Monument to the Dead (2 page)

The group gathered round and showed off their new finds, and Marty and I nodded approval.
We were actually ahead of schedule, and we had a handle on what we were working with.
Life was good.

Reluctantly I stood up. “I’d better get back to my office. Great job, all of you!”

“I’ll come with you,” Marty said. “I want to talk to you.”

Somehow that was never good news, I reflected as we walked down the hall together,
back to my corner office. When we’d both found seats, I said, “What’s up?”

Marty gave a snort of laughter. “You look like I’m about to hand you some nasty medicine.
I’m not always the bearer of bad tidings, am I?”

“Let’s say the jury’s still out on that. Was there something specific you needed?”

“Nope. I just wanted to say how well it’s been going, our taking on the materials
the FBI reclaimed and bringing in those two to work on them. Never hurts to have a
favor owed to us by the FBI, you know.”

“Especially since we’ve created so much trouble for them in the past?”

“Yeah, well, there is that. But on average they’ve come out ahead, so everybody should
be happy. You and Jimmy doing okay?” Since they were cousins, Marty could call him
“Jimmy” and get away with it, while he twitted her by calling her “Martha,” which
she hated. Me, I preferred to call him James—more fitting for a dignified FBI agent.

“We’re doing fine, thank you very much, and that’s all I’m going to say.” I smiled
at her.

She smiled back. “Okay, I won’t pry.” She bounced up abruptly. “I’m headed back to
the processing room before I lose the thread of what I was doing. See you around.”

“Bye, Marty,” I said as she disappeared. I heard the phone on Eric’s desk ring, and
in a moment he came to the doorway. “Agent Morrison for you,” he said, pulling the
door closed as he retreated. Eric was still fairly new at his job as my assistant,
but he’d quickly made himself indispensable, and his polite southern accent soothed
a lot of my more demanding callers. He’d long since picked up on my relationship with
Special Agent James, although he couldn’t always tell whether James’s calls were business
or personal.

James’s ears must be buzzing
, I thought as I picked up the phone. “Good morning, Agent Morrison. How can I help
you?”

“Good morning to you, Ms. Pratt. Though maybe not as good as yesterday morning,” James
said. Yesterday morning, we’d awakened together. He cleared his throat. “Actually,
this is business, or almost business. Sorry to be so vague, but what can you tell
me about Adeline Harrison?”

“Mainly what I read in her obituary this morning. I knew her, but only slightly. We
met maybe two or three times, when I first started at the Society, but she was on
her way out then. It was a gracious exit—I think she felt she’d outlived her usefulness
to us, or maybe she was cutting back on all her activities. She wasn’t exactly young.”

“Tough old stock, though. I’m guessing you’ll have a file on her?” James asked.

“Of course. She used to be a board member here. We keep files on all former, current,
and potential future members.”

“Can you take a look at hers and give me the high points?”

“You want it now?”

“No rush—how about after work? Meet me at the hotel bar on the corner?”

I mentally reviewed my schedule. Blissfully empty. “Sounds good. I’ll make copies
of what I find. But you didn’t tell me why you wanted to know.” Although based on
the knot in the pit of my stomach, I had a feeling I could guess. The FBI wasn’t usually
idly curious about death from natural causes.

“I think Adeline Harrison was murdered.”

James’s office was on the other side of Market Street and
several blocks toward the Delaware River, but the hotel bar he’d suggested was right
around the corner from the Society at Broad Street. I didn’t mind being James’s peephole
into the cultural activities of the greater Philadelphia region, and I was happy to
provide him with whatever information I could, but I could see that if his superiors
knew of our personal relationship, they might suggest that one or the other activity
should stop. I didn’t want to put James in a position to have to make that choice—or
put myself there, either, for that matter.

I finished up my paperwork and made it to the bar before James and snagged a table.
I ordered a glass of wine and watched the door for his arrival. I will admit that
I sometimes indulged in a little private pleasure, watching him when he didn’t know
I was doing it. He was good to look at: not so striking that he drew stares (anonymity
was useful in his work), but he filled out his clothes nicely, with a hint of hidden
strength. He moved as though he was secure in his skin, which I admired. Me, I was
always worrying about those last five pounds, and I mainly settled for looking competent
and professional.

I saw James walk in and pause to scan the room, before lighting on the table where
I sat. Then he smiled like he meant it. As he made his way over to the table and sat
down, a twentysomething server appeared in about fifteen seconds to take his order,
then left, swinging her hips just the slightest bit. To his credit, I don’t think
James noticed, because he’d already turned back to me.

