Dead End Street

by Sheila Connolly

  “So Marty’s involved, too?”

  “Yes, and Hrivnak knows it. Marty happened to be in my office when she came calling. She talked to both of us.” I glanced in his direction, but his right ear wasn’t giving anything away. “You have a problem with that?”

  He sighed quietly. “You and Marty in combination have a knack for finding trouble. I’m not saying it’s your fault, either one of you, but it does keep happening.”

  “I know. Look, I’m not convinced we’re going to find anything that’s helpful, and we’re going to be looking at the Society’s documents, inside our nice, safe building. But this has made me realize that I should know more about the neighborhoods outside of Center City and Society Hill. Even if they’re disaster areas now, they were once important to the city.”

  “I admire the principle, Nell, but I’d prefer you didn’t go tramping around those neighborhoods.”

  “Believe me, so would I! I’m not planning to organize guided tours for our patrons, or anything like that. Maybe a series of online articles for our website or newsletter, or a small pamphlet. Maybe we could get the city involved, and they could help distribute it. Or we could call it a public service. And you know we’re going to nominate Eliot for the board slot, and he’s the perfect person to help with this.”

  “Nell, you are remarkably resilient,” James said. “You’re actually planning to turn this shooting into a research opportunity for the Society, complete with publications.”

  Was that a criticism? I turned toward him as far as my seat belt would allow and said, “What, you think I should be wallowing in a puddle of tears? Would you be happier if I fell apart?”

  “No, of course not. I only hope that you feel you can fall apart if you need to. I’ll be there to pick up the pieces.”

  “Oh.” Maybe I was in denial, trying to pretend the whole thing had never happened. And maybe it was unrealistic of me to believe that I would be “all better” after only one day. Or two. Or two hundred. “Thank you.”

  The rest of the ride home was quiet.

  Over dinner I said, “I didn’t tell you about Marty’s latest proposal.”

  “Not crime solving, I hope?”

  “No. Apparently there’s a colonial estate in Montgomery County that’s up for grabs, and she wondered if the Society would be interested in taking it on.” I proceeded to explain what Marty had told me, but that didn’t take long because I didn’t have many details. “So I said I’d go see it with her tomorrow morning. I don’t think it’s a good fit for the Society, either practically or financially, but it sounds lovely and I’d be happy to see it, and either Marty or I should bring it to the board, if there’s even a remote possibility that it could work out. Or a board member might know someone who might be interested.”

  “You should be safe enough in Montgomery County.”

  “I don’t know about that, James. Isn’t it hunting season?” I said, suppressing a smile.

  “For deer, I believe. Are you worried about being mistaken for a deer?”

  “While sipping tea in the parlor? Not really. But after yesterday I’m not going to take anything for granted.”

  We spent a quiet evening, with no shots fired. I noticed that James stayed just a bit closer to me than usual, which I thought was sweet. He might be a big, strong FBI agent, but he was worried about me. I was surprised at how good it felt to have somebody who would worry about me.

  * * *

  The next morning we drove into the city together, and James dropped me off at the Society. “You’re spoiling me, you know,” I told him as I collected my things before getting out of the car.

  “I want to. If you want me to be rational, I could say that I go this way anyway, so it’s merely practical to drop you off. But you may have noticed that I don’t feel exactly rational at the moment.”

  “I do appreciate it, you know. You don’t see any armed thugs loitering on the street, waiting for me?”

  He actually scanned the scene in front of us. “No. But you know it’s easy to conceal a weapon. Have fun with Marty, and don’t commit to anything.”

  “Hey, don’t tell me how to do my job!” I gave him a thorough kiss and climbed out of the passenger door, then hurried up the stairs. It was cold, I told myself, ignoring the fact that I felt all too exposed on the street, where almost anyone might be hiding a weapon.

