Dead End Street

Praise for
New York Times
bestselling author Sheila Connolly's Museum Mysteries

“A witty, engaging blend of history and mystery with a smart sleuth who already feels like a good friend . . . [Connolly's] stories always keep me turning pages—often well past my bedtime.”

—Julie Hyzy,
New York Times
bestselling author of the White House Chef Mysteries

“
National Treasure
meets
The Philadelphia Story
 . . . Secrets, lies, and a delightful revenge conspiracy make this a real page-turner!”

—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity award–winning author of
Truth Be Told

“The practical and confident Nell Pratt is exactly the kind of sleuth you want in your corner when the going gets tough . . . [A] snappy and sophisticated mystery.”

—Mary Jane Maffini, author of the Charlotte Adams Mysteries

“The archival milieu and the foibles of the characters are intriguing, and it's refreshing to encounter an FBI man who is human, competent, and essential to the plot.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“[A] mature and intelligent sleuth, who works with historic treasures and takes her responsibilities seriously. Great pacing and placement of clues build tension as Nell uncovers the truth in this enjoyable and sophisticated mystery.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“[An] engaging amateur sleuth filled with fascinating characters, interesting museum information, plenty of action including a nice twist, and a bit of romance.”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

Orchard Mysteries

ONE BAD APPLE

ROTTEN TO THE CORE

RED DELICIOUS DEATH

A KILLER CROP

BITTER HARVEST

SOUR APPLES

GOLDEN MALICIOUS

PICKED TO DIE

Museum Mysteries

FUNDRAISING THE DEAD

LET'S PLAY DEAD

FIRE ENGINE DEAD

MONUMENT TO THE DEAD

RAZING THE DEAD

PRIVY TO THE DEAD

DEAD END STREET

County Cork Mysteries

BURIED IN A BOG

SCANDAL IN SKIBBEREEN

AN EARLY WAKE

A TURN FOR THE BAD

Specials

DEAD LETTERS

AN OPEN BOOK

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

DEAD END STREET

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Sheila Connolly.

Excerpt from
A Turn for the Bad
by Sheila Connolly copyright © 2015 by Sheila Connolly.

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.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-15069-0

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2016

Cover illustration by Ross Jones.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

When William Penn first laid out the city of Philadelphia, he hoped that it would be a “greene Country Town,” with houses surrounded by ample lawns combined with thriving commercial district and municipal buildings. He ensured that each quarter of the planned city would have a public park, as well as Centre Square in the heart of it (where City Hall now stands). But while the ghosts of Penn's grid plan and its wide avenues survive today, there are parts of the city that would horrify him now.

My father once worked at a company called Philadelphia Gear Corporation, located in North Philadelphia, now one of the worst of the blighted areas. It moved to the suburbs in the 1950s, as did so many other industries, taking with them the jobs that people in the city depended on. Years later I worked as a financial advisor to the city, so I know from experience the challenges that the city faces in fighting urban blight, and in finding a constructive way to deal with the acres of decaying buildings and trash-strewn vacant lots. A series of mayors have
done their best to improve the situation, and sought state and federal funding, but the problem still remains.

But you can't give up on Philadelphia. It is rich in history, and occupies a central place in the creation of our country. In this book, my protagonist, Nell Pratt, believes that the wastelands of the city are worth fighting for, and she tries to find a way to let the citizens of the city and the state know that there should be hope that these parts of the city can be saved; she has the historic records to show what those neighborhoods once were—and could be again. As an author, I know this kind of fiction doesn't usually involve trying to solve a real-world problem, but I wanted to try.

As always, I owe a debt of gratitude to the Historical Society of Pennsylvania, which houses many of the materials that document the city's past. Kudos to its outstanding staff (including the president, Page Talbot), and to Sandra Cadwalader, whose commitment to the city and its history has never flagged. Thanks also to Jessica Faust of BookEnds, who has long championed this series, and to editor Tom Colgan, who let me run with this story. And I salute all those mayors and local activists who have tried to make a difference in a city they care about.

The wind scoured my face as I walked briskly from Suburban Station, across City Hall Plaza, toward the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society, where I worked. Where I was president and responsible for seeing that my forty-plus employees worked. Where it was hard for anybody to work since construction was still going on—construction that had begun a couple of months earlier, when the Society had received a generous grant from a grateful patron, whom I'd kind of helped out when a dead body was holding up his mega construction project in the suburbs. It was a wonderful gift, but the resulting construction process had produced a lot of noise, dust, and disgruntled Society members. I was hoping—praying—that it would be finished by the end of the year, only a month or so away. Or at least, all but the painting, and that would be quiet, wouldn't it? And then, of course, the monumental task of sorting and reshelving
all of our treasures, collected over the course of more than a century, would begin. I refused to think about the chaos that would involve.