“We must stop meeting like this,” I drawled. “I feel like a spy in some bad sixties
movie. Am I supposed to slip you the secret microchip or what?”

“Hey, that’s before my time, Nell, and yours, too.” He laughed. “Most spies these
days send their information electronically in encrypted files, or so I’ve heard. I
was only looking for some background, and it’s more fun talking to you than Googling
the deceased.”

His drink arrived and we both took a brief time-out to fortify ourselves. Then I said,
“Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for?”

James contemplated the depths of his drink for a few seconds before responding. “Nell,
I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Even though I’d been expecting something like this, his statement chilled me: if he
was worried, then I should be, too. “Why?” I prompted.

“Maybe being around you has made me more sensitive to anything to do with the cultural
community, but I get nervous when the people involved start dying.”

“What was suspicious about Adeline’s death?” Then the fuller meaning of his words
hit me. “Wait a minute. You said ‘people,’ as in more than one person?”

“Tell me what you’ve got on Adeline first, and then I’ll fill you in.”

“All right. You know that Adeline was a former Society board member, so of course
we have a full file on her. She’s been a consistent supporter since she left the board,
and she came to the occasional event. There’s nothing out of the ordinary in her file
for someone of her age and social profile. Widowed, left comfortably off. No children.
A nice home, inherited, filled with some lovely things, or so say the notes in her
file—I was never in the house. We’re hoping for a modest bequest from her estate,
but we weren’t her only interest, so whatever she left may be spread around. Does
that tell you anything?”

“It’s more or less what I expected.”

“Then what are you looking for? When you called me up to ask for background information,
I had to assume it wasn’t just a burglar breaking into her home or a mugging on the
street.”

He nodded. “What I’ve learned corresponds to what you just said. Adeline Harrison
lived in an old home out in Delaware County. Lived alone, but she had someone in to
clean for her twice a week. No local family checking in with her regularly, although
she has some scattered grandnieces and -nephews. The cleaning woman found her when
she arrived in the morning, two days ago. I got the preliminary results for the postmortem
from the county ME a couple of hours later. No sign of trauma, but of course the toxicology
reports will take a while.”

“Poor woman. What leads you to think it was murder?”

James sat back in his chair. “I wouldn’t have, except that I remembered another case
in New Jersey, a few months ago—one Frederick Van Deusen. Ring any bells?” When I
shook my head, he went on, “Same scenario: older person but male, socially connected
but no near relatives, active in good works and was or had been on a couple of nonprofit
boards, no sign of trauma. It certainly could have been a natural death, and no one
would have thought twice about it. But since it was an unattended death, a full autopsy
was done. Nothing out of place in the man’s toxicology screen, just the usual medications
a person of his age would be taking, all duly prescribed, although some of the levels
seemed a bit high. By the time anyone became suspicious, there was no crime scene
to check—the house had already been cleaned up and was on the market.”

“Anyone being you, I take it? What made you think there was anything suspicious about
this death?”

He smiled to himself. “Since I’ve met you, I’ve been more aware of the extended cultural
community around here—I’ve got a computer program set up to search on certain specific
terms, and I take a quick look at whatever pops up. Van Deusen fit the profile. That’s
why I took a second look at the case, and why I noticed the elevated medication. But
it wasn’t significant enough to pursue.”

“But I still don’t understand. Why were you involved at all? Even if that was a murder,
shouldn’t it be a local matter in New Jersey?”

“It was. But I knew enough about that other death that when I learned of Adeline Harrison’s
death, I noticed the similarities, and I asked the ME to check what prescription drugs
she was taking. Turns out it was the same one that registered high in the New Jersey
case. It could be nothing, because it’s a common enough drug that plenty of older
people use, although there are only a few of those that can be dangerous if too many
are taken. But to get back to your question, if these deaths were both murders, that
makes it an interstate matter, and therefore the FBI can and should be involved.”

“So now you’re drumming up work for the Bureau?” I asked.

“Not exactly—just being conscientious. If nothing comes of it, no loss. As I said,
being around you has made me pay more attention to cultural matters and connections.
And when I saw that Adeline had been one of your board members . . .”

“You naturally assumed the worst.” I finished his sentence for him. “You do know that
some people actually die from natural causes?” I thought for a moment. “Do you have
any more information on that New Jersey death?”