  Upstairs in my office, there were no surprises waiting—no Detective Hrivnak, no phone messages. I made myself a cup of coffee, then settled behind my desk and sorted through what I needed to do. Marty would arrive in an hour or less, and I should find out what I could about what I was going to be looking at, so I wouldn’t embarrass myself. Realistically, as I had told Marty, there was no way the Society could take on a building, no matter how beautiful and historical it was. We didn’t have the staff to manage it, nor the money to hire people to do it for us. It might have been more appropriate if it were in the city, but instead it was way out in the suburbs. I would be more than willing to direct some of the Society’s staff time and cultural capital (if there was such a thing) to finding the right institution to take it, but the Society was not that institution. Still, Marty was merely doing what she had promised the sisters, and I was always happy to see a piece of history that I had missed. And there were plenty of those.

  At ten of ten, Marty called from her car and said she was idling at the curb in front of the building. “You ready to go?”

  “I am. No change in plans?”

  “Nope. If they offer lunch, say yes, but it may be cucumber sandwiches and petit fours.”

  “I won’t complain. Be right down!”

  On the way out I told Eric where I was going and that I wasn’t sure when I’d be back. I checked to see that I had my cell phone, and that it was set to vibrate. “You can call me if anything urgent comes up.”

  “What would you call urgent right now?” Eric asked.

  “Well, maybe if Detective Hrivnak calls. James has my number, and Marty will be with me. I guess that’s about all. Thanks, Eric.”

  I made my way downstairs and out to Marty’s car.

  “Everything good?” Marty asked as she pulled away from the curb.

  “Just fine. Do I look like I don’t think so?”

  “No, you look normal. Maybe that’s the problem—you get shot at, you should look . . . different.”

  “Well, I’m sorry I look too good. I promise you I’m quivering inside.”

  “I’m surprised Jimmy isn’t glued to your side, as a self-appointed bodyguard.”

  Since Marty and James had grown up together, she knew him well. “I think he’d like to be, but he respects my independence. I’ll let him comfort me later.”

  “I bet,” Marty said with what looked like a smirk.

  I ignored her innuendo. “Did you talk to Eliot?”

  “I did. He’s definitely on board with being on board, if you know what I mean.”

  “Good. He knows the vote is next week, right?”

  “Yes. But we don’t see any problems, do we?”

  “Not that I know of. I’m looking forward to getting to know him better. Did you have a chance to talk about the neighborhoods project?”

  “We talked about it a little, but let’s save that for the ride home. I should fill you in on what we’re going to see now.”

  “You know, you never told me why the Oliver sisters approached you about this. Anything I should know?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Marty, with you it’s always complicated. Why’d they pick you as their, what, agent? Ambassador?”

  “I had a school friend who lived out that way, and she introduced me to the sisters because she thought I’d be interested in the house—this was years ago. She told them about my role at the Society, and I guess we spent some time talking about what the Society does. Befo
re you ask, they’ve never been members or donors. So when they decided to sell, they got in touch with me. I think they don’t trust real estate agents, who are busy counting up the dollar signs. And their lawyer, in Center City, was a friend of my father’s.”

  All the interconnections were typical for Marty. Heaven help me if I ever had to draw a diagram to explain her links to anything.

  “Please remember, Marty, I haven’t made any promises. You know the Society as well as or better than I do, and you know what our limitations are.”

  “Of course I do. But maybe together we can come up with some ideas for the place. It really is gorgeous, and mostly untouched.”

  “All right, fill me in.” I settled back in my seat to listen.

  Marty launched into a brisk summary of the house we were headed to see. “Traditional high-end colonial set in the midst of over fifty acres of land. Built in 1769, and it includes a carriage house and barn. Built for the son of a wealthy local family when he got married—and it was a real power marriage, to the daughter of one of the most prominent men in the Commonwealth. They did lots of entertaining—Ben Franklin stayed there now and then, before the Revolution. Typical layout, and most of the woodwork is original. Great staircase. As the story goes, they kept slaves in the attic, a long, long time ago. What else you want to know?”

  “Have the ladies had any conversation with local officials?”

