Privy to the Dead (11 page)

“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.

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 would 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 sighed. “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.

Henry finally pulled the door open, looking undamaged. “Hey, Nell. Aunt Marty said you'd be stopping by. Come on in.”

I followed him down the hall, savoring the scent of sawdust and varnish. I spotted our plastic box in the middle of Henry's worktable. “Have you found anything new?”

“Marty told you she thought the escutcheon you found might match some of those on the Terwilliger furniture, like the ones she showed you at the museum, right?”

“She did. So, do they match?”

Henry nodded. “These are identical. Probably all came from the same shipment to Philadelphia.”

“They aren't locally made?”

“Nope. The furniture is—nobody was supposed to import anything from England back then, but there were plenty of talented furniture makers in the city here. But metalwork is something else. Of course, somebody could have laid in a supply before the war, but that would have been a pretty big investment—those babies weren't cheap.”

“Did Marty share her theory with you?” I asked.

“That the fragments came from a Terwilliger piece? Or that it was a lap desk? Yeah, we both arrived at that conclusion pretty quickly. I think she's right, at least in terms of style and size. She can dig into the history side of that—you've got all those records.”

“You haven't talked about this to anyone else, have you?” I asked.

“Nah. Marty said not to, and I don't see a lot of people anyway, so who would I tell?”

“Just be careful—please. I don't want anyone else to get hurt.” The list of possible targets was growing daily, which made me anxious.

“You sound like Aunt Marty. Don't worry, I can take care of myself. And I've got a lot of weapons handy.” He waved around his workroom, and I could see plenty of gleaming chisels with nice sharp edges. And lots more things I didn't recognize, but all with wicked points or evil blades. I relaxed just a bit.

“Good. Well, I'd better get over to the police station and hand the stuff over.”

Henry slid the plastic box with the fragments into a padded envelope and handed the envelope to me. “Will you get them back?”

“I hope so. They're not exactly evidence, although if
they find the matching escutcheon, the one we have might be. I'm not going to worry about it now. I just plan to give them to the detective.”

“Oh, hey, I kept some of the smaller wooden bits,” Henry said before I could leave. “The brasses were pretty much standard issue, but I'd like to run a few more tests on the wood, see if anything pops up.”

“Sure. Since the police are only interested in the metal, no one will miss them You run whatever you think is best and let me know if you find anything useful. Thanks, Henry!”