“Now you’re curious? I don’t have the file yet. It’s on its way.”

“Anything like that death going back further?”

“Nell, I just learned about the Harrison death this morning. I haven’t had time to
look into the details, or for other incidents. This may be nothing.”

“But you called me, just in case? Should I be flattered?”

He smiled. “I knew you’d know something about Adeline. And I knew I could trust you
not to talk about this.”

“Fair enough. So you don’t have anything else, beyond a vague suspicion?”

“Not yet. And I’ll admit, if they’re both murders, there’s no obvious motive for killing
either of them. After all, both victims were well into their eighties. Why would anyone
want these two nice, harmless old people dead? Why not just wait for old age to do
its work? Unless someone out there just likes killing people and picks people who
can’t put up much of a struggle.”

“Odd, and sad, too. But I suppose I’m more used to it, given the demographic of most
of our members.” I reached into my bag, pulled out a slender envelope containing the
materials I’d gathered on Adeline Harrison, and passed it to James. “Nothing in there
jumped out at me. She seems to have led a blameless life, managed her finances well,
and served quite a number of mainstream good causes, as was typical of her generation
and social group. I’m not sure that will help you much.”

“I suppose it eliminates some possibilities. I know how thorough the Society’s research
is.”

“Sure, we like to hunt down people with ill-gotten funds or secret babies and blackmail
them into giving us lots of contributions and serving on the board,” I replied, tongue
firmly in cheek. “Or leaving us the entire contents of their family homes, sight unseen.
Did Adeline have any nice old furniture? Silver?”

James smiled again; I liked being able to make him smile. “That’s not exactly what
goes into the preliminary report. ‘Victim was found lying in a north-south direction
approximately eighteen inches from an exquisite Chippendale chest with original hardware.’”

I chuckled. “Maybe you could suggest that. Who knows what such details might reveal?
Did you have plans for dinner?”

“Sorry, I’ve got to go back to the office. Rain check, definitely.”

“No problem.” I hesitated a moment before adding, “I’ll look at the New Jersey file,
if you want to send it to me. If you think it might help. We might have something
on him—a lot of our members live in New Jersey.”

“I’ll send you a copy once I receive it. You ready to go?” James asked. “May I walk
you to your train?”

“I would be delighted, sir.”

Outside it was still bright—the longest day of the year was fast approaching. We stopped
at City Hall Plaza, where I would descend to the train platform that lay under the
plaza.

“I should get the New Jersey report tomorrow, or maybe the day after. Maybe you’ll
see something that I wouldn’t.”

“It’s been known to happen, you know.” I grinned. “Don’t work too late.”

“I’ll be fine. Good to see you again, Nell, even if it was over the report on a dead
woman.”

“Anytime. You know that.”

I watched him as he strode off, headed for his office on Arch Street. Definitely worth
watching. Then with a sigh, I turned to enter the station and wait for my train home.

The next morning it was overcast, as was my mood. A
death in the “family”—that is, the small community of museum administrators and all
the personnel who kept such places going—was always a sad event, no matter how long
expected. Philadelphia was an old city, one that still retained a certain Quaker reserve;
a city that had faced down bankruptcy a decade or two ago, and whose interest groups
still fought tooth and nail for whatever funds were available. It felt crass to peruse
obituaries to see who might have left us something, but “Bequests” was a line item
in our annual budget, and we needed to keep our eyes open. It occurred to me that
maybe James had been asking indirectly if any museum administrator would be likely
to hasten the death of someone who was expected to leave a tidy sum in her will. I
sincerely hoped not, although I certainly knew of some presidents or board chairs
who spent more time hand-holding high-dollar donors than they did with their own families.
If one had a standing date for tea and crumpets at elderly Mrs. High-Dollar’s house,
how hard would it be to slip something extra into her cup of Darjeeling? And if an
eighty-five-year-old woman dies, apparently in her sleep, is anyone going to do a
battery of tests looking for an exotic poison? Not likely. Such grim thoughts occupied
me for the balance of my ride into the city.

And gave me an idea.

I arrived at the Society feeling more energized than when I had left home. I greeted
Eric, nodding at his offer of coffee.

“Remind me what’s on the calendar for today?” I asked.

“You have a meeting scheduled at eleven with Phebe Fleming from the Water Works” Eric
replied promptly.

“Oh, right—she wanted to talk about some kind of joint project. Let me know when she
arrives.”

