Monument to the Dead (4 page)

“No, nothing like that. Then there was the earlier case that I mentioned to Nell.
I can’t give you the official records, but I can summarize. Frederick Van Deusen,
age eighty-three. Impeccable social connections, served on various boards, lived in
north Jersey. Not particularly wealthy. Tox screen showed only the drugs you’d expect,
including the same heart medication that Adeline was taking, and the level of that
one was a bit higher than it should have been. Nothing out of place in his home. Wife’s
been dead for years, grown children who live out of state and aren’t in financial
trouble. Again, no motive, and no evidence, except for slightly elevated drug levels
in his system.”

“I knew Freddy,” Marty said. “He was about as interesting as oatmeal, but a nice guy.
I never heard anyone say a bad word about him. I went to his funeral.”

“So no secret life, no blackmail?” James asked with a small smile.

Marty snorted inelegantly. “Freddy? Not likely.”

“Was he ever on the board of the Society?”

I looked at Marty, since her memory went back further than mine. “Nope. Don’t even
think he was asked. Freddy, rest his soul, was kind of thick, and he had no interest
at all in history. That’s not to say he didn’t have other interests, or get involved
in something in New Jersey.”

“Marty,” I interrupted, “how
did
you know Freddy Van Duesen?”

“His father and mine used to own a boat together—sold it years ago. The Van Duesens
had a place on the Jersey shore, and that’s where they docked it. Took Freddy and
me out a time or two, until we both made it clear that we hated sailing. But I think
he was still on the board of some yacht club, thanks to his father—I went to a fundraising
event there, maybe a decade ago.”

It figured. Marty continually surprised me with the breadth and depth of her social
network—the real one, not the digital one.

James nodded once. “So Freddy had local social connections. That’s about what I figured.
It’s a pretty thin file.”

“Then why did you even bring him up?” Marty demanded.

“Because he’s part of your crowd, and I’m getting leery of anything that involves
the greater Philadelphia cultural community. I wouldn’t have given him another thought
if it hadn’t been for Adeline’s death, which is remarkably similar.”

“Similar in that there’s nothing suspicious about either one?” I asked. “That’s an
odd reason to look at anything.”

James looked at me in turn. “I was prepared to write off these two deaths as a coincidence.
As you’ve pointed out, they were both far from young, and there’s no damning evidence,
apart from elevated levels of a legally prescribed medicine. Look, I don’t mean to
be an alarmist. I’m trying to be thorough. Two elderly people die, months apart, from
an overdose. Nothing extraordinary there. Then I find that both had various ties to
local cultural institutions, and that Martha here knew both of them. And then Adeline
ties into the Society. Can you blame me for wondering, at least off the record? And
when I go looking for additional information, I find that since everything looked
so simple, nobody bothered to do a thorough investigation of either of them, and now
there’s no way to retrieve evidence. Dead ends, both, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“Do your bosses know about this?” I asked.

“No, and I wasn’t planning to say anything to them—I was just satisfying my own curiosity.”

“But you said there was a new death?” I prodded gently.

“Yes. Benton Snyder was found dead this morning.”

Shelby gasped, and Marty paled. “Benton?” Shelby said. “But he’s a neighbor! I saw
him just last week, when he was weeding his window boxes. What happened?”

“Found dead in his bed, no signs of forced entry, no struggle. Marty, did you know
him?”

“Sure. We used to play bridge together, but I haven’t seen him lately. But Jimmy,
why do you think his death is suspicious?”

“I asked the coroner to check to see if there were elevated levels of any of the prescription
medications we found in his medicine cabinet. The coroner’s a good guy, so he did
that quickly and then called me. Same prescription.” He turned to Marty. “At the risk
of repeating myself, was Benton ever a Society board member?”

“No, but I think he was on the board of the Art Museum some years back. He had more
money than Freddy—or me, for that matter. Decent guy, though, and a wicked bridge
player. He could look you in the eye and finesse your face cards like nobody’s business.”

“And you think these three deaths are connected?” I asked.

“Either they’re an extraordinary coincidence, or there’s a fairly subtle serial killer
running around.”

We all stared at each other, James’s last words hanging
between us like a physical entity. It seemed absurd: a serial killer preying on the
elderly Philadelphia cultural elite? Besides, I didn’t want to see anybody else die
before their time, elite or not. It wasn’t their fault that they’d been born to long-established
families and raised in a privileged environment and grown old with their peers. I
sneaked a glance at Marty: she fit the description, except for her age. And to give
that community its due, the elite had largely used their money generously, supporting
good causes and institutions—like the Society—that might otherwise have floundered.
What’s more, they gave of their time and connections.

I was the first to break the silence. “Shelby, show James what you’ve been working
on.”

“Does this mean I’m a consultant for the FBI now?” she asked him directly, dimpling.

“If you like,” he said with good humor. “What is it?”

