Monument to the Dead

Praise for the Museum Mysteries

FIRE ENGINE DEAD

“[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

LET’S PLAY DEAD

“Whatever your interests, add
Let’s Play Dead
to your list and enjoy reading this well-crafted cozy mystery.”

—
Blue Moon Mystery Saloon

FUNDRAISING THE DEAD

“Skillfully executed . . . It’s a pleasure to accompany Nell on her quest.
Fundraising the Dead
is a promising debut with a winning protagonist.”

—
Mystery Scene

“Old families, old papers, and the old demons of sex and money shape Connolly’s cozy
series launch, which will appeal to fans of her Orchard and (as Sarah Atwell) Glassblowing
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

“She’s smart, she’s savvy, and she’s sharp enough to spot what really goes on behind
the scenes in museum politics. The practical and confident Nell Pratt is exactly the
kind of sleuth you want in your corner when the going gets tough. Sheila Connolly
serves up a snappy and sophisticated mystery that leaves you lusting for the next
witty installment.”

—Mary Jane Maffini, author of the Charlotte Adams Mysteries

“
National Treasure
meets
The Philadelphia Story
in this clever, charming, and sophisticated caper. When murder and mayhem become
the main attractions at a prestigious museum, its feisty fundraiser goes undercover
to prove it’s not just the museum’s pricey collection that’s concealing a hidden history.
Secrets, lies, and a delightful revenge conspiracy make this a real page-turner!”

—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity award–winning author of
The Other Woman

“Sheila Connolly’s wonderful new series is a witty, engaging blend of history and
mystery with a smart sleuth who already feels like a good friend. Like all of Ms.
Connolly’s books,
Fundraising the Dead
is hard to put down. Her stories always keep me turning pages—often well past my
bedtime.”

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

Praise for the Orchard Mysteries

“Sheila Connolly’s Orchard Mysteries are some of the most satisfying cozy mysteries
I’ve read . . . Warm and entertaining from the first paragraph to the last. Fans will
look forward to the next Orchard Mystery.”

—
Lesa’s Book Critiques

“An enjoyable and well-written book with some excellent apple recipes at the end.”

—
Cozy Library

“The mystery is intelligent and has an interesting twist . . .
Rotten to the Core
is a fun, quick read with an enjoyable heroine.”

—
The Mystery Reader
(four stars)

“Delightful . . . [A] fascinating whodunit filled with surprises.”

—
The Mystery Gazette

“[A] delightful new series.”

—
Gumshoe Review

“The premise and plot are solid, and Meg seems a perfect fit for her role.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A fresh and appealing sleuth with a bushel full of entertaining problems.
One Bad Apple
is one crisp, delicious read.”

—Claudia Bishop, author of the Hemlock Falls Mysteries

“A delightful look at small-town New England, with an intriguing puzzle thrown in.
And anybody who’s ever tended a septic system is going to empathize with amateur detective
Meg Corey.”

—JoAnna Carl, author of the Chocoholic Mysteries

“A promising new mystery series. Thoroughly enjoyable . . . I can’t wait for the next
book and a chance to spend more time with Meg and the good people of Granford.”

—Sammi Carter, author of the Candy Shop Mysteries

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Sheila Connolly

Orchard Mysteries

ONE BAD APPLE

ROTTEN TO THE CORE

RED DELICIOUS DEATH

A KILLER CROP

BITTER HARVEST

SOUR APPLES

Museum Mysteries

FUNDRAISING THE DEAD

LET’S PLAY DEAD

FIRE ENGINE DEAD

MONUMENT TO THE DEAD

County Cork Mysteries

BURIED IN A BOG

Specials

DEAD LETTERS

AN OPEN BOOK

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

MONUMENT TO THE DEAD

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

Copyright © 2013 by Sheila Connolly.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed
in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in
or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
Purchase only authorized editions.

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY
^®
PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group
(USA) Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

ISBN: 978-1-101-62379-4

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2013

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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

While this is a fictional story, Edwin Forrest was quite real: he was the first great
American-born stage star, and he was born and died in Philadelphia. The majority of
the historic detail I’ve included in the book is accurate. Forrest as a person was
a marvelous character, and long after death his legacy to both Philadelphia and the
American stage lives on—I couldn’t write about historic Philadelphia and not include
him.

