Dead End Street

by Sheila Connolly

  “But that would not apply in this case,” Phoebe said. “What are you suggesting?”

  “You’re right—we can’t just pick up your house and drop it in the middle of Fairmount Park, and its location is part of its historic identity. I cited that example because it shows that Barnes’s vision for the future became obsolete, and a way was found to perpetuate it, in a somewhat different form. As for your house”—I looked briefly at Marty again, but she showed no inclination to jump in—“I have no idea what to suggest to you, because I only heard about this yesterday, and it’s been kind of a difficult week so far.”

  “So I understand,” Phoebe said, not unkindly. “But if I interpret events correctly, you were willing to venture out of, shall we say, your comfort zone because there are those who believe that even the lowliest row house is part of the city’s past and is worth remembering.”

  Touché. I smiled at the sisters. “You’re right. Look, I’m on your side, really. I would love to help you find a way to work this out, to everyone’s benefit. It’s a big plus that money doesn’t have to be the driving force in this decision. But right now I don’t know where to start.”

  “That is perfectly understandable, my dear,” Phoebe said. “We will be happy to give you some time to reflect, and to investigate the options. Just don’t take too long.”

  I had the feeling we were being politely dismissed, but that didn’t trouble me. Phoebe had given me a lot to think about.

  Marty stood up first. “Phoebe, Penelope, thank you so much for giving us the tour, and for explaining so clearly what you want to do. I thought Nell needed to meet you and hear your thoughts, and I still believe she and the Society can help. And I can help her. Let us kick this around with each other, and with some of our colleagues, and see what we can come up with. We can’t promise you anything, but we’ll try.”

  “We can’t ask for more than that, Martha dear. Can we, Penelope?”

  “No, no, not more. We want to hear what you think. I’m sure you’ll work hard for us.” Penelope beamed at both of us, nodding all the while.

  “Well, then,” Phoebe said, “we should let you begin your drive back to the city. Thank you for taking the time to hear us out. Nell, it has been a pleasure to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine. I’ll be in touch, I promise.”

  At the door we shook hands, or rather, Phoebe shook my hand, and Penelope pressed it gently, softly. She never stopped smiling. They closed the door behind us as we made our way to Marty’s car. We sat down in it, but before Marty started the engine, she asked, “Well?”

  “Well what?” I retorted. “They’re delightful, like they’ve stepped out of another time. The house is beautiful. And I haven’t the slightest idea what to do.”

  “Exactly,” Marty said. “At least there are two of us in the same boat now.” She started the car and pointed it down the long driveway. “But I have faith that we can figure something out.”

  I was glad she did, because I didn’t. “You know, you were awfully quiet in there. Very unlike you,” I told her as she headed back toward the city.

  “I’ve heard the story, and I know the house. I wanted you to have their full attention.”

  “Those ladies are really something, aren’t they? Phoebe in particular.”

  “They are. As you no doubt observed, Phoebe is the dominant sister—she’s a couple of years older than Penelope. Penelope has been a follower all her life, but she’s very sweet.”

  “You aren’t by any chance related to them?” I had to ask: Marty seemed to be related to half the people in Pennsylvania and a few more in New Jersey.

  “Not that I know of, but I think my grandfather had a fling with their mother, sometime around 1920.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Family stories. Some you tell at parties, some behind closed doors. Doesn’t matter anyway now. So, I and the rest of my family don’t want to step in, and you’re telling me you, meaning the Society, can’t.”

  “Yes, and you know why. We’re holding our own now, but we can’t even think about expanding.”

  “I get it. Just making sure we’re on the same page. So now we beat the bushes to come up with another idea. Let’s find some time to go over our donor and membership lists and figure out who we can approach.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, we,” Marty said sharply. “I know people, but you as president of the Society have some public clout. We may need both to get this done.”

  I mulled that over for a couple of miles. Then I said, “You know, what Phoebe said, kind of comparing what I was doing in Philadelphia and what they want to do with their estate, got me thinking. I didn’t see it before, because a city slum and a suburban manor house seem on the surface to have little in common, but they are both part of local history. The Society works to preserve Pennsylvania history. So in a sense we have an obligation to both, unequal though they are. But the problem as I see it is, with limited resources, how do we pick and choose? We have to set priorities. And we have to think about which projects will be best for the Society in the long run. I’m sure there are people on the board who would say we should go for the estate, because that’s the way a lot of older members see our mandate. Trying to stick our noses into City neighborhood development, past and present, quickly becomes political and is definitely controversial. But is it any less our responsibility?”

