Monument to the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “Does anyone benefit if the trust goes away? Or, on the flip side, does anyone lose if it does?” Marty asked.

  While Louisa was framing her response, the attendant reappeared, wheeling in a rattling cart, complete with china teapot, cups, milk, cream, and a plate of store-bought cookies. Still, Louisa clapped her hands with glee. “Oh, thank you, thank you! We’ll ring when you can take it away.”

  After the woman left, Louisa said to us quietly, “Actually it looks pretty dismal, but you’ve got to encourage the staff or you’ll never get anything again. Martha, you pour.” Marty grabbed the pot and started filling cups as Louisa went on, “Now, you asked if anyone benefitted or was harmed if the trust went away. I can’t think of anyone apart from a few lawyers and bankers. Poor Edwin, at least he had a good run, and his name’s on a few Philadelphia buildings. Do you know much about him, Nell?”

  “I didn’t, but I’ve been filling in the blanks lately. You may recall that the Society houses the Coriolanus statue.”

  “Ah, the noble Roman. Did you know that Forrest kept it in his home, when it was new?”

  “Really? It’s rather large, so it’s hard to imagine it in a home.”

  “True. Have you ever noticed that it’s a tad larger than life-size?” Louisa said slyly. “Edwin was a star, and perhaps he saw himself on a grander scale than most mortals.” She took a sip from the cup that Marty handed her. “Lukewarm, as usual.” She sighed. Then she looked squarely at me. “You know, if I recall, the Society is sitting on a chunk of our money, and some bits and pieces apart from the statue.”

  “You’re right, we are. But we can’t use those funds for anything except taking care of the collection, so we don’t lose anything if the trust goes away.” Assuming what I read on the Society’s financial reports was accurate. The lawyers for the trust were also the Society’s lawyers, so if there was anything odd going on . . .

  “So there’s nothing about the trust that you think could push somebody to wipe out the board?” Marty asked.

  “I’m sorry, dear, but no. We’re a very dull bunch.”

  Marty looked frustrated. “Okay, putting that aside, let me ask you this: have you had any strangers come visit you lately? Or call?”

  Louisa fixed her with a speculative eye. “You mean killers in disguise, coming to slip me poison? I don’t think so. But to tell the truth, I wouldn’t really know. You may have observed that the dragon at the desk is very good at screening people. I gave her a short list of people I’d be willing to see—and that included you, Martha, as you know. But I also excluded a few of my more obnoxious relatives, and I specified ‘no vendors.’ You’d be appalled at the people who show up trying to sell you something.” When Marty’s eyebrows went up, Louisa added, “Nice young priests who want to save your soul.”

  “And you said no to them, too?”

  “I did. No exceptions. This is my recuperation, and I’ll manage it on my terms.”

  Marty smiled. “How’s the hip doing?”

  “All things considered, not too bad. I may go home next week. Or not. I rather enjoy being waited on here, even if the tea is cold. I’m sorry, I haven’t been very much help, have I?”

  “Even a negative tells us something. I’ll ask the Dragon Lady if you’ve had any unwanted callers. Anything else?”

  Marty and Louisa launched into a detailed discussion of people I didn’t know. I zoned out, sipping my tea and studying the room. Louisa had clearly brought some of her possessions with her, and they were lovely. No photographs, though. No close family? I wondered if the killer thought that it was less heinous to kill older people, since they were that much closer to death anyway. Or those with no one left to mourn them or to ask awkward questions?

  Rodney seemed safe, if he stuck to his rules and didn’t let anyone in, physically or electronically. Louisa I didn’t think we had to worry about, since she seemed well defended here. I hoped that by the time she was ready to go home we would have eliminated the threat, although we didn’t seem to be getting any closer. Both lifestyles, however, felt like a sad commentary on the modern world, if they had to develop strategies to keep unwanted people out.

  Marty signaled that she was ready to leave. I took a quick look at Louisa, who was beginning to fade, and agreed. “Louisa, it was lovely to meet you. I hope you get back on your feet soon.”