For several years I worked at The Historical Society of Pennsylvania, where much of
Forrest’s memorabilia could be found, including the imposing statue of Forrest in
one of his favorite stage roles, Shakespeare’s
Coriolanus
. The statue has found a new home at the Walnut Street Theater in Philadelphia, where
Forrest made his formal stage debut in 1820.

The Forrest Trust and the Edwin Forrest Home for Retired Actors also existed, though
no more. The Forrest Home now houses the Freedom Theater in Philadelphia. To the best
of my knowledge, none of the members of the Trust died under suspicious circumstances.

I am grateful to the Historical Society for providing such a wealth of information.
I also can’t let another book go by without acknowledging Sandra Cadwalader, former
HSP board member and, I hope, friend, who has finally figured out who she is in the
series.

As always, thanks go to my agent, Jessica Faust of BookEnds Ltd., and my tireless
editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez of Berkley Prime Crime. Thanks also to Sisters in
Crime and the amazing Guppies, the best cheerleaders a mystery writer could have!

The actor’s popularity is evanescent; applauded today, forgotten tomorrow.

—Edwin Forrest

Adeline Harrison was dead.

I couldn’t remember when I first started reading the obituaries in the paper, but
now I did it daily, and that’s how I saw the news.

I had unfurled my morning paper as my commuter train rumbled out of the Bryn Mawr
station. It seemed almost a shame to spend the ride reading when the June weather
outside was so perfect. It seemed a shame to be inside at all, but I had a demanding
job, and there was no way I could take a “nice weather” day, not when I was president
of the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society. I had to set a good example for the rest
of my staff, and we’d already had a “spring fever” party of sorts, on the outdoor
balcony adjacent to the staff room. I made a bargain with myself: I’d read the paper
until we came close to the city of Philadelphia, then I would allow myself to enjoy
the view of the Schuylkill River where the train tracks ran alongside it, before the
tracks plunged into and then under the city itself.

I scanned the front page for new crises, then turned to the Local section. As a member
of the cultural community of the greater Philadelphia area, I had to keep my eye on
cultural and other events that might affect the Society, not to mention opportunities
to take advantage of new trends and new funding. We had a meager endowment and received
little funding from the city itself, so I always had to be ready to sic my development
staff on any opportunity that presented itself. And I had begun to read the obituaries—not
out of ghoulishness, but because our board, our donors, and most of our members are
well past the half-century mark. I regret the passing of each one, though selfishly,
I always hope that the Society would be remembered in their wills. Of course, that
remembrance could take the form of family heirlooms (possible treasure, but equally
possible of only sentimental value), or it could be a financial bequest (much more
welcome).

Today yielded only one such notice: former board member Adeline Harrison. She had
left the board not long after I had first joined the Society as director of development
a few years ago, but I remembered her for her alertness, her surprising grasp of our
collections, and her kindness to everyone. I was surprised to see that she had been
eighty-six years old; I would have thought her at least a decade younger. The obituary
was long and glowing; she had been a member of many local institutions over the past
few decades. I made a mental note to send some sort of condolence, or at least delegate
Shelby Carver to handle it. Shelby had taken over my position as director of development
when I was bumped upstairs (down the hall, more accurately) to Society president.
With her well-bred southern background, Shelby was very good at following up on such
social niceties.

I looked up to find the train skirting the Schuylkill River, so I put aside my paper.
There were a few scullers out on the water, catching the cool of the morning. The
Dad Vail Regatta was a few weeks past; then the river had been crowded with competing
sculls. Now it was peaceful, and as always, it reminded me of Philadelphia artist
Thomas Eakins’s sculling pictures. If you stood in just the right place on the banks,
it didn’t look much changed from Eakins’s day.

