Monument to the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “Come on,” Marty said, climbing out of the car. I followed, clutching a box of yummy cookies we’d bought to soften Rodney up. Marty knocked on the front door, then knocked again. For a long moment I fought the fear that we might find yet another body, but eventually we heard shouting from somewhere inside the house. Footsteps stopped near the door and there was a flash of an eye at the peephole. Finally the door was yanked open and we were confronted by a rather unkempt man of about seventy, wearing glasses set askew on his nose, with a hearing aid in one ear. “Martha Terwilliger, what drags you down to this forlorn outpost of civilization?”

  “We want to talk with you, Rodney,” Marty said brusquely. “We brought cookies.” On cue, I held up the box.

  “Bribery will get you in the door, at least.” Rodney stepped back and opened the door. “But don’t expect coffee. I’m out.”

  “Rodney, I don’t expect much of anything from you,” Marty said, brushing past him. I followed meekly.

  “Who’re you?” he demanded as I passed.

  “I’m Nell Pratt, a friend of Marty’s.” Marty made a right turn for the living room and I tailed along.

  “Come on, Rodney,” Marty said. “Come talk to us and you can have your cookies.”

  “Damn, Martha, you treat me like an idiot or a large unruly dog. Nice to see you, give me a cookie, and tell me what you want.” That last sentence came out in a rush.

  “Ah, Rodney, I’ve missed you. Kids all right?”

  “Fine. I’m a grandfather five times over. How’s your love life?” Rodney shot back.

  “As dull as ever.” Marty glanced at me. “Rodney, this is serious. This is Nell Pratt, from the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society. Nell and I need to talk with you because we think there’s something funny going on with the Edwin Forrest Trust. You still on the board?”

  Rodney dropped into a well-worn chair across from us. “Why would I quit? I don’t have to do a damn thing except show up for a meeting every now and then. Why, is there something fishy going on?”

  “Maybe, but probably not what you’d expect. Several members of the trust have died recently.”

  “So? We’re all old. Trustees die all the time. It’s getting harder and harder to replace them, though—nobody wants to be bothered.”

  “At first glance it looks like they all died from old age, or miscounted their pills, or maybe committed suicide,” I said. “But we think they were intentionally given an overdose of their medications.”

  “Rodney,” Marty followed up with surprising patience, “we think someone is killing the trustees.”

  “You’re kidding.” Rodney stared at her for several beats. “No, you’re not kidding. Why the hell would anyone want us dead? We don’t do anything!”

  “That’s what we wanted to ask you. We know some things about the trust, but not enough. For instance, how did you get involved?”

  “My mother was a member of the board, back in the day. Nobody minded when she suggested me to replace her, so here I am.” Rodney straightened his glasses and looked at me directly. “What’s your interest?”

  “I’m president of the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society, and Marty’s on the board there. A couple of other Forrest trustees who were found dead were also Society board members or former members, which is how I came to be involved.”

  “Oh, right—you’re the ones with that honking big statue of Edwin.” He turned away from me. “Martha, who do you think is killing people?”

  “That’s the question,” Marty said. “Rodney, have you had any visitors lately? Or unusual phone calls? Anything at all relating to the trust?”

  “Nope. Well, not exactly. I don’t open my door to anybody I don’t know—usually they want me to buy something or sign some damn petition. And I don’t answer phone calls from numbers I don’t recognize—same thing. Usually someone shilling for a candidate, or maybe it’s for sick animals. I know all my family’s numbers. If somebody really wants to talk to me, I let them leave a message, so I get to decide if I really want to talk to them. Most don’t. I get ticked off by these people who won’t admit who they are. Seems rude.” He sighed. “So, who else is gone? I’m kind of behind on my mail.”

  Marty ticked off the deaths on her fingers, and with each additional name, Rodney’s expression grew more serious. When she was finished, he said, “Damnation. I really haven’t been paying attention. Six of us? Something’s not right. When did all this happen?”