  Marty kept her eyes on the road. “Good questions, Nell, and I don’t have any quick answers. I’ve been involved with the Society one way or another most of my life. Even I have seen a lot of changes, and I’m not going to argue that we should preserve it just the way it is. We have the collections, and they’re great. But history doesn’t stop at any particular time—it just keeps going. The city is like a living thing, and it keeps changing, shifting. We can choose to hunker down and tend to our collections, or we can make an effort to shape the course of public understanding of what history actually is.”

  “Wow, Marty. I’ve never heard you say anything like that. Certainly not at board meetings.”

  “Hey, just because I devote most of my time to the Terwilliger collection doesn’t mean I’m blind or clueless. I’m involved in other stuff in the city and beyond, and it’s not all pretty. I think we have an opportunity to here to at least open up a discussion, and maybe to do some good. We don’t have to make a decision today, but I think we have to stake out a public position pretty soon, especially after what happened to you. You have the public’s attention for about two seconds; what’re you going to do with it?”

  This was turning out to be quite a week. Only two days earlier life had been peaceful and normal; since then I’d been shot at in a slum, been all but handed the keys of a colonial mansion, and was now faced with redefining the historic mission of the Society. I wanted to take a nap.

  “Can I sleep on it? Please? I need to think about all of this. I agree that it’s time to open this discussion, but can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “I guess.” Marty sighed dramatically. I checked to make sure she was smiling.

  She dropped me back at the Society building, saying she was headed home. I trudged up the steps, waved at Bob, and made a beeline for my office. “Any messages, Eric?” I asked when I arrived at his desk.

  “Plenty,” he said, handing me a stack a half inch thick. “Mostly press, though. I said you were out of the office, which was true, and that you would get back to them, which I didn’t assume was true.”

  “Thank you, Eric. In fact, I may want to talk to some of them, but I need to figure out which ones. I’ll deal with that in the morning.” Maybe the news cycle would have moved on by then, and my decision would be made for me.

  The phone on Eric’s desk rang again, and a moment later he stuck his head in. “It’s that detective. You want to take it?”

  “Yes, I guess. I’ll pick up.” I wait
ed until Eric had shut the door to my office, then picked up the phone. “Detective Hrivnak, what can I do for you today?”

  “Tyrone Blakeney wants to talk with you.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “He didn’t say. He said it was okay if I was there, too.”

  “When?”

  “He’s still in the hospital and he’s in rocky shape but stable. I woulda gone over today, but the doctors say he’s gotta rest some more—a couple of bullets came pretty close to some important parts of him. How about tomorrow morning? Want to meet me there, say, nine?”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess that would work. In the lobby? Oh, which hospital?”

  “Jefferson. See you then.”

  I sat back, confused. Why would Tyrone want to talk with me? With or without the police? But I couldn’t think of any reason to turn down the request, and I was trying to keep the detective happy. So it looked like I should be there. At least it was near the Society.

  I picked up the phone and hit James’s number. When he answered, I said quickly, “Tyrone Blakeney wants to talk to me at the hospital tomorrow morning at nine. I can drive myself if that’s a problem for you.”

  “No problem. Did he say why?”

  “No. The request came from Detective Hrivnak, so I have no idea.”

  “Will you be ready to leave at five today?” he asked.

  I checked the time: already past three, thanks to my excursion to Montgomery County. “Sure. See you then.” We hung up.

  I strolled out to Eric’s desk. “I’ll be out of the office for maybe a couple of hours in the morning tomorrow. Are we all set with the board reports?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Signed, sealed, and delivered, as the saying goes. Want me to send a reminder to the board members?”

  “Give ’em a couple of days after they’ve received the packet of materials and then nudge them, so they’ll remember to read the reports. And I may have something to add to the agenda—I’ll let you know.” After I’d mulled over the “Save the Manor” project. Or did I mean “Save the Neighborhoods”?

  CHAPTER 11

  James arrived right on time. As I scrambled into the passenger seat of his car, I said, “You don’t have to do this every day, you know. I can take the train.”

  “I know,” he said.

  When he didn’t add anything, I told him, “I’ve been doing this for years, and I’ve never had any problems. Well, there are always drunks or homeless people in the subway tunnels, but I know how to avoid them, and they don’t usually bother anybody.”

  “I’m sure,” he said. And stopped again.

  “So?” I demanded.

  “I’m only trying to be supportive. Look at it as therapy for me, not you. I need to feel that I’m doing something to help.”

  “Oh. Well, if you put it like that. But if you have work-related things you need to deal with late in the day, I can manage.”

  “Of course you can. Did it occur to you that I like to have someone to talk to during the drive? It’s that or tune up some oldies and sing along, which means I get some really odd looks on the highway.”

