was she connected? And was her death enough to convince the police that there should be an investigation?
In the end, I asked simply, “Who?”
“Her name was Edith Oakes. In her eighties. She lived in Wayne. And she’s a cousin.”
“Of yours and Marty’s?”
“Yes.”
This was not good. “How is she connected to the others?”
“She has been a board member for both the museum and the Society, although she withdrew from both maybe ten years ago—she had emphysema and stopped going out much. But she’s still on the Forrest Trust board, because that requires minimal effort.”
“How did she die?”
“Much the same way as the others, as far as we know. It’s too soon for any official results—she was only found this morning, although she’d been dead since sometime late yesterday. Nothing overtly suspicious—if you don’t know what we know. Or think we know.”
“So not enough to interest the cops, I assume.”
“No.”
“This just keeps getting better and better,” I said bitterly. “Any signs of disturbance? I assume she had money, if she lived in that neighborhood.”
“The place was undisturbed. The police got involved early this morning, when her brother called them.”
“Edith didn’t live alone?” Wasn’t this the first time that had happened?
“No, she shared a house with her unmarried brother. I understand he was the one who found her, but I don’t have all the details yet.”
“We need to talk to Marty. I haven’t seen her this morning. Have you talked to her?”
“Not yet.”
“Let me give her a call. Although if she’s in the building, she may not have her cell phone on. James, hang on a minute.” I put James on Hold while I fished out my own cell and punched Marty’s cell number. It rang and rang, but no one answered.
Shelby had been watching me with growing concern. “What’s going on, Nell?” she asked.
“There’s been another death—someone James and Marty are related to. And James hasn’t been able to reach Marty, and she’s not answering her cell phone.”
“Oh. That’s bad. I’ll try her at home,” Shelby volunteered, and went through the same procedure using her own cell, with the same result. “No answer. You think she’s here in the building?”
I went back to James on my office line. “James, she’s not answering either of her phones. Let me go check in the building, and I’ll get back to you.”
“Let me know if you find her—I’ll see what else I can learn about the death.”
After I had hung up, I stood, fighting a prickle of concern. “I’ll check the processing room.”
Marty is a big girl, and she can take care of herself. That’s what I kept telling myself as I walked down the hallway to the processing room. When I entered the room, I was pleased to see Rich, Nicholas, and Alice all hard at work, albeit in different corners. Of course, that reflected the distribution of the materials they were working on: Rich, with a year or so of seniority, had claimed the best space for the Terwilliger Collection; Nicholas, with a higher title and a huge stack of materials from the FBI dump, er—no, there was still no better word than dump, at least for the moment—had staked out the back half of the room; and Alice, with few items under her direct supervision, had created a cozy nest in a corner. Alice’s was the neatest space, but there was nothing out of the ordinary about the controlled chaos of the rest of the room.
“Morning, all. How’s it going?”
Each of them mumbled something like “Good, fine, great.” Frankly, I didn’t feel like pressing them. Any problems they might have would only complicate my life right now.
“Has anybody seen Marty this morning? Rich, were you two planning anything?”
Rich shook his head. “Nope, on both counts. You know, she’s been kind of distracted this week. She hasn’t been hanging over my shoulder every minute like usual. Has she said something?”
“No. I just wanted to . . . get her opinion on something. I’m sure I’ll see her sometime during the day. Thanks, guys. Back to work!”
I trudged back to Shelby’s office. That prickle of worry was fast growing into a full-blown itch. Shelby looked up eagerly when I walked in, and I shook my head. “They haven’t seen her today.”
“Oh, Nell. Should we be worried? Because of . . . you know?”
Was I ready to jump to the conclusion that Marty had been murdered by the shadowy figure we were chasing? No, not yet. But I’d feel a lot better if I knew where she was. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ll make the rounds of the building and see if I can spot her. You keep trying her phones. If we haven’t tracked her down by lunch, I can take a run over to her house and see if she’s there. She might simply have decided she doesn’t want to talk to anyone, if she’s heard about Edith.” And if she wasn’t at home, or at least, didn’t answer the door, should I call James? No, it was premature to think about doing that. Marty would pop up, as she so often did. I was sure of it. Almost.
Through the morning I did my best to keep myself busy, but I didn’t do a very good job of it. Midway through the morning I went out to Eric’s desk and told him, “If Marty Terwilliger should happen to call, or if you see her in the building, can you tell her that I need to talk to her?”
“Of course. Shelby told me the same thing. Is something wrong?”
Poor boy. He was quick to pick up on my concern, but he didn’t deserve to have my worries on his head. But I couldn’t lie to him, either. “I hope not, Eric.”
I went back into my office without giving him any more details. I sat at my desk and stared at nothing, my mind going in circles. Four deaths in the cultural community. All looked natural on first glance, like suicide if anyone looked more closely. All people who had led blameless lives—surely they each weren’t harboring a deep, dark secret; or worse, sharing a single secret? No, I assumed they were what they appeared to be: good citizens with philanthropic interests who gave their money and time to deserving cultural institutions. Who would want to kill people like that?
