Privy to the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “Interesting,” I said, stalling. It was a surprisingly methodical analysis, especially from someone who should have been hungover yesterday, and I couldn’t disagree with any of Marty’s points. But neither could I prove them, apart from Grandfather Terwilliger’s inventory. The only tangible evidence we had was some brass pieces and some chunks of old mahogany, and an approximate terminal date for when they went into the pit: 1907. “You’re minimizing that last and most important point: Why would anyone care enough today to kill someone to keep all this quiet? It’s been more than a hundred years since whatever it was happened. The central question is, who feels threatened by this discovery?”

  “That’s what we have to find out,” Marty said firmly.

  “Great,” I said glumly. “What do you suggest we do next?”

  “Take a look at the things we can find out about. Check out the furniture—who made it, where the brass came from, and whether there’s any record of anyone other than John Terwilliger buying a lap desk from the same Philadelphia furniture maker. There could be a bill of sale.”

  “Okay, that sounds good, and you’re in the best position to look for that. Go on.”

  She nodded. “Then we go after whatever was in the desk.”

  I sat back in my chair. “Marty, how the heck are we supposed to do that? We don’t know if there was anything in there, and it’s not there now, nor is it in the pit. What do you think was in there?”

  “I’m not ready to rule out papers altogether, because if it was pulp-based paper it could have disintegrated, but there might still be traces. Maybe. If it was rag paper it would have survived longer, so I’d expect you to see at least fragments.”

  “Are you missing any Terwilliger papers that you know of?”

  “No, but I haven’t memorized the whole inventory. We can go back and look at what we’ve inventoried and see if there is a hole in the middle of it. I can ask Rich to do that—he knows the collection.”

  “Oh, this just gets better and better.” The Society had already suffered through one disastrous theft of important documents, and I refused to contemplate the fallout if we had to admit it had happened again. Even if the theft had occurred generations ago, my staff and I would look incompetent by association. “Somebody destroys a nice antique lap desk in order to steal whatever was in it, except we don’t know who stole it or what was in the box or why anybody would steal the contents between whenever your grandfather made that inventory of his and 1907. And then poor Carnell Scruggs comes along and finds the bit of hardware and carries it off in his pocket, but whatever that was, it was not found with his body on the street. Having personally sifted through the trash, I’m inclined to think it was not papers, but I haven’t any idea what it might have been. So if he did take something, then somebody had to have taken it from him. Which implies that it was valuable, either for its cash value or because it meant something to someone.”

  “At least we’re on the same page,” Marty said, slightly less enthusiastically.

  We stared at each other. “Marty, what are we doing?” I finally asked. “We’ve got a busted-up box and a dead man, and we’re jumping through hoops to try to connect them. But so far we have no evidence of any crime.”

  Marty shrugged. “We’re flailing around in the dark, is what. But why did the guy fall backward in front of that car?”

  “Maybe he was a klutz?” I volunteered.

  “Right. Go ahead, blame the victim,” Marty muttered.

  “But no one can prove he was pushed, either,” I protested. “Or if so, that it was on purpose. Maybe some drunk bumped into him and he stumbled onto the street.” I was now officially grasping at straws. “How about this? We check who was working here in the early twentieth century. I can go through the Society’s old records, and it’s not going to be a big number. You know, anybody who had access to the building while it was still under construction, and therefore to the pit.”

  Marty considered for a few moments. “That’s not a bad idea. Come at it from the other side, sort of. We know the box was there, and somebody put it there on purpose and never mentioned it.”

  “Did your grandfather figure out that it was missing? Or did he give it to someone or sell it, before he made the gift to the Society?” I tried to phrase my next question delicately. “Marty, you’re the only person who can look at your grandfather’s history and see where he might fit. I’m not saying for a minute that he was involved, if there even was a theft or an incident of vandalism. But if there was, why did he look the other way and do nothing?”

  “You’re right—that’s my responsibility, and I can’t ask anyone else to do it. I’ll deal with it. That all?”

  “Who else should or shouldn’t we involve? Lissa either already knows or guesses that we’re looking into it. Have you talked to Rich?”

  “I’ll see him today—I wanted to check my personal papers before I set him to hunting.”

  “Since it’s collections-related, we should probably include Latoya.” I didn’t relish the idea, because we had a slightly rocky working relationship, and I didn’t think she’d approve of this use of Society staff time.

  “What about Hrivnak?” Marty asked slyly.

  Yes, I still needed to get back to her—after I retrieved the escutcheon. Today, or I’d lose whatever points I’d scored with her. “What the heck is there to tell?” I protested. “We think somebody might have stolen something a century ago, but we don’t know who or what? She’d laugh us right out of her office. James agrees about that.”

  “But we do need her to confirm the point about the brasses, just to dot the is and cross the ts, and I’m betting she will,” Marty retorted. “So you reach out to her and tell her you have something to show her. Take the lead on this so you can maintain control of the information. Tell her the bare facts: the brasses came out of the Society pit, where Scruggs was working on the day he died—that, we can pretty much prove. That’s all you know, and it’s the truth. Can she prove that one of those brasses is the thing Carnell Scruggs showed the bartender?”

