Privy to the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  He shook his head, but I wasn’t sure whether he was responding to my question or merely to the mess of the situation. “I can’t say that it does. And I meant what I said—there’s nothing you can take to the police. They’d laugh in your face, and I can’t say that I’d blame them.”

  “Hrivnak asked me to find the curly thing, which I think we have.”

  “All right, give that to her. Don’t spin out your wild stories. If she asks, tell her what you’ve guessed. But don’t be surprised if she doesn’t swallow it.”

  I’d have to retrieve the remnants of the box from Henry tomorrow. “Agreed. So what do we do?”

  “What do you mean we, kemosabe?”

  “Oh, right, you’re keeping your nose out of our business.” I wondered how long that would actually last, but I wasn’t about to challenge him on it at the moment. I was tired. We’d had a long and pleasant day, and then Marty had showed up and dropped her bomb on us, and all this emotional seesawing was really exhausting. “Can we pick this up again in the morning? Because I must perform my ablutions.” All right, I was definitely a bit tipsy.

  “Of course. I’m sure if all this started more than a century ago, it’s not going to disappear overnight.”

  With that, we went to bed, although I won’t say we went to sleep right away.

  —

  Sunday morning I stumbled down the stairs to find Marty already sitting at the kitchen table, looking disgustingly chipper.

  “I made coffee,” she said, “although it took me about ten minutes to find all the stuff I needed. How long have you been in the house now?”

  “A month. Yes, I know it’s a mess. We’re still trying to figure out where to put things, except there’s either too much—like books—or not enough—like furniture. Come back in, oh, a year or two, and we might be settled.”

  I helped myself to a cup of coffee and dropped into a chair at the table. The coffee was strong enough to make my hair stand on end, but it worked quickly. “Marty, about all that stuff you told us last night . . .”

  “Yes, I remember telling you, and yes, I feel a lot better getting it off my chest and sharing. Question is, what now?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask. Is this kind of murky family history typical for the Terwilligers? Stories that are hinted at but never explained? Did your father ever let anything slip?”

  “No details, if that’s what you’re asking. Like I told you, he loved the Society all his life. But he was never comfortable serving on the board. I just pegged it as shyness—he was a private person, and he never liked ordering people around, so being board chair was difficult for him. He was always honest, extremely loyal to his friends, and took his responsibilities very seriously. But sometimes I wondered if there was something more—things he wasn’t telling us. I don’t know. I didn’t ask questions back then. Now I wonder, if he hated being on the board so much, why did he stick to it for decades? Maybe he thought he was guarding secrets. But nobody ever came out and said anything.”

  “Did he recruit you? For the board, I mean?”

  “Not in so many words. I mean, like him, I kinda grew up in the place, and we had more bits of history scattered all over our house. So it seemed natural. If you’re asking very indirectly, did he give me any hints or warnings, the answer is no. He never sat me down and said anything weird, like, ‘We the mighty Terwilligers have committed a great sin and it falls upon our shoulders to pay the price.’”

  I tried and failed to imagine that. “So he never told you directly that he had been party to or had knowledge of a theft committed by somebody somehow connected to the family.”

  Marty studied the grounds in her coffee cup as if looking to read them. “I’m going to have to go back and reexamine a lot of things now, based on what I’m guessing. And look through a bunch of stuff. That’s the problem with history—you have to keep reinterpreting it.”

  James came down the back stairs, freshly shaved but wearing grubby sweats. “I smell coffee. Is there more?”

  I waved toward the counter by the stove. “Be warned, Marty made it.”

  “Ah. Thank you for the warning.”

  “Jimmy, you’re a wimp. If you ordered that in a restaurant you’d pay extra and it would come with a fancy Italian name.”

  “Understood. Breakfast?”

  “Feel free to forage,” I said. He did.

  After we’d eaten something, Marty said, “Thanks for looking out for me last night, Jimmy. I hadn’t realized how bent out of shape this whole mess has made me. But the big question is, what do we do now?”

  “Marty,” James said with what I thought was admirable if annoying patience, “as I’ve told Nell repeatedly, there is no we. I cannot involve myself in this . . . I won’t even call it an investigation. I will not undertake any research into what may be wild conjecture. Certainly not on FBI time or with FBI resources—not that I think they’d be relevant anyway. You may recall I have a full-time job, and I’ve recently returned from sick leave, and you wouldn’t believe the backlog of stuff on my desk. I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t have time to get into your problem.”

  “It’s your family, too,” I reminded him, “but I do understand about your time commitments.” I turned to Marty. “So it’s you and me? What about Rich?”

  “Rich is a good kid and he works hard, but he doesn’t know all the family details.”

  “He’s been working with you and the collection for going on two years now—he must have picked up something. And he does bring a fresh eye,” I countered.

  “True. But what do I tell him to look for?”