  She nodded graciously. “Come see me when you figure out this puzzle. I love a good mystery, particularly one with a satisfying ending.”

  “We’re doing our best.” I hoped that was enough.

  I followed Marty back to the front desk, where she stopped in front of Esther the Dragon Lady. “What other visitors has Louisa Babcock had?” Marty demanded.

  Dragon Lady drew herself up straighter, if that was possible. “We cannot give out that information.”

  Marty wasn’t about to give up easily. “What I mean is, has Louisa had anyone stop by who asked to see her but who wasn’t on the list?”

  Esther fixed us with a steely glare. “We do not keep records of people who are not welcome.”

  “But Louisa has so few visitors. Wouldn’t you remember someone who asked for her?”

  “There has been no such request. Now, if you don’t mind . . .”

  Mind what? I wondered. We were supposed to feel brushed off, but I refused to give up. “Is there a person who takes your place at night?” I asked.

  “Of course. My hours are ten to six. We discourage late visits, however. Many of our guests retire early, after their dinner.”

  But an outsider might not know that. Marty picked up my cue. “I don’t mean to be pushy, but there’s a relative who’s visiting the area and really wants to see his aunt, Louisa. She probably doesn’t know he’s coming—you know how bad kids are these days with writing or calling, all this texting nonsense. Anyway, he might have stopped by after you left, some night, and been turned away. Could you leave a note for the night clerk and ask her to call me if she’s seen anyone asking for Louisa?”

  “Him.”

  “What? Oh, you mean the person who watches the desk at night is a man. Excellent—would you ask him to get in touch with me? Or better yet, Nell, here? Nell, you got a business card?”

  I fished a business card out of my bag and I handed it to Dragon Lady, after scribbling my cell number on the back. I wasn’t convinced that the night guy would ever see it, but we had to try. Esther tucked my card under a corner of the leather blotter, and I chose to take that as a yes. “We really appreciate it.”

  “Come on, Nell,” Marty interrupted. “We need to get going. I’ve still got to visit Harby.”

  Marty waited until we were back on Route 30 before saying, “Good thinking, asking about people who tried but didn’t get in to see Louisa.”

  “I’m just trying to cover all the bases. So we think that both Rodney and Louisa are safe for now. Which leaves us with, what, four other people on the board?”

  “I checked. One’s in Europe, the other two are on a cruise somewhere with their spouses, and I told you that Irving is living in California now,” Marty said promptly, evidently having done her homework. “They’re out of harm’s way, at least for now, and there’s not much point in trying to track them down and talk to them at the moment. So what we’ve got is . . . what we’ve got.”

  “I’ll think it over. Give my best to Harby.”

  “I will. Poor guy. Or maybe he’s lucky, being so oblivious. The drinking helps, too. Never thought I’d say that.” Marty pulled up outside my house, and I climbed out of her car. “See you at the funeral Monday.”

  Marty gave a casual backhand wave as she pulled away.

  CHAPTER 19

  It was hard to shift gears from trying to track a killer and prevent additional murders, to figuring out what to make for dinner. I definitely wasn’t in the mood for cooking, much less trying to impress James with my culinary skills, but we had to eat. We had to keep up our strength if we wanted to stop an elusive killer. What food went
well with serial killers?

  I was pretty sure wine did, so I helped myself to a glass of Chardonnay while I puttered around, throwing together a corn and cheese casserole that involved few non-frozen or non-canned ingredients. When I slid it into the oven, I checked my clock and was surprised to see that it was after seven, and James was knocking on the door.

  When I opened it I looked quickly at his face: he looked tired but not grim, which I took to mean there were no new deaths to report. Our relationship was still new enough that we weren’t sure how to greet each other: when we met at the Society, or at a restaurant or event in Philadelphia, we were usually in business mode—that is, scrupulously undemonstrative. Our time together outside of business was hit-or-miss, usually an evening snatched when slots opened up in both our calendars, which was rare.