  “But if the answer’s yes, she’s going to want to know more.”

  Marty was not about to be silenced, now that she was on a roll. “Volunteer to do some research for her. Then she’ll owe you.”

  “And why are we not telling her our thoughts up front?”

  “Because we don’t really know anything,” Marty tossed back at me. “And I want to figure out how deep into this my family was before it all goes public. Maybe that’s selfish of me, but I just want to buy time to find out all that I can. Can you understand that?”

  I certainly knew about Marty’s feelings for her family history. “I think so. Why don’t you call Henry and tell him that I’ll swing by this afternoon to pick up the pieces, and then I’ll take them straight over to police headquarters from there?”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll go call him now.”

  Before I could protest, she leaped up and left my office. I stared after her, afraid to wonder where all this would lead.

  CHAPTER 14

  Marty poked her head back in long enough to confirm that Henry would be in his workshop all afternoon and was expecting me. Then she disappeared again. Afraid I’d have more uncomfortable questions for her?

  I thought I understood where she was coming from. Marty was proud of her family history, and this murky mess looked as though it could besmirch it. Stupid word, that, but there was something almost Victorian about this scenario, with its potential for close-held secrets and family honor intertwined. I had to keep reminding myself that there was a very real, very modern murder involved, whether or not it had anything to do with the Terwilligers. I sighed. Damn that pit: I’d been the one to request that it be cleaned out and the contents saved, at least until someone could take a look at them. I should have let the construction crew fill it in and build over it. Then maybe Carnell Scruggs wo
uld still be alive.

  But it was too late for that, and now I thought the responsible thing to do was to retrieve the escutcheon and convey it to Detective Hrivnak and let her follow up. If the bartender told her the thing looked totally wrong, the whole issue would go away. If he really couldn’t tell, we weren’t any further along. If he jumped up and down and cried, “Eureka!” then we were in the soup.

  Of course, that metal piece might have been available at the eighteenth-century equivalent of the corner hardware store and appeared on eighty-seven percent of colonial furniture made in Philadelphia. I could ask Henry about that, as soon as I got myself over there.

  Shelby popped by not long after. “Lunch? Noonish?” she asked.

  “Okay.”

  She disappeared again as quickly as she had arrived. I checked my watch: only eleven, so I had an hour to kill. I decided to go find the construction foreman, Joe Logan, again and see how things were going. I stopped by Eric’s desk to update him on my plan. “Eric, in case I don’t get back to my desk, I’m going to go check on the construction progress, and then I’m having lunch with Shelby, and then I have an errand to do, but I should be back before the end of the day. Anything critical on my calendar?”

  “Nope—just ordinary business.”

  “Good.” I wandered off toward the second floor, where the loudest noises seemed to be coming from.

  The Society’s building had been declared structurally sound, thank goodness. Mitchell Wakeman’s generous contribution was going to pay for a thorough overhaul of our antiquated heating, ventilation, and cooling systems, and the installation of modern compact shelving wherever feasible. Compact shelving optimized the use of storage space, because the shelves actually moved, rolling silently on tracks, either electrically or by hand-cranking a large wheel, so that only one or two aisles had to remain open at any time. Of course, we’d had to verify that the floors could sustain the weight of the additional shelves—they were heavy!—plus the collections they housed, and there were limits on how much we could add. And since we were also upgrading our fire systems, now to be sprinkler-based, we’d had to factor in the weight of wet books and papers, which would be heavier than normal. How ironic it would be if the collections were saved from fire but the floors collapsed around them!

  Joe Logan was where I expected him to be. “How’s it going?” I called out, as men in hard hats disassembled the century-old metal shelves. I wondered if they were recyclable and whether we would get anything back if they were sold as scrap.

  “Good, good,” Joe said, his gaze not leaving the workers.

  “No more surprises?” I asked, half joking.

  Now he turned to me. “You mean, like that pit? Nope. Nowhere to hide up here. You know, the police said to leave the pit alone for now, since that’s where Carnell was working. Luckily we’d planned to start up here anyway. You need something?”

  “No, I just wanted to keep tabs on the progress so I can report to the board and our members. We’re on track?”

  “Yup, all good. But it’s only day one, remember.”

  “I promise I won’t hover over you for hourly updates. You’ve worked in places like this before, haven’t you?”

  “Sure have.” He rattled off a list of local libraries whose names I recognized.

  “Scott Warren and his company brought you on, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah. We’ve worked together before. You’ve got a top crew working here. Must be nice to have the funding to do it right. I can’t tell you the number of times we’ve had to scale back a project because of lack of money.”

  “I hear you,” I told him. “We’re very lucky, and we plan to use the space wisely.”

  I could tell he was itching to get back to work, and I didn’t have anything more to add, so I left. I wandered down the hall to the processing room, which now looked like utter chaos. Normally it was a large, open room with big tables where items could be spread out. Now the perimeter was lined with (acid-free) boxes, stacked three deep, and there were more tucked under the tables wherever possible. Still, Rich and Ben seemed to have found a way to ignore the noise from the adjacent stacks and the confusion in their work space and appeared absorbed in their own work. I envied them their focus.

