Razing the Dead (5 page)

“It would.” I made a quick decision: she was a good fit. “I don't know if Marty told you, but the developer—by the way, it's Mitchell Wakeman—wants me to see the building site this afternoon. Would you like to tag along?” Why not see how she got on with the person she ultimately had to please?

“Sure, I'd love to. I know something about Chester County, but I can be more efficient about researching it if I'm familiar with the specific part he's looking at. Tell me, what if we do go ahead with the historic assessment and we find something, like that George Washington slept there—could that derail the project?”

I considered her intelligent question before answering. “That's complicated, I think. In undertaking any project like this, I'm sure you know there are a lot of people you have to keep happy—local governments, the federal government, environmentalists, historians, neighbors. How much clout each group has varies a lot, and I don't know if just one of them can put the kibosh on it. They might be able to delay it with lawsuits and the like. Does that worry you?”

“Not really—you're paying a flat fee for the project, not on an hourly basis, right? So even if I've mined all your resources before the three months is up, would I still be paid the full amount?”

“As long as you get the job done and Mitchell Wakeman is satisfied, I don't see why not. But it's his call.”

“I know. Right now, I'll take what I can get, and this sure beats waitressing.”

“I hope so.”

Front Desk Bob announced Mitchell Wakeman's arrival
just before three, and the unusual level of respect in his voice suggested that even he knew who he was dealing with. I gathered up my things and, with Lissa trailing behind me, I went down to greet him.

“Mr. Wakeman, good to see you again. Do you have time for a quick tour of the Society?”

He seemed restless, as if the stately grandeur of the Society's lobby made him uncomfortable. From all I'd heard and read, he was pretty much a no-nonsense and hands-on construction guy, so maybe he really didn't feel at home surrounded by all this shiny marble. “Maybe another time. Who's this?” he asked, nodding at Lissa.

“This is Lissa Penrose. We're considering her to fill the researcher position you described to me. With your approval, of course.”

Lissa stepped forward and offered her hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wakeman. From what Nell has told me, it sounds like you're proposing an ambitious project.”

I thought she hit just the right note with the man—respectful without being fawning. Points to her.

“Nothing I can't handle.” He turned back to me. “I'll trust your judgment about who to hire—I'm told you know your stuff. You ready to go?”

“Yes. Do you mind if Lissa comes with us? She should see the site, so she knows the context.”

“Sure, fine. Let's go—I'm double-parked.”

We went out the door. His nondescript sedan was parked directly in front of the steps. No fancy cars or chauffeurs for Mitchell Wakeman, apparently. Silly me, to have expected the trappings of wealth from a multimillionaire developer. I got in front, and Lissa slid into a seat in the back, and then we set off for Chester County.

Wakeman drove efficiently and not overly aggressively, and with the low mid-afternoon traffic we made good time. We engaged in impersonal small talk on the way. I tried to probe discreetly about the man's interest in local history, and he proved reasonably well informed, although not particularly reverent about the past that was still much in evidence around us.

When we reached the suburbs, he said to me, “You live out this way?”

“Yes, I've lived in Bryn Mawr for a while now. I guess I like to keep my work and my life separate. I like to have a place to escape to. I like the contrast. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yeah, sure, I get that.”

“You live even farther out, don't you?”

He glanced briefly at me, as if surprised that I knew. “I do, for a lot of the same reasons. Nice country, west of the city. Open space.”

“And you're proposing to put a major development in the middle of it? Sorry, I don't mean to be rude—I'm just trying to understand how you see this.”

“I understand. I guess the bottom line is, I want to do it right. People are moving out that way, and they're going to need housing. I want to show that it's possible to create a community that has all the things people want, but without dropping it like a flying saucer in the middle of a place and wondering why the people who've lived there for years are pissed about it. I respect the history of the area, and the geography and the ecology.”

“That sounds admirable. Are there any other examples of that kind of development?”

He tossed off a couple of names that meant nothing to me. “Thing is, it takes big money to put together the whole package, not just a bunch of houses and a couple of stores in the middle of nowhere. I've got the money, so I can make it happen. Does that sound crude to you?”

Was he smiling? “No, just practical. And I see your point. Trying to do it piecemeal means you run the risk of the whole project losing steam, and then you're left with a half-finished mess.”