November was always a tricky month for getting back and forth to work. James, my—drat, we still hadn't settled on labels for each other. Lover? No, not fit for proper company. Partner? That sounded like a business arrangement (although one could argue that marriage was one as well, with a legal document attached). Boyfriend? No, too high school. Sweetie? Plum dumpling? Cuddle bunny? No, too silly for two mature adults, one of whom was an FBI agent. Special Agent Cuddle Bunny? I snickered; that was
so
not going to work. And I was a seasoned professional, a member of the Philadelphia cultural community, an historian, a manager, and an independent woman, who happened to be living with a smart, handsome, capable man. We'd bought a house together a couple of months earlier and were still settling in and getting to know each other. Neither of us had lived with anyone else for a long time, so we were moving cautiously. It had taken us a while just to pick furniture to fill most of the rooms of our gorgeous Victorian in Chestnut Hill, and then we'd mutually decided to take a breather before we tackled the task of choosing wall and window treatments. Thank heaven the kitchen had been modernized before we'd bought the place, or we might have found ourselves living on takeout and microwave meals.

We often commuted together into the city by car, but on this particular morning Special Agent James Morrison had an early meeting elsewhere, so I took the train rather
than drive. I liked riding the train to the city, because it gave me time to read the newspaper and the stack of magazines that kept accumulating. The only problem was when I had to walk from the train station to the Society building during the colder months. Luckily there were underground passages that would take me right to the building, but using the passages signaled the end of summer and the beginning of the cold season, which I was reluctant to accept. At least I'd had the foresight to haul out my warm coat. It would have been handy if I had found my gloves. I made a mental note to look for them when I got home.

I arrived at the Society building nice and early. One of the pluses of walking was that I could approach from Broad Street and admire the building's solid brick walls and imposing bluestone pillars. It had been built to last—and to protect the collections it sheltered—more than a century before. I had been relieved when the architects involved in the renovation had declared it structurally sound and fit to weather another century. It was the interior storage for collections that had fallen behind the times. And the roof. And the heating and ventilation. But we had money in the bank and a good crew, and all would be remedied shortly.

I greeted Bob, who stood watch over our front desk (he was a retired police officer and provided a reassuring presence), then took the elevator up to my office on the third floor, which housed the administrative offices. My assistant, Eric, was already at his desk. We vied in a friendly way to see who could arrive first, because when he started working for me, nearly two years earlier, whoever arrived
first had to make the coffee. Now we had a sparkly new single-serve coffee system in the break room we all shared, and it did make decent coffee. But I had to admit I kind of missed the old system—the uncertainty about whether the pot waiting would be fresh or ancient, and whether you would exhaust the contents and feel compelled to brew the new pot, which took time. Modern technology did make life simpler, but it changed other things, too.

“Good morning, Eric. What's on the agenda for today?” I was not a scatterbrain, but it could be a challenge to keep appointments straight in my head.

Eric flipped through his notebook. “I would have said it looked like a free day, but you just got a call from someone who works with the City, who wants to meet with you ASAP. I penciled them in, but I can cancel if you'd prefer.” Eric looked at me anxiously. He was relatively young, from the South, and very polite. And very grateful to have the job, since his work history was patchy at best. I'd hired him on gut instinct, and he hadn't let me down.

“If I don't have anything else scheduled, I might as well go ahead and see them. Did the person say what this was about?”

“No, ma'am. Just that it was a matter that had to do with the Society, and they needed to resolve it sooner rather than later.”

City government: everything always had to be done immediately, except then you waited six months for the paperwork to clear. “When should I expect them?”

“Any minute now. You want I should get you some coffee first?”

“Why don't I wait and see if our guests want anything? You can go down and escort them up here when they arrive.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I went into my office and hung up my coat, neatly, on a hanger. I really liked my office, although I felt I didn't belong in it. It was on the corner of the building, so it had decent views and plenty of light. It was furnished with some very nice antiques from the Society's collections, which scared me to death: I was always worried that I'd spill food or something worse on a priceless piece. But I had to admit they looked extremely handsome, and they certainly impressed visitors. The more mundane items, like a computer printer and files, were discreetly concealed in modern mahogany cabinets. Best of all, it was always clean and neat, a haven of peace in the midst of what could be a chaotic job, which for reasons that continued to mystify me had included solving more than one murder. I had to admit I'd closed my door and hidden out in my office now and then, just to find some peace.

I busied myself clearing off some items of business Eric had left on my desk, and it was only a few minutes later that he announced he was going downstairs to escort the visitors to our meeting. That was one of the few stabs at security my earlier predecessors had made: researchers were not allowed to wander at will throughout the building. Some stacks were open for them to use; unique, rare, or valuable materials were housed in closed stacks, and the researchers would have to submit a request and wait for a librarian or assistant to retrieve what they wanted. The administration areas were strictly off-limits to most
people, and one could not get past the second floor without a special key. It didn't exactly stop thieves in their tracks, but it made it a little harder for them to invade spaces where they shouldn't be. Of course, the general public often assumed that we had video cameras watching everyone, but that was far from the truth. Such a setup was on our wish list, but well behind a lot of other items. That kind of security equipment was expensive, plus we'd need someone to actually monitor what was going on, and adding staff was equally expensive. Somehow there was never enough funding to go around.