  But James looked like he needed a hug, so I gave him one. At first he was startled, and then he relaxed into it, and we both stood there in my doorway, kind of leaning against each other. It felt nice.

  I was the one to break it off, or at least loosen the grip, so I could look at his face.

  “Hello,” he said, but at least he was smiling now.

  “And the same to you. Come in. I’ve started dinner. You want something to drink? Unless, of course, this is a business call?” I wasn’t sure if I was joking.

  “I would love something to drink. And I’ve turned my phone off. If we talk business, it’s off the record.”

  “Wine?” When he nodded, I headed for the kitchen, and he followed. “Isn’t this whole thing off the record? Unless you’ve got some news.”

  “Yes. And no. Yes, we’re still off the record, and no, there’s no progress making this an official inquiry. Heck, if I was looking at this for the first time, I’m not sure I’d give it a green light. Especially if I didn’t have the information that you gave me, and the insight into how your world works. At the very least, I probably would never have found the Forrest Trust connection.”

  “If that’s a compliment, I’ll take it,” I said, handing him a wineglass. He retreated to the bigger room to take off his jacket and tie—and his gun. I wondered where he’d been on a Saturday that would require such gear. I knew in my head that FBI agents were supposed to be armed at all times, but it was always a shock to encounter the hard reality of his firearm. I preferred not to think about it.

  I checked my timer—still a half hour until the casserole was done. “Why don’t we sit down?” I suggested. “I can tell you about what Marty and I did today. I’d rather do it now than while we’re eating.”

  He smiled. “Not good for the digestion?”

  “Nothing awful, and mostly dull. Sit.”

  He sat, falling heavily into an overstuffed chair, and I perched primly on the couch. “You want to go first?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “You go.”

  I launched into a tale of Marty’s and my calls on Rodney in Delaware and Louisa in her rehab center, and Marty’s report on the other trustees, and by the time I was done, the timer for the casserole was sounding. James hadn’t asked any questions, but at least he’d stayed awake through my recitation. “Looks like this is going to spill over to dinner,” I said ruefully. “Let me get it on the table.”

  He got up when I did and followed me, stopping at the door since there wasn’t room for two of us in my kitchen. As long as he was there, I made him work for his supper: I handed him plates and silverware and pointed him toward the table. On his second trip, I gave him a fresh bottle of wine and a corkscrew, then followed him to the table bearing dinner. We sat next to each other at one end of the long table (an inheritance from a grandmother, and large enough to seat six comfortably, eight if they were very good friends) and I dished up.

  We devoted a few minutes to eating, and then James, looking more relaxed, said, “So, your conclusion is that they’re both safe under their current circumstances? And the others are distant enough that they aren’t in immediate danger?”

  “I think so. Rodney is suspicious of everyone and has kind of walled himself in, and Louisa has guards posted at the gates. I’m sure a thug could force his way in, but our guy hasn’t gone that route yet. Maybe he’s just biding his time. The problem is, the way these two have shut out everyone makes it harder to know if there have been any attempts to get to them.”

  “Interesting problem. I think you’re right. Our killer has been careful, because he wants these deaths to look natural. But you haven’t considered the possibility that the killer is someone they already know, and trust?”

  I felt chastened. “No, we did not. But if that’s the case, that person hasn’t made an overture to either of them. I gather that Louisa’s list of approved guests is pretty short—we were lucky that Marty was on it. What about the other trustees? The people on the cruise will be coming back sometime. Do you think we’ll have figured this out by then?”

  “God, I hope so! With or without the immense resources of the FBI.”

  I looked quickly to be sure he was joking. I thought he was, but it was hard to tell. “Nothing wrong with good, old-fashioned sleuthing,” I said brightly, standing up. “Coffee?”

  “If you want me to stay awake past nine,” he said without moving.

  “I do—I have plans for you.” I ducked back into my kitchen and put the kettle on to boil and collected our dishes. I jumped when my phone rang—I didn’t get many calls at home. I didn’t recognize the number when I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Hello, is this Miss Eleanor Pratt, please?” A male voice, not young, not old, definitely foreign, although I couldn’t place the accent.