  “I don’t think so—not genteel enough for them, and they didn’t want to get the lawyer involved, at least not yet. We might be able to walk them through the process to gift it to the town, but that’s the last resort. Look, nothing has to be decided today. We’re just chatting. Did I mention they want to give the furniture with it?”

  “Yes, you did, yesterday. I will reserve judgment, but I won’t make any promises to them. You said yesterday they were mentally alert?”

  “Yup, sharp as tacks. You’ll see.”

  After another half hour of driving, we pulled into a long driveway and arrived in front of a handsome colonial house. I made a quick visual inventory: central doorway with traditional portico on columns, flanked by two windows on either side. A carriage house with three bays, closed off by arched doors, lay behind the house on the right. The ground-floor windows had to be six feet high—no expense spared when the place was built. Two central brick chimneys indicated the fireplaces that had heated the rooms. From a quick perusal, I couldn’t see any obvious signs of neglect or damage: the paint, while not new, was still sound, the roof had all its shingles, and the foundation stones were still well pointed. It was, simply, a beautiful example of the architecture of its time. But that didn’t mean the Society could do anything with it.

  Marty parked, and I followed her to the front door (whose hardware also appeared to be original). She rapped the large brass knocker firmly, and it took little time before we could hear the tap-tap of shoes—with heels, if I guessed correctly. The door was opened by a woman only a couple of inches shorter than I was, wearing a nice shirtwaist dress and, as I had deduced, low-heeled pumps. A string of pearls circled her neck, and her white hair was swept neatly up in a soft chignon. I hoped I would look anywhere near as good when I was approaching ninety.

  She extended a hand, and I took it; her grip was strong. “I’m Phoebe Oliver, and you must be Nell Pratt. Thank you for coming all this way to see us. We don’t get many visitors these days, I’m afraid—Penelope and I have outlived most of our peers, sadly. Please come in. Good to see you again, Martha.”

  “I’m always happy to see you, Phoebe.” Marty and Phoebe exchanged a brief hug, and I wondered how well they knew each other.

  “Would you like a cup of tea after your journey, Ms. Pratt, or would you prefer to see the house first?”

  “Please, call me Nell. Frankly I’m itching to see the house. It’s imposing, and your family appears to have taken good care of it.”

  “We can’t take all the credit. I’m not sure how much Martha has told you, but our ancestor had it snatched from him a very long time ago because he chose the wrong side during the Revolution. It was our great-grandfather who managed to buy it back, shortly after his return from the Civil War, before too much had been changed. But you’re right—it had been lovingly maintained in the interval, and there was little to do in the way of repairs. I will be happy to show you.”

  Marty and I followed her through a series of rooms, large and square, with wide-plank floors the color of honey, and simple paneling embellishing walls and fireplaces. I noted that there were radiators under most of the windows, so there had been some changes made over time, but those were not obtrusive. The rooms were furnished, but the furniture was a bit sparse. Still, each piece was of the correct period and was gleaming with the kind of polish that only time and care could provide. It was, without question, lovely.

  We ended the tour downstairs in the dining room, where a sumptuous tea was laid out on a mahogany table that could have seated a dozen people. Another elderly woman, clearly related to Phoebe, stood behind the spread, beaming. “I’m so glad you could come! I’m Phoebe’s sister, Penelope. I’m sorry I didn’t join you on the tour, but I was engaged in the kitchen, and I do have trouble with the stairs these days. Please sit down and serve yourselves.”

  The teapot was indeed silver, as were the matching sugar bowl and creamer. The plates, laden with goodies—yes, including finger sandwiches and small cakes, as Marty had predicted—were, to my semi-experienced eye, English bone china; the teacups were almost thin enough to see through, with handles the size of large spaghetti. I felt as though I had stepped back into another time, and I was glad I had worn my grandmother’s pearls.