But it was happening.
By eleven thirty, I couldn’t sit still any longer. I strode out of my office and told Eric, “I’m going to take an early lunch. I should be back in an hour.”
When I walked toward the elevator, I ran into Shelby in the hallway. “I’m coming with you,” she announced.
“Where am I going?”
“Marty’s house, I assume.”
“If she’s there and looking for a little privacy, she’ll be mad at us. But thanks, Shelby. I could use the company.”
Together we left the building and turned left toward Rittenhouse Square and the Schuylkill River. I’d been to Marty’s town house before. It was a nice brick building on a quiet side street, in a good neighborhood. The house was filled with an eclectic mix of antiques, mostly inherited, and modern touches that Marty had added, and somehow they all worked together. Not that Marty made any apologies for the unlikely mix. Her attitude was take it or leave it, and she really didn’t care what anyone else thought.
It took about ten minutes to reach her town house, and I think we were both dragging our feet for the last block. If Marty answered the door, we could go ahead and share whatever new information we had garnered ov
er the last twelve hours, including about the new death. If she didn’t answer . . . well, we’d take that hurdle when we came to it.
In front of Marty’s place, I walked up the few steps leading to the front door and rang the doorbell. I could hear it faintly inside, so I knew it was working, but I didn’t hear any footsteps. Maybe Marty wasn’t wearing shoes. I rang again, and waited, Shelby hovering on the step below me. Nothing. I grasped the polished brass knocker and rapped firmly a few times. Silence. Marty was either not there, or not answering for some reason.
“Now what, Nell?” Shelby said.
Like I knew. I called James. He answered. At least someone was where he was supposed to be. Since this was business, I cut to the chase. “James, have you heard from Marty today?”
“No. Why?”
“She’s not at the Society. Rich hasn’t seen her. In fact, nobody’s seen her. Shelby and I have been calling her all morning on her cell and at home, and she hasn’t picked up. We’re at her house now, and there’s no answer. Do you have any idea where she might be?”
James didn’t answer immediately. I assumed he was turning over the possibilities in his mind, and probably coming to the same conclusions that Shelby and I had, and it wasn’t that Marty was indulging herself in a three-hour bubble-bath.
“I have her key. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.” He hung up abruptly.
I turned to Shelby. “The reinforcements are coming.”
CHAPTER 11
Shelby and I felt conspicuous standing on the doorstep, so we sat down on the top step to wait for James to arrive. It was a delightful neighborhood, with plenty of shade trees and little traffic, yet still convenient to both Center City and the highways that led out of town. There were few people on the street. I kept peering in both directions, not so much watching for James as hoping that Marty would miraculously appear, either on foot or by car. She didn’t.
When James arrived, I was both glad to see him and also a little afraid, because he would let us into the house and we would find . . . something. Or maybe nothing. Finding nothing would be only slightly more encouraging than finding . . . something worse.
James looked somber as he approached. “Nell, Shelby.” He nodded. “Still no sign of Marty?”
Shelby and I stood up. “Nope, and no sounds from inside the house,” I said. “Are we going in?”
He climbed the steps to stand beside us. “I’m going in. You two wait here.”
I was both frustrated and relieved by his order. Shelby and I stayed put, sitting side by side without talking. Marty didn’t believe in wall-to-wall carpet, so I could hear James’s footsteps moving slowly through the building, up the stairs . . . and down again. It must have been five minutes before he opened the front door. I turned reluctantly, searched his face, and felt a wave of relief: he didn’t look grim.
“Nothing,” he said. “No one home, and nothing looks disturbed. Have you considered the thought that she might have gone somewhere of her own volition? She does have a life outside the Society, you know.”
“Sure, but can you blame us for worrying? Yesterday she was concerned that she could be a target of this killer that nobody will acknowledge officially, and today she’s nowhere to be found. Do you think she hopped on a plane to a foreign country? Does she have a summer place or three where she might be hiding?” I was working up a good head of steam, stoked mainly by tension.
“Nell,” James said carefully, “I’m not questioning your concern. I’m here, aren’t I? I’ve checked the place out, and everything looks normal. I don’t know where Marty could have gone, but her absence may be completely innocent. Okay, maybe she should have let you know that she was going to disappear, but I can’t exactly launch an investigation when she’s been gone less than a day.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered. I knew I was being unreasonable, but I had to do something. I looked at Shelby. “So I guess we return to work, and to worrying.” Then I turned back to James. “I’ll let you know if we hear from her. If we don’t, how soon can you actually investigate?”
“Not before tomorrow. Nell, I’ll do what I can, I promise. Right now, I’d better get back to the office.”
“Go,” I said. Needless to say there was no parting kiss. I knew I had no right to be mad at him, but I needed to be mad at somebody. When and if Marty showed up, I could get mad at her.