Shelby handed James copies of the board member spreadsheets. “At Nell’s suggestion,
I’ve been putting together a list of people who match the general description of your
two—now, three—victims. You know, old families, some disposable income, civic-minded.
I’ve been looking at what information we have in our files here and expanding from
there. I’ve come up with a list of local benefactors and their board connections,
just to see if there is any overlap between the victims. Or who might be next on the
list.” She grimaced at adding that last thought.

“Interesting,” James replied, leafing through the pages.

Shelby continued, “Our secret weapon is our own in-house ‘who’s who.’ Who knows who,
and how, and why. What clubs they belong to, what charities they support. Where their
summerhouses are, and who they vacation with. A lot of that stuff doesn’t show up
on any database.” She sat back triumphantly. Marty winked at me.

James had the decency to look impressed. “Thank you, Shelby. This could be very useful
to us.”

“And this is only what I’ve found in one day. There are a lot of blanks to fill in,
if Nell wants me to go ahead. Or if there’s something you’d like to see added.”

“Please, continue what you’ve started. That is, if Nell can spare you?” He looked
at me with a smile.

“Of course. Anything to help.”

“Hey, I’m in too,” Marty protested.

“I never doubted it, Martha,” James said drily. “All of you, I appreciate the help.
If we can find out what connects these people, apart from their social status, maybe
we can start working on who would be killing them. But”—he glanced at me briefly—“please
keep this quiet. As I keep reminding Nell, the Bureau frowns on using, uh, outside
personnel in its investigations.”

“You mean amateurs like us,” Marty said bluntly. “We know. But is it even an official
investigation yet?”

James looked pained. “Not unless either the local police invite us in, or I can prove
a connection between the three deaths. I haven’t got a lot to work with here. That’s
why I’m using you three—no paperwork, and your price is right.”

“Gee, thanks. I love being exploited by government agencies.” Then I added, more somberly,
“We don’t take this lightly. If we can help, we want to. Right, ladies?”

Nods all around. “All right, then,” I said. “Marty, why don’t you take Shelby’s charts
home, look them over, and add what you can. Shelby, tomorrow you can go back to fleshing
out your information. Your first pass is great, but I’m sure there’s more information
in the files and from outside sources. James, you let us know if there are any new
developments, or if you want us to look at another angle. Is everybody clear on that?”

“Yes, ma’am! Will do, ma’am!” Shelby barked out like an army private, but she was
smiling.

“I’ll work on the list tonight,” Marty said. “It’s a great idea that you and Shelby
cooked up—and Jimmy didn’t even think of it.” She looked pointedly at him and he ducked
his head.

Marty and Shelby gathered up their things and exited together, leaving James and me
alone in the darkening room. “What if we don’t come up with anything? What then?”
I asked.

“At least we’ll have covered all the bases. As I’ve said, it may all come to nothing,
and these people’s time had come. Or maybe this represents a cluster of suicides—they
do happen, you know.”

“I thought that was usually at colleges, or someplace like the Golden Gate Bridge
in San Francisco.”

“Not all suicides are as obvious. You have plans for dinner?”

The quick change of subject confused me for a moment. “Nothing out of the usual. You
have some ideas?”

“How about takeout at my place?”

“Sounds good to me, as long as I can catch a late train home.”

“I think that can be arranged.” He smiled.

I took home a substantial doggie bag. Somehow we never quite made it to dinner.

On the train to the city the next morning, I reflected on the nebulous problem James
had handed us. Three deaths, in two different states; one in the city, one in the
suburbs, the third someplace I knew nothing about. Three people close in age, linked
by a history of social involvement. None married, or at least not when they died.
I made a mental note to ask Shelby to include a column on marital status at time of
death, or if there was anyone else living in the deceased’s house.

I tried to recall the few times I’d met Adeline. I thought we’d had one conversation
at an event outside the Society where we had discussed historic preservation. Maybe
something about the Somerhof Museum? Furniture refinishing? Or needlework seat covers
for antique furniture? I couldn’t bring the memory into focus. Of course, at the time
I had had no idea that the passing conversation would figure in a possible criminal
investigation into her death. But no one could remember every casual chat they ever
took part in. We picked out what interested us, stored it as a memory, and threw out
the rest.

Marty had mentioned that Benton had played bridge, an activity that could have brought
him into contact with a number of people—although I’d never heard of anyone being
killed over leading with the wrong card. Maybe he’d been kicked out of his bridge
group and committed suicide because he couldn’t stand the shame?

The first victim, the one from New Jersey, I knew nothing about. Luckily, Marty seemed
to know everyone everywhere, so she could fill in a lot of the blanks. If she didn’t
know a person, that person wasn’t worth knowing, at least under the umbrella of Philadelphia
society. Not that she was a snob about it. It was just that she’d grown up with a
lot of interconnected family, attended local schools, and was fully immersed in city
history. On the one hand, Marty tended to be direct with her questions and peremptory
in her judgments on occasion, but while she was what I would call tact-challenged,
she always got the job—whatever it was—done.