  “Hey, guys!” I called out. “Everything going okay? Where’s Alice?” Alice was one of our newest employees, a delightful twentysomething young woman whom we’d hired to please her donor uncle, but who was more than proving her worth.

  “She had a family thing—a vacation in Europe with her uncle or something,” Rich said. “Did you need her?”

  I’d forgotten that Alice would be out for a bit, on a trip funded by her generous uncle. Since the Society benefited from his generosity as well, I couldn’t exactly say no to her, although such absences were not standard Society policy. And in truth there wasn’t a lot for Alice to do at the moment, with the collections shifting frequently. “No, I was just checking in. This place just keeps getting more and more crowded, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does,” Ben said. I realized that of course he’d be the person most aware of that, because it was hard to maneuver his wheelchair around all the added boxes. “We haven’t seen much of you here recently, Nell.”

  “Well, there’s been a lot going on, here and at home—James and I just moved into a new place. What’re you guys working on?” As collections researchers they both reported to Latoya, head of collections, but I didn’t always know what projects she assigned, and I wanted to hear it from them.

  “Marty Terwilliger asked Rich to do something or other with the Terwilliger Collection,” Ben said, “so I’m looking into the history of the waterfront for him and plodding through those FBI acquisitions the rest of the time. Oh, and working on the next newsletter with Shelby, since Alice is out this week.” Ben was our newest addition, as registrar, but his background was in database management rather than historic collections, so I was glad to hear that he was getting up to speed.

  “That sounds good. I’ll let you all get back to it—I’m just making the Monday-morning rounds. Carry on!” At that out-of-character comment they both stared at me as though I were daft, so I left.

  Since by now it was almost noon I wandered down to Shelby’s office, where she was ready and waiting. “Where do you want to go?” she asked.

  “Can we head toward Independence Hall? I have an errand that direction after lunch.”

  “The Bourse work for you?” Shelby asked.

  “Sounds great.” The Bourse had started life as a commodities exchange center in the 1890s. Now it housed a rich assortment of shops and eateries. It was an impressive space, and fun, too. It was also a good day to walk, so Shelby and I chatted amiably as we made our way toward what had once been the heart of Philadelphia.

  Once inside and provisioned, Shelby said bluntly, “You and Marty are hatching something.”

  It was hard to hide anything at our place, I’d long since discovered. “Yes. Marty has a theory.”

  Shelby grinned. “Ooh, tell me! Does this have to do with the body?”

  “What, are we playing Twenty Questions now?”

  “You didn’t answer the question, so I’ll take that as a yes. Is Mr. Agent Man involved?”

  “No.”

  “But Marty is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it bigger than a bread box?”

  I stared at Shelby for a moment, then burst out laughing, since I’d said the same thing to myself. “About that size.”

  “Is it valuable?”

  “No.” Not now, not in its present condition. But what it had held might have been. If only we could prove what it was!

  “Does it have to do with Marty’s endless family?”

  “We aren’t sure, but maybe.”

  “You really aren’t going to tell me, are you?” Shelby asked.

  I sighe
d. “Shelby, once again there is a suspicious death involved. Much as I’d like to believe it has nothing to do with the Society, I’m afraid it may. I’m responsible for the Society, and that includes all its employees, and I can’t let people go poking around in matters that involve the police. Believe me, it’s not that I don’t trust your discretion, and I do value your insights. Do you understand?”

  Shelby’s expression had turned serious. “I think so. But you will let me know if I can help?”

  “Of course. I’m just trying to keep you and everyone else safe.” And for a brief flash I realized this was how James must look upon my involvement in things that often put me at risk.

  “Okay. Shall we talk about your hunky guy now? How’s living together working out?”

  I was relieved that Shelby had changed the subject, even though the new one she’d chosen was also touchy, in a different way. “Good, I think. It’s only been a month. So now it’s just the two of us rattling around a lot of gorgeous Victorian space and wondering what we’re going to do for furniture. It appears that we have both lived rather minimalist lives hitherto.”

  “Hitherto?” And Shelby and I were off, talking about interior design. A nice, safe topic.

  The next time I checked my watch, it was well past one. Once more the day was slipping away from me, and I still had to visit Henry, the Furniture Guy, and My Favorite Detective. “Shoot, I’ve got to run. This has been fun.”

  “Glad to hear it. Nell . . .” Shelby hesitated, turning serious again. “You do know I’m serious when I say that you can ask, if you need help?”

  “I do, Shelby, and I really appreciate it. Who knows—this may turn out to be nothing, or I may have to muster the troops and involve everybody. I’ll let you know, I promise.”

  “Deal,” she replied.

  We parted ways at the front door, she to head back to the Society, me in the opposite direction, looking for Henry’s place. I was pleased with myself for actually finding it, since I’d been there only once before, and it wasn’t marked. I rapped on the door. And rapped again. Maybe I haven’t found the right place . . . ? I thought I heard a few crashes and curses, and spent about twelve seconds picturing Henry being attacked by the same Person Unknown who had caused the death of Carnell Scruggs—but why would anyone else know that Henry had the matching hardware? I shook myself, trying to quiet my overactive imagination.