  We made chitchat about people we all knew, about the county and the region, about the history that surrounded us, and it was all very pleasant. Then Phoebe, who was clearly the spokesperson for the duo, carefully set down her cup in its saucer and said, “now, shall we talk business?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Marty and I looked at each other, but I had the feeling the ball was in my court. “Phoebe, Penelope, what is it you’re hoping to do with this house?”

  “Keep it standing, and as close to its current, and, may I add, historical state as possible,” Phoebe said quickly. Penelope nodded her agreement.

  “And what do you think your options are?”

  Phoebe regarded me steadily. “Ms. Pratt, we are neither stupid nor feeble-minded, even though we are women who grew up in a very different world, and we are unquestionably old. We were raised in this house, and we treated it as a house, rather than a museum. We scuffed the floors with our Mary Janes, and, yes, we even slid down the staircase railing a time or two. We knew the place was centuries old, but that didn’t mean a lot to us then.

  “Neither have we been shuttered in this place all our lives, though we never married. I attended college and graduated, and we traveled to Europe together. Penelope lived in Boston for a time, and was once engaged. Yet somehow we always ended up back here. It was not exactly a deliberate choice, but we have not been unhappy. We were blessed with enough money to live out our days, with a bit left over. We’ve been lucky.

  “Now we know we won’t last much longer, and we accept that. Patience, Nell—I am going to answer your question. We are well aware that this is a valuable piece of real estate. We could, no doubt, find a private purchaser for it, one who would pay a lot of money for a place of this size, with a good deal of privacy. Movie stars, titans of industry, and the like.”

  I wondered if I saw a twinkle in Phoebe’s eye. She seemed to be enjoying this.

  “But there is no guarantee that such a buyer would keep the house as it is, or even keep it at all. He might tear it down and build what I believe they call a McMansion, or he might give it to some fringe church or sect, or turn it into a private medical clinic for substance abusers who can afford expensive treatment. We selfishly don’t want that, and since it is ou
rs to dispose of as we choose, we want to set the terms—terms that will survive even our deaths. A lot has happened in this house over two centuries. We want to honor that long history. Can you understand that?”

  I nodded. “I can and do. After all, you know what I do: I manage a library and museum that seeks to preserve the past, so that later generations can enjoy it. I realize that this is not always a popular thing to do, and that many ordinary people think we’re obsolete. So I am on your side, in principle. But the reality is, few institutions want to take on something like this. Say there’s a way to create an endowed house museum, a nonprofit organization that would open it to the public on some regular schedule, because there has to be a public component to it. I don’t know the details of your financial situation, but I’m not sure that anyone has the money to keep it just as it is forever. Any house needs care and tending, because houses seem to want to fall to pieces.”

  Phoebe smiled. “Do you live in an older home, Nell?”

  “I do, one that’s about a hundred years younger than this one. It’s beautiful, but it’s a constant battle to keep it that way. So you can’t create a time warp or freeze it forever.”

  “We know that. What do you see as other alternatives?”

  “This is not my area of expertise, but you could give it to an institution or to the county or the township, along with enough money to keep it going. They, too, will have to open it to the public in order to justify owning it and managing it and paying for its upkeep. Municipalities have to answer to their voters when it comes to budgets. And making it a public building will create wear and tear on it, particularly the interior.”

  “And your Society will not take on that responsibility?”

  Hadn’t Marty told her? Or was Phoebe just verifying that information? “We can’t, I’m sorry to say. We’re already stretched thin financially, as are many of our cultural colleagues. Take the Barnes Foundation, for example, because it’s a similar case. Albert Barnes created a wonderful art collection in the nineteen twenties, and he wanted it preserved exactly as he had arranged it, in his home. He left the house and plenty of money to the foundation. His will allowed very limited access to the collection. Well, a few years ago that will was broken in a rather acrimonious and public lawsuit, and the collection was moved to Philadelphia, near other museums, so that vastly more people could enjoy the collection. And the fact that people want to see the art means that they will pay to see it, so the new arrangement generates income to sustain the building and its contents. I’m sure the man is turning over in his grave, but many more people have the opportunity to enjoy the art.”