I relished my walk from the station to the Society. The mornings were still cool;
later in the summer, when all the stone and concrete in the city held the heat, it
could be steamy before nine, but we weren’t there yet. As I walked, I mulled a few
things over. Work at the Society was going well. We were fully staffed for a change;
we had the treasure trove of FBI-recovered objects and documents to sort through;
and we had no major events looming. June was usually peaceful—later in the summer
we would have a higher percentage of visiting scholars or genealogists using their
precious vacation weeks to fill in an entire family tree. Of course we welcomed them,
but it was also nice when the building was cool and quiet.

On that warm and fuzzy note, I walked into the Society, smiled at Front Desk Bob,
and made my way to the elevator, greeting Edwin while I waited.

Upstairs, I had barely settled in my chair when Shelby came bustling in, looking excited.

“You’re in early again,” I said. “Should we get some coffee?”

“Like I’m not wired enough already? But sure, if you want some.”

We strolled down the hall and made the first pot of the day, since I’d arrived before
Eric for a change. While we waited for it to brew, I said, “Any luck with . . . that
project?”

“I think so. I woke up with some great ideas, and that’s why I came in early.” She
glanced around to make sure there was no one else who could hear. “This is so cool,
helping out the . . . you-know-what.”

“It is. And we kind of owe them, what with that wealth of stuff they dropped in our
laps this year.”

“Found anything good? As in, we really hope to keep it?”

“You’d have to ask Nicholas. He’s in charge. I try to stay out of the way, but it’s
hard because I love to see the new stuff. Oh—good morning, Nicholas.”

I hadn’t heard him approach, but he was light on his feet. His cubicle was just down
the hall, close to the staff room, with only the staircase between.

“Good morning, Nell, Shelby.” His manner was almost courtly, but he didn’t smile.
Nicholas seldom smiled.

“Coffee will be ready in a minute. Shelby was just asking about how the processing
of the FBI materials is going. I could give her numbers, but maybe you could tell
her what your overall assessment is, for the materials you’ve looked at?”

He appeared to consider the question carefully before replying. “As you might expect,
it’s a hodgepodge. The FBI provided lists of what they’d found, or thought they’d
found, but of course their descriptions are all but useless. They also identified
which items they knew or guessed had been stolen, mainly from information provided
by the owners—but not surprisingly, the two lists are impossible to compare. So it’s
a slow process.”

“Have you found much that doesn’t appear on the lists of missing items that the owners
reported?”

“Some. Perhaps. You’re thinking that we’ll have a shot at keeping the unclaimed items?”

“That’s what I hope, even if we have to consider them a long-term loan in the event
someone might come forward in the future to claim them. I’m no expert on the legalities.
What I guess I need now is a sense of the scope of those items—ten percent? Twenty?
And what categories they fall into, if you can give me that. We’ll need to start thinking
about where to store them, going forward.”

“Of course. I think you’re right—it’s probably between ten and twenty percent. I’d
have to check the categories of the articles involved. Excuse me, the coffee’s ready.”
He stepped between Shelby and me and filled a mug, then turned and left without further
comment.

“Is it just me,” Shelby drawled, “or is that boy a little rough around the edges?”

“What he lacks in social graces he makes up for in technical skills. At least, that’s
what I keep telling myself.” We filled our own mugs and went back to my office.

Once we were settled, I asked, “What have you come up with?”

“A few other categories that might be helpful, like other organizations the people
belong to. I’ve split that between public ones and less formal ones, like the bridge
players Marty mentioned. People might have different intentions and different levels
of involvement, depending on why they joined. You know, duty versus fun.”

“Good point, and I was thinking along the same lines myself. Anything that gets us
closer to linking these people, on any level, will be helpful. Although where you
find some of the informal organizations is beyond me.”

“Well, as you’ve said, a lot of that is recorded in our files, based on conversations
staff members have had with them now and then. Plus, if I go looking online in the
Inquirer
and search on each name, there are often mentions of events they’ve attended. Like
the Flower Show, for example. They may not have any official involvement with the
organizing committee, but if they show up there year after year, maybe they actually
like flowers, or even belong to some gardening group. Of course, this is all pretty
time-consuming.”

“I can see that. How many names have you put together so far?”

“Probably around three hundred.”

I didn’t know whether to be buoyed or depressed by that piece of information. Three
hundred people was a lot to sift through for small but potentially significant details.
“Why don’t you wait until you can sit down with Marty and go over the list with her?
I’m sure she’ll have plenty to add. That could save you some time.”

“You expect to see her today?”

“You couldn’t keep me away,” Marty announced from the doorway. “And I might have something.”