“Exactly. Almost there.” I turned away from him to look out the window and check out where we were and realized we'd reached Paoli, on Route 30, a road I knew well, since it ran close to my house. Past the train station he turned off to the left. “Hey, you in the back—you've been quiet. Do you know where we are?” he asked as we drove along.

Lissa spoke up promptly. “We just left what was once the Philadelphia and Lancaster Turnpike, which was the first incorporated major toll road in the country,” she said, just loudly enough to make herself heard. “We're on the Paoli Pike, that leads to West Chester, which became the county seat in 1786. But we're not going that far, are we?” I noted that she pronounced Paoli correctly: pay-o-lee. People who didn't know the region and had only read the name often got it wrong.

Wakeman looked pleased by her response. “Nope, we're stopping just this side of it.”

I watched the houses roll by, the space between them increasing the farther we went. I loved this time of year: everything was lush and green, which somehow made it quiet, apart from the cicadas. But inside the car you couldn't hear them. Wakeman drove through a couple more town centers, usually no more than a few public buildings, such as local government offices and post offices, and a scattering of stores. Sometimes it was hard to believe that we were no more than thirty miles from Center City. We passed a sign for a stable, and there were sleek horses grazing in a field by the road. A mile or so farther on, Wakeman turned onto a smaller road on the right, which climbed a hill, then he turned in to an unpaved gravel driveway on the left. A hundred feet farther he stopped the car and turned off the engine. “This is it.”

We all climbed out of the car and stood looking out over the rolling hills to the south. I knew the town of West Chester was only a couple of miles down the road, as was a shopping center, but here all was serene and unspoiled.

“Let me show you what we're planning,” Wakeman said, after giving us ample time to take it all in.

I looked down at my shoes. I hadn't been planning on a hike when I'd dressed in the morning. “Uh, I don't think I've got the right footwear.”

“No problem. I always carry boots in the trunk—a lot of construction sites are muddy. Let's see if we can find something to fit you.”

If Mitchell Wakeman had appeared uncomfortable in the venerable rooms of the Society, here he was clearly in his element—expansive, enthusiastic, talkative. He quickly found boots for both Lissa and me, even if our feet slopped around inside the too-large boots, and appeared ready to walk the entire site with us, outlining each detail.

“Before we set out,” I said as tactfully as I could manage, “could you tell us about the general layout? How much land are you talking about? Where's the center going to be?”

Wakeman pulled a rolled plan from the trunk and laid it out on the hood of the car. “We're here, at the top of the hill.” He pointed to the center of the map.

That much I could have figured out for myself. I looked around me: nice old stone farmhouse at the top; a ramshackle wooden dairy barn just down the hill from the house, with an adjoining tall silo; various dilapidated sheds, whose use I couldn't identify, scattered around. “How much land do you have altogether?”

“About a thousand acres, irregular shape,” Wakeman replied promptly. “We plan to build on no more than a third or it in the first phase. We want a mix of housing and open space, plus a buffer zone along the perimeter roads. I've got options on some of the abutting properties if we want to expand in the future.”

“A thousand acres?” I said, incredulous. “How on earth did you find a single parcel that big in this day and age?”

“Told you—the Garrett family's been here since seventeen-whatever. Ezra was a great old guy. One of eleven kids. Ran a dairy operation here all his life. I got to know him through a couple of civic organizations we both belonged to. And he was smart. Some people might have figured he'd be sentimental about keeping the old place in the family, but he knew damn well the land was worth more as housing than as a dairy farm. I'd guessed it would come to that, so that's why I approached him. I did tell the kids that I'd keep the old farmhouse as a community center—they liked that.”

“The underlying property must have been part of a Penn land grant, although I doubt that the Garretts were the first owners, but I can check,” Lissa said suddenly. “Either way, it's amazing that they've kept the land together this long.”

“That's the kind of information I'm looking for—Melissa, is it?”

“Lissa,” the girl corrected him quietly.

“Lissa, got it. You dig into all that stuff. Great selling point when the houses are built—own a piece of history, going all the way back to William Penn.” Wakeman turned away and surveyed his domain. “So, basic facilities up here, kinda behind the hill so you won't see it from the road—market, post office, café, a couple of doctors' offices, bank, that kind of thing. Houses set back, scattered around. We keep the trees when we can, plant some new ones to fill in. No ticky-tacky rows of matching buildings, even for the condos. The lots might be small, but the houses'll be staggered so you aren't looking into your neighbor's bedroom, you know? My planning people tell me most of the residents, at least in the beginning, won't have children, so no strain on the local schools. Golf course on the far side.” He waved vaguely to the east, or maybe it was the north—I couldn't tell. “Hey, it's easier to show you. Follow me.”