  “Yes, it is. What can I do for you?”

  “I am Fernando Rodriguez. I am working at the desk at Bellevue Center?”

  The night guy at the rehab center. My senses went on high alert. “Yes?”

  “I find note here about people wanting to see Miss Louisa Babcock, I should call you?”

  “Oh, yes, I left that note. Thank you for calling.” To her credit, Dragon Lady hadn’t just blown us off. “Has someone been asking for her?”

  “Yes. Man come this evening at time of dinner, ask to see her. I tell him he not on list, cannot come in. He not very happy, tried to give me money to let him in to see her. I tell him no and he leave.”

  “Did he give you his name?” I asked, hoping against hope.

  “He give name. I check Mrs. Babcock visitor list, only two men on it, and he not either one.”

  I guess it had been too much to hope for. “What was his name?”

  “He say Franklin Washington.”

  A fake, no doubt. “Can you describe him?”

  “Maybe thirty years old, six feet. Nice clothes, and he speak nice.”

  I scrambled for anything else to ask about in the way of identifying features. “Did he wear glasses? What color hair?”

  “He wear glasses, baseball cap. I did not see hair.”

  “Did he bring anything with him, ask you to give Louisa anything?”

  “He have flowers, but I don’t take them. I cannot leave this desk.”

  Oh, for a dueling scar or a limp. Still, it was progress: our potential suspect was a young, presentable white male. “Can you let me know if you see him again? And please tell Esther about him, so she can watch for him?”

  “Of course, I do that anyway. Always file report. I tell Mrs. Louisa?”

  I thought for a second. “No, I wouldn’t bother her about it. You’ve done exactly what she asked—she’s particular about who she wants to see. But I really appreciate you letting me know.”

  “I just do my job. Good night, miss.” He hung up.

  I turned to find James looking at me quizzically. “What was that about?” he asked.

  “That, sir, was the night manager at Louisa’s rehab center. He tells me that somebody tried to visit her tonight.”

  “And you think that’s our guy?”

  “Louisa doesn’t want visitors, certainly not people she doesn’t know
. I left my card at the desk and asked the gatekeeper to have the night attendant call me if someone else came looking for Louisa.”

  “What did he say the guy looked like?” I could see James shifting into business mode: he sat up straighter, his muscles tightened, his eyes hardened. Hardly romantic, but . . .

  “White male, about thirty, glasses, no distinguishing marks. Well dressed, well spoken. Came armed with flowers. Gave the name Franklin Washington. Left quietly when he was denied entry, but first tried to bribe the attendant.”

  “He could fit the profile. I’ll run the name, but it’s obviously fake. Could the desk guy tell you anything else?”

  “That’s it, in a nutshell. Hey, don’t look so depressed. It’s the closest thing to a real suspect we’ve got. And now we know to look for a male, not too old, not unusual looking.”

  “Great, that eliminates about two-thirds of the population of Philadelphia. Which leaves us with a mere million or so people to check out.”

  “Well, he’s too young to be a Forrest board member, so that’s out. Maybe he’s a son or grandson of one of them, and that person has been pinching funds for years and enlisted Junior to cover up the problem.”

  “It’s as good a theory as any. Can you check for descendants?”

  “I could if I was at work—that kind of information would be in our files. Please tell me you don’t want to head there now.”

  “Of course not. I thought we had other plans for this evening.”

  I was happy to note that I’d managed to cheer him up, and now I would get to reap the benefits.

  The following morning: bright sunlight flooding through my windows, open to catch the early summer breezes. Strong coffee brewing. A handsome man across the table. All good.

  “Can you get me that information today?” James asked.

  Pop went that bubble. “You mean, about sons of trustees? Uh, it’s Sunday. The Society is closed today.”

  “You run the place. Don’t you have the keys? And the security codes?” he responded quickly.