  “Over the past year,” Marty said. “Although the pace seems to be speeding up. That’s why we wanted to talk to you—to make sure you were all right, of course, and to see if you could shed any light on these deaths.”

  Rodney ate a cookie, slowly. “Like I said, I don’t talk to many people—not worth my time. Last trustees meeting was—let me think—six months ago? We’re about due for another one, I guess.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary going on with the trust, Rodney?” I asked.

  “Apart from the proposal to dissolve it, you mean?”

  My eyes widened: this was the first I’d heard of this idea.

  “What? Wait,” Marty sputtered. “Who wants to dissolve the trust?”

  “I guess we all do, except we’ve just started looking into how, with a lawyer. We aren’t in a hurry—this thing’s been ticking along since 1872. But there’s really no reason to keep going. Most of the money went to setting up that home for decrepit actors in Forrest’s old house, but no decrepit actors want to go there anymore. Can’t say as I blame them—the place needs a lot of work, and we don’t want to take on fixing it up to modern standards—kind of a waste of money. But we’d have to break the trust in order to sell the place, or even give it away. Old Edwin was pretty clear about what he wanted.”

  “How hard would it be to break the trust?” Marty asked.

  Rodney shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ve asked a lawyer to check it out, but none of us knows yet. Like I said, there’s no rush.”

  This cast a whole new light on our problem, and I tried to figure out the implications. If the trust was dissolved, who would be affected? What would happen to the objects from his collection? That was, after all, my most direct concern, not that I thought anyone would kill over any of it. The Society might have to give back or try to buy the collections items we housed, and we’d definitely have to give back the money we held, but since it was a restricted endowment, nobody had touched it. Was there anything about the dissolution of the trust that could lead to murder?

  Marty beat me to it. “Is the trust out of money, Rodney?” Marty asked.

  “Nah. It’s been safely invested for forever, and we don’t mess with it. I’d say in the neighborhood of a million including the property, but the interest income from the endowment isn’t enough to cover maintenance of the Home anymore.”

  That didn’t help me much. I didn’t see how anyone could get his hands on that million. “Have you changed financial advisors?”

  Rodney turned to me. “Don’t think so—we let our attorney handle that side of things. No big changes that I can recall, and we’d have to vote on it anyway.”

  “You haven’t said anything publicly, have you?”

  “Nope. Besides, who cares? We’re small potatoes.”

  Who cares, indeed. I wondered what would happen if there weren’t enough trustees to vote on the dissolution? At the rate things were going, there might be none within the month. What then? Would whoever was holding the money take over? The attorneys? Would a trust that had been set up back in the 1870s hold up today? All questions for which I never thought I would need answers.

  And still no motive, and no additional clues from Rodney, apart from the bombshell about dismantling the trust. A sleepy old trust with modest resources was fading away because it had become irrelevant in the modern world; its original purpose had ceased to exist. Why would anyone care enough to kill?

  “Rodney, who’s the lawyer that’s handling this?”

  “One of those three-name p
laces in Center City, starts with an M . . . Morgan something?”

  “Morgan, Hamilton and Fox?” I said.

  “Sounds right,” Rodney replied. “The law firm’s been around as long as the trust, damn near. They recently assigned some young puppy to handle it. I’m sure he’s smart, but dealing with him is like talking to one of my grandkids, and he thinks we’re all senile.”

  I had to wonder if he was talking about Jacob Miller—the description sounded about right. “Has he made any recommendations yet?” I pressed.

  “Scheduled for the next meeting. The secretary at the law firm usually sends out a notice telling us when to show up. Like I said, it’s probably soon.”

  Marty and I exchanged a glance, and I wondered if she was thinking what I was: that the pending board meeting had pushed the killer to speeding up his schedule. How would murdering the board members affect trust procedures? What made up a quorum for the trust?

  “Rodney, we’re going to go see Louisa Babcock next,” Marty said. “You seen her lately?”