The train stopped at 30th Street Station, and then we went underground. I got out
at Suburban Station and climbed the stairs out into the fresh air of City Hall Plaza.
Well, as fresh as Center City air could be, but this early in the day it was still
fairly clean. I set off, glad for the walk to the Society. I stopped for a cappuccino
before I mounted the stone steps and pulled open the heavy metal door. Front Desk
Bob, a former policeman but quiet about it, was already in place behind the reception
desk, getting ready for a new day, and we nodded at each other as I headed for the
elevator to the third floor where the administrative offices were. While I waited
for our lone, elderly elevator to make its stately way to the ground floor, I saluted
the monumental statue of Edwin Forrest, which stood guard over the hallway. Edwin
had been a superstar in his day, a larger-than-life actor who had risen from the slums
of Philadelphia to command adoring audiences all over the United States and even Europe,
scattering scandals in his wake. The statue was also larger than life (the sculptor
had kindly added a couple of inches to Edwin’s actual physical stature), and the actor
appeared dressed in Roman garb as Coriolanus, one of his favorite Shakespearean roles.
It had been occupying its rather dreary location since before I began working at the
Society, but I had become increasingly fond of him since I had taken over running
the Society. At least he didn’t complain or demand something from me, the way some
of my employees did.

It was still barely past eight thirty, but I liked to allow myself some quiet time
to prepare for whatever my day might hold, to check my never-ending to-do list and
to look through any messages that had come in after I left. Eric, my assistant, wasn’t
at his desk yet, but since his jacket was draped over his chair, I assumed he must
be down the hall in the staff room. He liked to control the coffee-making process,
and since I enjoyed the results, I wasn’t about to stop him. Eric and I had worked
out a deal when he had started working for me: whoever arrived first would start the
coffee. I didn’t want to stick him into an antiquated administrative assistant role,
but I had to say that the quality was greatly improved now that he was making it at
least part of the time. In any case, he usually beat me to it.

“Hey, lady!” Shelby said, dropping into the eighteenth-century damask-covered settee
on the wall opposite my desk.

“Hi, Shelby. You’re in early. Any particular reason?”

Shelby grinned. “Probably the same as you; I wanted a little quiet time. Besides,
it was such a pretty day that I couldn’t stand staying inside a minute longer, so
I walked over.”

I knew that Shelby lived on the other side of Independence Hall, and sometimes I envied
her that walk, so rich with history. Okay, I had the giant wedding cake that was City
Hall to admire, but otherwise my walk led me past prosaic stores and restaurants.
“I hear you! I felt the same way myself.” I took a long drink of my cappuccino and
sighed. “Anything we need to worry about?”

“No, ma’am,” Shelby replied promptly. “Oh, did you hear about Adeline Harrison?”

“I saw the obituary in the paper this morning. Did you know her?”

“Not from the Society, but we’d crossed paths now and then at other events. She was
always very kind and remembered me from one time to the next, which I can’t say about
many of the older people I meet around here. Should I send flowers?”

“I think the family asked for contributions to one of her pet causes in lieu of flowers,
and I don’t think we’re in any position to send money. But do see that we send a nice
card. I’ll sign it.”

“Of course. See you later.”

Shelby left, but the early morning spell was broken. Another week had begun . . .
following a memorable weekend. I hadn’t done much, but what I had done had been in
the company of Special Agent James Morrison of the FBI, so I really hadn’t cared what
we did. James and I had been seeing each other seriously for a couple of months now,
but neither of us was hurrying the relationship. We both led busy lives, with schedules
that resulted in as many canceled dates as not, on both sides. But neither of us was
in the first flush of youth, so we weren’t impatient. And I was loving every minute
of it.

James was . . . something special. Neither of us had said the
L
word yet. We were so cautious, so careful. He had never been married, even though
he was past forty; I’d been married once before, in what seemed like another lifetime.
When that had ended, without acrimony, I’d never looked for another long-term relationship.
I’d been close to a few other men, but generally we had understood and respected each
other’s boundaries. But with James, I was finding I had to take another look at those
boundaries. Especially since we didn’t have any more professional conflicts to deal
with at the moment. We’d first come together when a significant theft at the Society
had been discovered, and been thrown together over various crimes within the cultural
community since then. After the most recent problem, James and I had mutually decided
that it was silly to keep waiting for external events to do the work for us, and started
“dating.” The pace felt almost old-fashioned, but hey, I work in a history museum,
and he works for the government, so slow and stately suited us both.

Looking over today’s agenda, I saw no official meetings, although plenty of official
business to attend to—signing solicitation letters, reviewing grant proposals that
Shelby prepared, looking over the list of prospective donors and/or board members
to see who needed a personal touch again. And then there was the kindergarten.