Eric ushered a man and a woman into the office and asked if they wanted coffee. They said yes, so presumably they weren't in my office to complain about something. I looked them over discreetly: both appeared to be in their thirties, dressed in business casual, and carrying leather portfolios. And both were black. Of course the Society had black employees, but most of our patrons were not. We did hold some significant collections relevant to the city's abolitionist movement, but it would be jumping to conclusions to assume that was what had brought them here. Researchers didn't usually make appointments with the presidents of institutions. In any case, I didn't recognize either one of them, but that didn't surprise me. I'd had dealings with Philadelphia's government under more than one administration over the years. I'd met the current mayor and respected him, but most of my interactions had been with committee members a lot farther down the management charts. The Society didn't have any issues outstanding with the city. We applied for and received an
annual grant for cultural institutions in the city, but it was small—not that any money was too small to welcome in the nonprofit sector.

We made polite small talk until Eric had delivered the coffee. Then I sat back in my chair and asked, “What can I do for you?”

The two exchanged a glance, and the woman nodded to the man. He spoke first. “My name is Tyrone Blakeney, and I'm the head of the North Philadelphia Neighborhood Partnership, which you've probably never heard of.” He smiled pleasantly.

“And I'm Cherisse Chapman,” the woman said quickly. “I work for the City's Licenses and Inspections department.”

I still had no clue why they were sitting in front of me. “What brings you to the Society?”

“Are you familiar with the Funeral for a Home project in the city?” Tyrone began.

“Only what I've read in the
Inquirer
,” I said. “Something to do with mourning the last properties in neighborhoods that have changed radically over time?”

“Do you know how many derelict or abandoned properties there are in Philadelphia?” Cherisse demanded.

I guessed that they'd made this pitch before. I felt like they were ganging up on me, coming at me from two sides, although it wasn't fair to them for me to feel that way. “No, I don't, although I'm guessing there are a lot, based on what I've seen personally.” At the very least, I knew that there were some neighborhoods I as a woman alone did not want to venture into, even by daylight, with all my car doors securely locked.

“More than forty thousand. Forty thousand!” Cherisse said indignantly. She spoke with the fervor of a true believer. “And that's just the abandoned ones. There are many, many more that are falling down, and yet people—families, even—are still living in them because they have nowhere else to go!”

Tyrone gave her a stern look—apparently she was getting ahead of the script—and Cherisse subsided.

“I understand that it's a problem,” I told them, “but what does it have to do with the Society?”

“We should take a step backward and explain,” Tyrone said. “As she told you, Cherisse works for the city, in the department that is responsible for inspecting and all too often condemning buildings that are too unsafe to occupy. Ideally they would be torn down to make room for new units of affordable housing, but I'm sure you can understand that that is often impossible, given the city's financial constraints. Which is a shame, because it means that not only homes are lost, but so are entire historic neighborhoods—the rich diversity that Philadelphia's past offers.”

Tyrone clearly cared about this subject, and I was beginning to see a glimmer of light. “You said you were in charge of a partnership? What does that do?”

“The partnership is a nonprofit coalition of agencies and individuals such as real estate developers who are seeking to salvage the old neighborhoods before they are lost forever, by rehabbing whatever buildings are viable and creating new structures that emulate the styles that came before. The ones that once created a sense of community. I'm sure you know what I mean—triple-decker
row houses with porches or front steps where people could sit for an evening and interact with their neighbors. Corner stores that provide the essentials. Pocket parks that offer children a safe place to play, not too far from home. Day care. Schools. Simple restaurants.”

I realized I was confronted by a pair of zealots, but I had to admire them for trying. “I love your vision, but how do you make it happen?”

“By using a multipronged strategy,” Cherisse took up the thread eagerly. “The city has the properties on its books and doesn't want them. But we know the legal processes necessary to gain clear title, and we have the clout to follow through. To go after absentee landlords, or those people who have walked away, unwilling to pay taxes or maintain the buildings. Tyrone here has the vision to see the possibilities and the connections to the neighborhoods—and the charm to sell it to the people who matter.”

“The ones who have the money, you mean.”

Tyrone grinned, which made him look boyish. “Well, yes. It takes money to make something like this work, but not as much as you'd think. We'd love to be able to use laborers who live in those very neighborhoods, so they have a stake in the outcome. The big chain stores are scared to step up and move in, but we can recruit smaller ones, or single-shop owners—again, ones who live there, who want to raise families in a place that feels like home. Not a slum with bars on all the windows. Everyone wins.”

His enthusiasm was infectious. “Well, I'll tell you up front that we have no money, if that's what you're looking for.”

“We know that—you're a nonprofit, just like we are. But you have the resources to provide the history of the neighborhoods we're targeting. And before you protest, we aren't going to try to do this all over the city, all at once—that would be a recipe for disaster, spreading ourselves too thin. We want to start with a single showcase neighborhood and do it right. Bring it in on budget, retain the old residents, and attract new ones. Show what
can
be done. We've got some smart businessmen on board, and they've been crunching the numbers. We've got some journalists, both print and electronic, on our side, so we'll get press attention. But what we need from you is a way to flesh out the story, to show what the place once was—which most living people never knew or have forgotten—which will show them what it could be again.”