  “Told you, Martha—I only see family these days. And now you. Life’s too short to waste on boring people. At least you’ve livened up my afternoon. If I have any brainstorms I’ll let you know. Thanks for the cookies.”

  Apparently the chat with Rodney was over, but I didn’t believe there was much more to be gained anyway. “Thank you for seeing us, Rodney. And take care of yourself,” I said.

  “I’ve survived this long, haven’t I?” He gave me a searching look, and I wondered what he was thinking. “Take care of old Edwin, will you?”

  I laughed. “I usually say hello to him anyway, while I’m waiting for the elevator. I’ll give him your best wishes.”

  “Ha!” Rodney said. He stood up and shepherded Marty and me to the door, which he closed firmly behind us while we were still standing on the stoop.

  Back in the car, I said to Marty, “Well, that was interesting. Did we learn anything?”

  “The trustees want to wrap up the trust, and they’ve talked to their lawyer,” Marty said, backing rapidly out of the drive without looking. Luckily there were no kids strolling home from school.

  “That’s news, all right. But I can’t imagine there’s enough money there to inspire murder. Unless, of course, somebody’s been cooking the books. Didn’t Rodney say that it was the lawyer who took care of the financial management side? Or maybe the bank holding the assets has been embezzling for years and doesn’t want to be found out?”

  Marty gave a short laugh. “There are easier ways to cover up embezzlement than killing half the board. I don’t think there are any financial wizards among them, so they’d accept whatever piece of paper was put in front of them. Doesn’t feel right.”

  “I know. So, Rodney is a washout, but at least we’ve warned him. Are we going to see Louisa next?” It was only two thirty—plenty of time for another call.

  “Sure. But we have to stop at a liquor store. Rodney likes his sweets, but Louisa likes to keep a little nip on hand, and the rehab place won’t let her have any. Not the greatest thing for someone who’s trying to relearn how to walk after busting a hip, but who am I to judge?”

  “How old is she?”

  “Eighty-something. I think Rodney was the baby of the board—you heard him say that his mother kind of passed her slot on to him. But Louisa still has all her marbles, and she remembers everything.”

  I hoped she remembered something useful. Maybe the closing of the trust wasn’t moving forward quickly, but I wondered if someone might be interested in stopping it.

  CHAPTER 18

  After a detour to a liquor store, we arrived at Louisa Babcock’s rehabilitation center. If Rodney’s modest tract house had shaken my assumptions about Marty’s friends, Louisa’s current if temporary residence more than compensated: it looked more like a pricy hotel than a medical facility. Everything about the tasteful, spacious lobby confirmed my original notion of her friends’ wealth. There was a surprisingly large and elegant concierge’s desk to the right, with a low arrangement of fresh flowers on one corner, and a well-dressed middle-aged woman watching our every move. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “We’re here to see Louisa Babcock,” Marty said.

  “Are you on the approved list?” said the woman whose name tag read Esther. It had never occurred to me that we would have trouble getting in.

  Marty apparently knew the drill. “Martha Terwilliger. I’ve been here before.”

  The woman behind the desk turned to a sleek touch screen and looked at something we couldn’t see. “Ah, of course, here you are. I’m sure Louisa will be delighted to see you. If you’ll just sign in? And your guest as well?” She slid a leather-bound register across the desk. Marty signed, then passed it to me, and I did the same.

  When I had returned the book to Esther, Marty led the way down a long corridor, turned left, and followed another corridor until she stopped in front of a door halfway down. Along the way I caught a faint whiff of what must be dinner, but it actually smelled tempting; happily there was no smell of urine or illness that I had unfortunately noticed in other facilities of this kind. This place was well-managed on all levels, it seemed.

  Before rapping on the door, Marty turned to me. “Louisa’s sharp, and she doesn’t care for mealymouthed people. You have a question, ask it. Don’t condescend to her just because she’s old.”