  I shrugged. “Got me. What was your father like? I never met him, remember. Why would he have created or maintained any mystery about this lap desk? I mean, anybody who loves history, and who recognizes how much we’ve lost and how hard we have to fight to preserve what has survived, would probably feel a responsibility to leave some kind of record. Don’t you agree? Maybe he was conflicted because he knew it was a family member who trashed the piece, and family came first. Maybe he did write down a clear account saying Cousin X stole it to buy his mistress a town house with the proceeds, and then had a change of heart. Or maybe he was torn for another reason, like Cousin X stole it to sell because he needed the money to pay for lifesaving surgery for his mother, but she passed away before it could happen.” By now both Marty and James were staring at me as if I’d gone nuts. “What?”

  “You’ve gone from zero to about seventy in no time flat,” Marty said. “I’m impressed. Except none of your stories explain why it got smashed and why it’s in the pit. Neither my grandfather nor my father would have done that.”

  “But you agree with me that there are other possibilities?” I knew Marty was sometimes touchy about comments about her family, and I wasn’t sure if I’d stepped over a line. It had happened before.

  “I do, much as I hate to think my father hid things from me. I reserve the right to believe that if he did, he had a good reason, like you pointed out. He really did care about history, family or not.”

  James spoke up for the first time in a while. “Aren’t you two losing sight of the main issue here? Carnell Scruggs, the man who died? It’s all well and good to speculate about what your father or grandfather might have thought a century ago, but a man was killed last week. If you believe the two are related, you’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Marty answered quickly. “Jimmy, you think we don’t know that? We’re trying to figure out why that poor guy ended up dead, and what little we’ve got points to the Terwilligers. So I feel an obligation to get to the bottom of it. Nell here can help, but only if she wants to. And don’t forget you’re a Terwilliger too, Jimmy.”

  “My mother never bought into all that society stuff, if you recall.”

  “Blood will out!” Marty declared dramatically. “Nell, you in?”

&nbs
p; “It involves the Society, therefore I am involved. I can’t play ostrich and pretend it’s not happening. We know about it now.” Or think we do, I added to myself. I had nothing better to suggest.

  Marty slapped her palms on the table, startling both James and me. “So let’s move forward. Look, I’ve got some digging to do at home. Nell, how about I come by the Society tomorrow morning and we can go over what I find, or don’t find? This may take a little time.”

  “Construction is going on tomorrow, so things are going to be unsettled,” I reminded her.

  “When aren’t they?” she retorted. “You’re okay if I bring Rich into this? We can use his help.”

  I wondered if it was wise to drag someone else into this growing mess, but I agreed that we could use the help of another trained researcher. “Go ahead, Marty. He should know the Terwilliger Collection pretty well by now.”

  “Will do.” Marty stood up. “Thanks for your hospitality, you two. We’ll have to work on your furniture problem once we get this other thing cleared up. Bye.” With that, she picked up her bag by the front door and left before James and I could muster a protest.

  We were left staring at the closed door. “What just happened here?” I asked James.

  “Martha Terwilliger wants to play detective. I must say I have mixed feelings about it. I’ll concede that she has a point, and that solving this crime may hinge on information that she has unique access to. Or it may be a wild-goose chase. Either way, I know I can’t stop her. But I worry about what she’s dragging you into. There’s already been one death.”

  How sweet: he was worried about me. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked out for me, before James. “Thank you, James. I’ll certainly try to be careful. But as I said to Marty, since this does seem to involve the Society and its collections, I have a responsibility here.”

  He reached out and took my hand. “Of course. You know I’ve got your back.”

  CHAPTER 13

  James and I spent what was left of the morning doing not much of anything. I made another pot of coffee, and we read the Sunday paper (I checked the obituaries to see if any of the Society’s current or former members had passed away and if I should send condolences the next day, a morbid but not infrequent task). He went out to the car and retrieved our new old table, and we wandered around the house trying it out here and there. It looked lonely. I tried to visualize pieces of furniture that we didn’t have in spaces that we had too many of. I looked at the tall, handsome windows with their opulent moldings and shuddered to think of the yardage of fine damask that would be required to adorn them in the manner they deserved. I couldn’t just go pick something off the rack at the local department store. Good thing I liked lots of light—and that there were no neighbors near enough to peer through our windows. Although I made a mental note to revisit that conclusion come winter, when the leaves had fallen.

  When we discovered we had done all that and it was still only midafternoon, I asked James, “Are we workaholics?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I have no idea what to do with free time, and as far as I can tell, you don’t, either. We’re supposed to be spending quality time together now, but doing what?”

  He took my question seriously. “You’re saying you aren’t happy just sitting with me and smelling the roses?”

  “I guess. Sad, isn’t it?”

  “I do know what you mean, Nell. All right, it’s a beautiful fall day, and we have about three hours of daylight left. What fits into that? A museum? An historic site? Bowling?”

  I gave an involuntary snort at that last suggestion. “Do you bowl?”

  “The last time I tried, I think I was twelve. Do you want to think about getting Eagles tickets for some future game?”

  I’d never once considered that. “Maybe. Let’s keep that on the list. Do you even like art museums?”

  “In small doses. Too much art and my brain short-circuits.”