When Eric left for coffee, I went into my office and settled myself at my desk. I
picked up the phone to call Shelby.

“Hey, Nell,” she answered quickly. “You need something?”

“I’ve got something I want to discuss with you. Nothing bad, just an idea for some
forward planning, and I think you can help.”

“I’ll be there in two minutes.”

Since her office was only twenty feet away, she could have made the trip quickly,
but when she walked in I realized that she had intercepted Eric in the staff room
and arrived with coffee for both of us. She deposited one mug on my blotter, then
asked, “Door open or shut?”

Here we go again.
“Shut, please.”

She shut the door, sat down, and said, “What’s up?”

“I was thinking—” I began.

“Always a dangerous pastime,” she said with a grin.

I ignored her. “What do you know about how boards at places like ours are put together?”

“Is this a trick question?” When I shook my head, she said slowly, “Well, I guess
I’d have to say there are a few important criteria: members have to know something
about and care about the particular specialty of the museum, whether it’s art or history
or knitting or teapots; and they have to have money, or at least know a lot of people
with money. And they have to be a good fit with the other members of the board—or
at least, not actively feuding with any of them.”

“That’s a pretty good summary. And how do we identify prospective board members?”

“You really have been busy with that thinking, haven’t you? Okay, to answer you, that’s
one reason why we keep good records—we can tell who’s been here for which event, and
what they said to who. And we can tell who’s buddies with someone already on the board,
so we know who could approach them. We can get a rough estimate of their net worth—things
like property values are public information. And if we learn they have a boat bigger
than a dinghy, or race their own horses, we can make some more guesses. Why? Are we
looking for some new board members?”

“Not right now, but I wondered if we should be more proactive about it. I think most
of us here have a mental short list of who we’d like to see join the board, and there’s
probably a good deal of overlap, but we may be missing some strong candidates and
not even know it.”

Shelby cocked her head and eyed me critically. “Nell, what’s this all about?”

“I’m thinking we might want to put together a matrix of local nonprofit boards, to
see who’s already committed or even overcommitted, who’s doing what for who, that
kind of thing. With different criteria, like gender, race, estimated worth, location,
whether they give money or great-grandmother’s ormolu clock in lieu of cash. I’m just
noodling about this, but I think it would help us all focus, and save us wasted effort.
I always wanted to do something like this when I was in your position, but I never
found the time, and certainly nobody ever asked me. Right now we’ve got a good board,
but I want to look beyond their circle of friends the next time a vacancy comes up.
Which won’t be soon, I hope.”

“I guess we’re lucky that most of them are under seventy at the moment. Unlike Adeline
Harrison.” Shelby looked at me with a gleam in her eye.

I met her look squarely, and we shared a wordless exchange. She was asking if this
sudden idea of mine had anything to do with the death of Adeline. While I trusted
Shelby—a trust she had earned—I didn’t feel comfortable sharing James’s gut feeling
that there was something murky going on. I couldn’t tell Shelby that. “Yes. Poor Adeline.”

“She seemed in good health the last time I saw her, a couple of weeks ago.” Shelby
laid her next card on the table. “She was sharp as a tack.”

“Yes, she always was,” I agreed.

“That’s why I was surprised that she passed so suddenly.” Shelby made one more try
to get me to say something more.

“It certainly was unexpected.”

Shelby stood up. “I don’t have anything pressing on the calendar. I can get right
on this today. In case anybody else wants to take a look at it.” She raised one eyebrow.

I kept my eyebrows firmly under control. “That’s great, Shelby. It would be good to
have it soon.”

“Of course. I’ll let you know what I come up with, Nell.” She left and headed down
the hall to her office.

Who belonged to which board was not secret—it was usually available on an organization’s
website, or if they were a nonprofit, through a publicly available IRS Form 990. The
issue was taking the time to assemble the information and line it up so we could see
the big picture—and so I could share it with James.

I was pleased that James had come to me with his suspicions. At the same time, I was
pretty sure we both hoped that the similarity in the two deaths was nothing more than
a coincidence. Why would anybody kill off aging board members or elderly members of
the local upper crust? In most cases, board members didn’t get paid by institutions,
and they didn’t wield a whole lot of power. Some of them had little active participation
in the institution they governed—they might have joined a board because it gave them
some social standing. They got their names in the paper now and then, and maybe a
picture in the society section in the local papers. As far as I could remember, Adeline
Harrison had been a thoroughly nice person who had done no harm to anyone. Maybe she
was hiding a deep dark secret or two, but in recent years her life had been blameless,
or so it appeared. Who could possibly want her dead?