Well, that was what I called the area where three of our youngest hires worked together
in the third-floor workroom. Only a few months earlier, I had hired a new registrar,
Nicholas Naylor, and taken on a new intern, Alice Price, at the same time. Their simultaneous
arrival had coincided with the arrival of an extraordinary number of historic documents,
artifacts, and who knows what—all courtesy of the FBI, which had seized the various
items throughout the course of several investigations, dumped them in the Society’s
lap, and asked us to figure out what they had. We had taken the path of least resistance
and put the bountiful collections together in the Society’s largest processing space
along with the new hires and turned them loose. I stopped in periodically to check
on the progress they were making and to make sure they were on track. Collections
weren’t my area of expertise—that role belonged to our vice president of collections,
Latoya Anderson—but although Latoya was their immediate supervisor, since I had been
indirectly responsible for the temporary presence of the FBI materials, I wanted to
keep tabs on it. Besides, it was fun to see what they turned up, and I always welcomed
the opportunity to visit our collections. And since Latoya was away on a long-postponed
research vacation, it fell to me to keep an eye on things. Or so I told myself.

Nicholas, a quiet young man in his late twenties with almost Byronic good looks, had
been recruited by Latoya to fill the important staff position of registrar. He had
previously been working at the University of Pennsylvania, where he had developed
a state-of-the-art cataloging system that he had been itching to try on our collections.
Since most of our cataloging was mired in the nineteenth century, we’d agreed to give
him a chance, and he had made great strides in imposing order on our processing in
the short time he’d been here.

The intern was a lovely self-possessed young woman named Alice Price, who had come
with strings attached. Her uncle, a well-connected local philanthropist, had promised
to fund her salary if we took her on. I had no problem with that, since we’d been
planning to recruit her uncle for a board position sometime soon, and doing him the
favor of hiring Alice would be . . . helpful. Luckily, Alice had also turned out to
be smart and hardworking, and despite her lack of job experience, she had settled
in well and was pulling her weight.

The third member of the group was Rich Girard, a part-time postgrad student who’d
been hired a couple of years earlier to help catalog the Terwilliger Collection, a
massive assortment of documents encompassing everything from the arrival on these
shores by the earliest Terwilliger family member in the early eighteenth century to
the elaborate business maneuvers of twentieth-century Terwilligers. The gift of the
documents had come from several generations of the family, all connected to the Society.
The current board member, Marty Terwilliger, was my benefactor, ally, and friend.

Marty was about ten years older than I was and had little patience for fools or fancy
dress. She was also smart, determined, and tenacious, which was why she was such a
great ally. And she simply couldn’t stay away from the Society—not that I blamed her.
She was deeply committed to the place, and also related to half of Philadelphia, including
James Morrison, to whom she had introduced me. Marty had a finger in every pie in
the city and the surrounding counties.

She’d divorced a couple of husbands and had never had kids, so she had plenty of free
time to devote to the collections. I was always coming across her in odd corners of
the stacks (as a board member, she had a key and free access).

Which was why I wasn’t surprised when I found her with the young’uns in the processing
room when I walked in. “Good morning, everyone! You all look busy. You keeping an
eye on them, Marty?”

“Of course I am. Half of this stuff is the Terwilliger papers.”

I settled myself on a stool. I had requested that Latoya and I get basic progress
reports on a weekly basis—mainly details like how many items had been processed and
what kind—and the trio had been good about doing so. The most recent report was probably
sitting in my email in-box at the moment. But reading about something and sitting
in the midst of it while talking to its processors were not the same thing, and I
liked to check on how they were getting along with each other, and kind of take the
temperature of the room. Rich was laid-back, Alice was eager, and Nicholas was . . .
an enigma. He was polite and cooperative, but he seldom volunteered a comment or personal
fact. Still, he’d walked into a mess—his predecessor had worked for the Society for
decades but had only just started transferring our massive quantity of records to
a modern digital format before he’d unexpectedly died—and Nicholas had done an amazing
job of creating order out of chaos, so I wasn’t about to complain if he wasn’t warm
and cuddly. He was getting the job done.