  “Marty, when have I ever . . .” But she had already turned to the door and rapped sharply on it.

  “Louisa? It’s Marty. You decent?”

  “As close as I get,” a gravelly but surprisingly strong voice replied. “You’ll have to let yourself in—this damned hip!”

  Marty pushed open the door and held it while I entered. Louisa was seated in a classic high-backed wing chair near the window, but she made no move to rise.

  Louisa all but licked her lips on seeing me. “Ooh, you’ve brought me fresh company. I’ll owe you one. Who are you, dear?” she asked me.

  I resisted the urge to curtsey—my mother did teach me to respect my elders, and Louisa wore her eighty-plus years proudly. “I’m Nell Pratt. I run the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society in Philadelphia.”

  “You can stop now if you think I’m going to give you any money.”

  “Nothing like that.” I glanced at Marty, who nodded. “We need to talk to you about the Forrest Trust.”

  Louisa looked at Marty. “Now that’s something I didn’t expect to hear. Martha, did you bring my, uh, mouthwash?”

  “Of course. Shall I refill the bottle?” Marty asked, holding up an unmarked bag.

  “If you would. I’d offer you some, but I need every drop my friends can smuggle in.”

  Marty went into the attached bathroom, and I could see her transferring the contents of a pint bottle of vodka into a brand-name mouthwash bottle by the sink.

  When Marty had accomplished her mission (and hidden the empty bottle in her own bag), Louisa asked, “I could ring for tea, if you’d like?” She looked hopeful, and I turned to Marty for guidance.

  Marty winked at me. “Sure, go right ahead.”

  Louisa beamed, then said, “Just push the call button over there and hope someone shows up.” Marty did as requested.

  “Sit, sit.” Louisa gestured imperiously toward the two brocade-covered visitor chairs in the room. “Now, what’s this about the Forrest Trust?”

  “You still a member of the board?” Marty asked.

  “Yes, last time I checked. Why?”

  “Because six of your colleagues are dead, and we think it wasn’t from natural causes, although the authorities do.”

  Louisa’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, a mystery! Someone is killing members of a thoroughly useless charity? Who? When? How?”

  Marty repeated our list. I couldn’t say Louisa looked devastated by news of the untimely deaths of six of her longtime colleagues.

  When Marty had finished, Louisa said, “So you really think someone is taking out members of our little board, on
e by one? Am I on the list, do you think?”

  “I’m sorry to say it, but maybe,” Marty said. “You upset by that idea?”

  “Martha, my dear, I’ve been ready to go since I turned seventy-five. Anything past that has been a bonus. And to be part of a conspiracy of murder! What a treat! More than I ever could have hoped. So why did you want to see me?”

  An attendant arrived in response to the ring. She seemed to have trouble with English, so it took Louisa a couple of minutes to convey that we wanted tea for three. Either she finally got the message or she gave up trying, because she left us alone again. “The help these days! We may get something, but I won’t guarantee what. Now, where were we . . . Ah, yes, what can I do to help?”

  “Do you have any idea why anyone would want to kill Forrest trustees?” Marty said.

  “Not at all. We’re a small group, and we’re just living up to the terms of the trust. Nothing has changed since it was written, except for the name of the bank and the faces around the table. There isn’t that much money, at least by most philanthropic standards.”

  “Your colleague Rodney said there was talk of shutting down the trust?” I said. “What can you tell us about that?”

  “Ah, Rodney. Such a grouchy man! Yes, we’ve talked about it, as recently as the last board meeting. But then, we’ve been talking about it for years, and you can see how much has happened.”

  “Is something likely to happen now?” I asked.

  “Perhaps. We still have money, but it’s getting harder and harder to find ways to spend it, under the terms of the trust—isn’t that a strange problem to have? The world that Edwin Forrest knew is long gone. It was kind of him to try to do well by his colleagues who were down-and-out, but it’s not possible to carry out his wishes now. End of an era, I suppose.”