I assumed I would be hearing from Marty Terwilliger about Adeline’s death, and I didn’t
have long to wait: she popped up in my doorway a few minutes later. She came and went
as she chose, and Eric had given up trying to stop her from “dropping in” at will.

Her mission was obvious when she shut the door behind her. “I’ll cut to the chase:
Jimmy told me about Adeline.”

“He called you?” I said, stalling.

“Nope, I heard about it and I called him. I saw her recently, and she was in fine
form. I wondered if there was something more going on.”

“Why would you think that? After all, she wasn’t young.”

“Maybe I’m just naturally suspicious. I wondered if Jimmy had heard, and when he said
yes, he sounded kind of funny.”

“What did he tell you?” I countered cautiously.

“That he’s suspicious, too. He tried to duck the question, but Jimmy’s never been
able to lie to me, not even when we were kids. I don’t like it when Jimmy is suspicious,
because he’s usually right. What are you doing about it?”

I contemplated her for a moment before answering. Marty could be a steamroller, and
she had no patience with evasions. She usually got what she wanted, and it saved time
(at least for me) if I just went along with whatever that was.

“James wanted to know what we have in our files about Adeline, which I’ve already
given him. He mentioned an earlier death that he thought might—repeat,
might
—be connected, and said he’d send me what information he could on that one as soon
as he received it. You have anything more?”

“Apart from being ticked off that he didn’t come to me first? He knows I know everybody,
and I know about a lot of the details they hope they’ve buried. I probably know more
of the good stuff than your crowd here does. Not that I’d ever use it for anything
crooked, but it comes in handy when I’m asking for a substantial contribution.”

“So it’s not really blackmail, eh?” I said, and when she started to protest, I held
up a hand. “Now, I’m not complaining, since the Society is on the receiving end of
most of those contributions. Are you saying you have dirt on Adeline?”

Marty dropped into the chair that Shelby had vacated, looking deflated. “Nope. She
was exactly what she appeared to be—a good and decent person, the type they don’t
make many of these days. Not a smudge on her reputation, not a blot on her record—nothing.”

“So you think she died of natural causes?”

Marty shrugged. “She was getting up there, goodness knows, but her father was ninety-six
when he died, if I remember correctly. Question is, what’s got Jimmy’s knickers in
a twist?”

“Does that expression apply to men?” I asked innocently.

Marty glared. “You know what I mean. Why is Jimmy even looking at this?”

“It could be the FBI’s investigation if this other death he’s heard about in New Jersey
is related.”

“What, Freddy Van Deusen? Lifelong smoker, diabetic, and lazy to the bone. I knew
him for forever. Why would his death be suspicious?”

“Why am I not surprised that you knew that guy, too? I have no idea what makes James
think his death is suspicious—maybe the pricking of his thumbs. He mentioned the case
to me and said he hadn’t seen the file yet. You’re betting on natural causes? If that’s
true, then the whole thing would go away. Which would be for the best.”

“Of course,” she said crisply. “The Society has had enough bad press over the past
few months without going looking for trouble, and if Adeline’s death is suspicious,
we’ve got a problem. But, heck, if someone is going after the people who run nonprofits
around here, I might be next on the list.” She looked remarkably cheerful at the idea.

“Like that old book
Someone is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe
? Just substitute regional philanthropists for the chefs?”

Marty gave a short bark of laughter, then looked away. “I liked Adeline,” she said,
her eyes on the corner of the room. “If her death was natural, I’ll go to the funeral
and I’ll mourn her. But if it wasn’t, something should be done about it.” She was
silent a moment, then swiveled back to me. “So we wait to see what Jimmy turns up?”

We?
“Sounds like a plan. Are you headed back to the processing room?”

“Yup. I need to keep an eye on Rich.”

I had a sneaking suspicion that Marty’s presence there slowed things down rather than
speeding them up, but I wasn’t about to interfere. “If Nicholas is there, could you
send him to me?”

“Sure thing. By the way, how’s he working out?”

“Fairly well, I think. So far he’s lived up to his own billing—he really does know
his software, and he picked up right where the former registrar left off.”

“Glad to hear it. If I see him, I’ll let him know you want him.”

“Thanks, Marty.”