  Much as I hated to admit it—I mean, I work at a museum, for heaven’s sake—mine did, too. What can I say? My imagination was fired more by history than by paintings. “Theater?”

  “Maybe. What about movies?”

  “You like weepies or ones where things go boom?” I tossed back.

  “We could alternate,” he offered.

  “Which do you think I prefer?” I hated to admit a secret affection for the ones with lots of explosions, but there it was.

  “I’ll pass, thanks. Realistically, we should probably continue hunting for furniture at the moment. We tried the antique side yesterday—how about some nice contemporary stuff today?”

  “Okay, I guess. If ever we get to the point of deciding on carpets and drapes and paint colors, are you going to run screaming or find an important case that has to be solved?”

  “Wait and see.”

  So we went to high-end department stores and looked at nice, large, stuffed things, and then we found a pleasant restaurant and ate an early dinner, and then we came home and watched television—just like an old settled couple. Had it really been only a month since we’d moved in?

  Marty did not call. The FBI did not call. It was all very peaceful.

  I do not trust peaceful anymore.

  —

  Monday morning began uneventfully. Detective Hrivnak hadn’t put in an appearance yet. I hoped that was a good sign, and that the police had resolved Carnell Scruggs’s death or decided it really was an accident. I was braced for a few weeks of chaos now that construction had begun. At least my office was as far from the banging and clanging of renovation as possible, but since the building was constructed of metal and concrete, there were bound to be reverberations.

  Eric had arrived early today. “Mornin’, Nell. Coffee’s ready. Nice weekend?”

  “Very nice, thank you.” Except for Marty’s intrusion, I thought, but Eric didn’t need to know about that. “I take it the crew is already hard at work?” Silly question—I could feel their presence through the soles of my feet.

  “That they are. Your architect left you a list of where they expected to be working over the next few weeks, so you can warn the staff and the patrons. It’s on your desk.”

  “Good for him! I’m glad we hired someone who’s worked with museums before. I’ll get some coffee, then hide out in my office, unless somebody really needs me.” I dumped my bag and coat in the office and went down the hall to the coffee machine, where I helped myself to a cup. Once back in my office I sipped appreciatively and riffled through the papers Eric had left for me on my desk. Mostly business as usual: reports on grants, lists from Shelby on prospective donors, collections status updates from Latoya, a mockup of the next newsletter, which should go out sooner rather than later, now that construction had begun. I dug in with my red or blue pen, as appropriate, and the next time I looked up, Marty was standing in my doorway.

  “Got a minute?” she asked.

  “I think so, unless you’ve got a crisis, in which case I’d like to schedule that for a week from tomorrow.” Seeing her expression, I added, “Joke! I thought you’d be busy until tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Marty flopped into a chair. “I think I’ve got a working plan. I’ll be the first to admit that what we talked about relies on a whole string of assumptions, aided by some decent Scotch, and if any one of those is false, the whole blinking thing falls apart. I wrote them all down, so we could take them one at a time. And decide if and when we need to bring in more help.”

  “Help like Henry Phinney, you mean? Or in-house help, like Rich or Shelby?”

  “Whichever. You want to hear the list?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.” Marty proceeded to read from a piece of lined paper. “Assumption number one is the biggie: the death of Carnell Scruggs is somehow connected to the brass fittings that were found in the
pit in the basement.”

  “Okay,” I said cautiously, “pending confirmation from the bartender that what he saw was one of those fittings. Which reminds me: I have to collect the one we have from Henry to take it to Detective Hrivnak so she can show it to the bartender.”

  “Don’t interrupt,” Marty said. “Assumption number two: those brass fittings came from a piece of Terwilliger furniture. Three: those fittings were part of the lap desk that belonged to General John Terwilliger. Four: that writing desk once contained something—we don’t know what, but we think it wasn’t the logical thing, which would be papers, but something else instead. Or maybe nothing at all, but I didn’t give that a number on the list. Five: somebody dumped the box in the pit sometime in the past, but before 1907, thinking no one would ever find it, which was pretty close to true. You with me so far?” Marty fixed me with an eagle eye.

  “Yes, with some reservations. Like where was the desk between the time it left General John’s possession and when it ended up in the pit? Who had it?”

  “An excellent question, and I’m getting to that. That’s one of the things I wanted to check after I left your place yesterday. I told you about my grandfather’s inventory?”

  “The one he made before the family split up the furniture? Yes, you mentioned that.”

  “Good. That box described on it pretty much has to be the lap desk. You okay with that?”

  “I think so. And?”

  “That means we know it was in the family at that time, and that he had it. The thing is, it doesn’t appear on the inventory of his gift to the Society, which we have right here in this building. Yet we found what was left of it in pieces here at the Society.”

  “So how’d it get here?” I asked.

  “Don’t interrupt—we’ll get to that. Suffice it to say, my grandfather had it. Assumption Six: my father might have known something about it. And finally, Assumption Seven: someone now does not want any or all of this information to come out, and that’s why that poor man died.” She sat back triumphantly and challenged me with a look.