He struck off up the hill, his long legs leaving us behind. Lissa and I exchanged a look and followed.

Thirty minutes later we had covered what felt like the entire thousand acres, although that might have been a small exaggeration. We'd made a big loop around the perimeter, with Wakeman making grand sweeping gestures all the way. I had to admit the man had a vision for the place, and he seemed committed to doing it right, making the new buildings fit into the landscape. His enthusiasm was obvious, and I admired that; he'd been doing this a long time, and it was heartening to see someone who still enjoyed his work after so many years.

“Let's finish up down by the road—I want you to see how it will look to anyone passing by.” He pointed down the hill toward the Paoli Pike, the way we had come in.

It was well after five o'clock, and still hot. I was sticky and sweaty, and my feet hurt. I wanted to go home and take a nice, cool shower. But I also wanted to remain in Mitchell Wakeman's good graces, for the benefit of the Society—besides, he was my ride home, and maybe he could drop Lissa at a train station along the way. I dredged up a smile and said, “Sounds great.” Lissa shot me a dirty look, but heck, she was younger than I was, so she couldn't complain.

We dutifully trooped down to the bottom of the hill and looked back up at the skyline. If I squinted, I thought I could see a hint of Wakeman's vision for the place.

He was still talking, energy undiminished. “And like I said, we'll keep a lot of this part as a buffer, maybe halfway up to the ridge there. Keep that nice little pond over there.” He pointed. “Scenic. Reeds. Geese sometimes. Besides, it's too wet to build on, so might as well keep it.” He stopped suddenly. “What the hell? Nobody's supposed to be dumping there.” He took off abruptly toward the pond, loping downhill on his long legs. But when he reached it he stopped and stood staring down at the water. He seemed frozen.

I picked my way through the marshy grass, stumbling a bit in my too-big boots, until I came up beside him and looked down to see what had seized his attention.

I should have guessed that things had gone a bit too well today and I would have to pay the cosmic bill.

Before us bobbed the body of a dead man, facedown in the pond.

For once, it seemed, the industrial titan Mitchell Wakeman was at a loss. “What the . . . ? Who is it?”

“How on earth should I know?” I snapped.

Lissa had finally made her way down to stand beside us. She looked at the pond, and said, “Oh.” Then she turned quickly, walked to the edge of the road, and threw up.

I'd been through this before. I pulled out my cell phone and hit 9-1-1.

The good news is, out in the suburbs, where there are lots of small towns, the police station is never far away. The bad news is, because these are small, peaceful towns, there are seldom police officers on staff who have much experience investigating deaths. In five minutes, a squad car arrived and two youngish uniformed cops climbed out. I'll give them credit for doing things correctly, all by the book: they approached us and looked down at the body and nodded sagely; they asked us who we were and what we were doing there; and then they escorted us back to Wakeman's car and told us to sit there and stay put. Then they walked away so that they were out of earshot, conferred briefly, and made another call.

Five minutes after that, another car arrived, and two more officers climbed out. One was older and clearly had more authority. He spoke briefly with the first officers, then came up to Wakeman, who was leaning against the car with a thousand-mile stare on his face, and introduced himself. His deference suggested that he recognized Wakeman's name if not his face. Then he turned to Lissa and me, and we explained again how we had come to be in an idyllic cow pasture on a fine summer's day, staring at a corpse. Who nobody had yet identified. The cops had wisely left the body right where it was, presumably to avoid mucking up any potential evidence.

“What happens now?” I asked. I had a passing familiarity with Philadelphia procedures, but I wasn't about to assume they were the same here.

“We wait for the coroner,” the officer said promptly. “That's who decides if it's an unnatural death and figures out who it is. He'll be here any minute—the county office is right down the road.”

For a brief moment I nursed the hope that whoever it was had fallen into the pond (which looked about a foot deep) and drowned. Or chosen a rather unlikely method of suicide, in plain sight of a well-traveled road. I couldn't convince myself that either was likely.