Shelby and I had covered a few blocks toward the Society before I stopped fuming. “Sorry about that,” I said to her. “I was acting like a brat. I know there’s not much that he can do. At least we didn’t find her . . .”
Shelby finished my statement for me. “Dead? Hey, I think it’s sweet that he came when you called. And tried to spare you from finding the body, if there was one, which, thank God, there wasn’t. Haven’t all the other victims been found at home?”
“Good point. Thanks, Shelby. Want to get some lunch on the way back?”
“Sure. We need our strength.”
We settled for a fast sandwich at the small shop down the street from the Society. When we’d taken our orders to a table in the corner, I said, “What do we do now?”
Shelby chewed a large bite of her sandwich. After she had swallowed, she said, “We? I seem to recall that you keep dumping a whole lot of research in my lap. I’m not going to pretend that we’ve covered all the bases with the people on our list. Even if I focus on our three prime organizations, there’s still a lot of digging to do. In addition to all the regular stuff for my job.”
“I know, I know. I think I’ll have little ‘I Apologize’ cards made up to hand out—it’ll save time. And now you’re making me feel guilty, since I’m your boss and I’m supposed to be running the Society.” For which I depended a whole lot on Marty’s help and backup, but I couldn’t say that to Shelby. “Thank goodness we’re between major events.”
“The Board Bash is next, isn’t it?” Shelby asked.
“Yes, but not for months. Why?”
“You know, maybe I could kill two birds with one stone. If I have to look up all this stuff about the Forrest Trust, maybe we could use our Forrest collection as the focus for the event? Didn’t I see something in the file about using the income from that endowment to promote the guy? We could easily justify spending the money on the party.”
I stared at her. “Shelby, you’re brilliant! From what I know, Edwin Forrest was quite a figure. We could really have some fun with it.”
“Oh yeah? Tell me a little more about this Edwin guy.”
“All right, let’s see. He was born in Philadelphia, and his career began here, when he was in his teens. And he was still performing right up to his death in the 1870s. He was wildly popular, and from all that I’ve read, he was considered a pretty good actor, too—at least compared to some of his more over-the-top contemporaries. He took his fame seriously and tried to use it for good purposes. But he had his share of problems. For one thing, he married an English actress, but when they split up they both sued each other for divorce, very publicly—each claimed they’d found the other in the act of being unfaithful. The transcript of their divorce proceedings goes on for over a thousand pages. Edwin more or less lost, but not before dragging her name and his own through a lot of mud. Anyway, he ended up paying alimony forever.”
“Nell, why do you know all this?” Shelby asked.
“He’s part of Philadelphia history. And it’s an interesting story.”
“It is that. That divorce must have been pretty shocking for the nineteenth century. Did it hurt his career?”
“Not hardly. I mean, this guy was a megastar by standards back then. People literally died for him.” When Shelby looked at me, I explained, “He had this rivalry thing going with an English actor named Macready, and they were performing in New York at the same time. There were riots in the streets between fans from both sides. And a bunch of people died—there are conflicting reports about how many. Again, Edwin picked himself up and kept on going. And, more relevant to our problem here
, he made lots of money.”
“That’s where the trust comes in?” she asked.
“Exactly. He never remarried, and he and his wife had no children. As he got older, his health went downhill—it’s kind of hard to piece together, but gout and arthritis are on the list.”
“Maybe we’ll skip the gout and arthritis part in the party-planning,” Shelby joked. “Do we need approval for the theme? Like from the board?”
“Well, since I, the president, and you, the director of development, both endorse it, I think they’ll agree. Let’s pull together a presentation and see what we’ve got in the collection.”
“I’m on it.”
At least lunch had ended on a relatively cheerful and productive note. We walked back to the Society, where everybody looked energetic and happy, oblivious to the possibility of a lurking killer. Upstairs I stopped at Eric’s desk hoping for a phone message, but there were none from either Marty or James.
“Good lunch?” Eric asked.
“Not bad. I should be in my office the rest of the day. If you’ve got any paperwork I should deal with, now would be a good time to get it done.”
“I’ll get the folder out.”
Mindless paperwork was a great distraction, I had found. I found myself thinking about the idea Shelby had hatched for our next big event, and I still liked it. The Society holds two major social events each year: a gala, usually in the late fall, and another more relaxed event in the spring. The gala is usually intended to draw in our more affluent members and impress them with what we’re doing with their money. The other event brings in a broader slice of our membership and we try to make it fun. The latter was still more than nine months away, but we like to have the theme nailed down by the fall. I was amazed that nobody had thought of using Edwin Forrest before, especially since we were sitting on an abundance of materials and the money to help pay for the event, in the name of preserving Edwin’s memory. Poor Edwin: he definitely had slipped from public memory, even locally, even though he had been a major public figure for a large part of the nineteenth century—not to mention a very colorful individual.
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