  I tried to picture that. “I bet. If you stick headphones on, they’ll think you’re having an important conversation with someone. At least, until they get close enough to hear the bass line.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement. So, how was your day?”

  “Marty dragged me off to the country, remember? We visited the delightful Oliver sisters, who are living in an impressive colonial home in the wilds of Montgomery County.”

  “Ah, right—you told me about that. Does Martha have a plan?”

  I was still surprised that she didn’t. Was she bringing this up now only to distract me? “Not that she’s shared with me. In fact, she was curiously silent. In a perfect world she’d probably find a way for the Society to adopt the building, but she knows we don’t have the money to do that. Nor does she, personally. You think she could put together a collection of assorted Terwilligers and make them all ante up a share?”

  “Frankly I don’t think that’s likely,” James said. “The family fortunes are not what they once were. Plus her line—her father and grandfather—is the only one that took a serious interest in local history, so it would be a hard sell to the rest of them. What’s the place like?”

  “Preserved in amber. It’s lovely, and very little has changed in the past two hundred-plus years, down to the pieces of furniture and maybe even some of the draperies. It would make a great house museum, but I don’t know who would want to step up. The ladies are charming, and they served us a perfect tea. Which is why I’m starving—tea sandwiches and dainty cookies do not a meal make.”

  “I’m sure we can remedy that once we get home.”

  We managed to put a meal together, and it was only after we’d sat down to enjoy it that I said, “I told you on the phone that Tyrone Blakeney has asked to see me, but I’m still puzzled about why.”

  “The detective didn’t explain why?”

  “No, but you know she doesn’t share more than she feels necessary.”

  “How’s he doing? Is he critical or something?”

  “No, she said he’s stable, but he’s still in the hospital. I suppose he could be considered lucky that he survived at all.”

  “Are you going to ask him if he has any ideas about who was shooting at you?”

  “That’s hardly my role, especially with a detective sitting right there. And I doubt he’d want to bare his heart to me even if she wasn’t. It’s more likely that he’s looking to get some PR out of this event and needs my cooperation.”

  “You sound cynical. But it suggests that he believes his project is going forward, in spite of events.”

  “With or without him? Or Cherisse? I suppose it does. Would that be a bad thing?”

  “You don’t suppose he orchestrated all this as a publicity stunt?” James asked.

  “James, someone was killed!” I erupted. “And Tyrone was badly wounded—it wasn’t just for show.” I’d seen the blood, so I knew.

  James held up both hands. “Just asking. He might have asked the wrong person to stage it—somebody who’s a lousy shot.”

  “I refuse to believe that. I’m going to wait and see what he has to say, and I’ll make sure Detective Hrivnak sticks around to hear it.”

  “Good. What do you think about his project, shooting aside?”

  “This all came up so fast that I haven’t had time to do any research into it, or into any of the competing ideas. I know it’s not a simple task to salvage a dying neighborhood. But then, nothing ever is in this city. In a way, the manor that Marty and I visited is kind of the flip side of the issue. It’s undeniably historic, and it’s beautiful. Say someone—it could be anyone, from the township to a museum to a private donor—had limited resources and could choose only one: How would he or she decide which? Who gets to declare one is more important and more worthy than the other?”

  James chewed a mouthful of food, no doubt allowing himself some time to think. “That’s not an easy question to answer, as I’m sure you realize. In fact, you and the Society are probably the best equipped to make that assessment, or at least make the case for one or the other.” When I started to protest, he stopped me. “I know, there’s no way the Society could take on either project, but who could? At least you’re in the position to answer that, by identifying potential supporters. Or would you rather wash your hands of the whole thing? You could walk away from the North Philly project, you know, and nobody would think less of you, under the circumstances.”

  “Maybe. I’d look like an elitist coward if I went for the other one now. Thank goodness I don’t have to decide anything right away.”

  * * *

  The next morning James dropped me off in front of Jefferson University Hospital, but he refused to leave until he’d seen Detect
ive Hrivnak arrive. “Let me know when you get back to the Society, will you?”

  He really was worried about me, probably more so than I was. It was sweet but troubling. “I will,” I told him as I climbed out of the car.

  When I approached the watching detective, she said, “He babysitting you now?”

  “He’s worried. Does he have any reason to be, or should I tell him to back off?”

  She shrugged silently, which didn’t help at all.

  I tried another tack. “Why does Tyrone want to talk to me? You’ve already interviewed him, right?”

  “Of course, as soon as he could speak.”

  “Did he give you anything useful?”

  “Not really. He claims he was so busy trying to convince you about his brilliant plan that he wasn’t paying attention to what was happening on the street, even though Chapman was. Which was not too smart of him. He should know better—he grew up in that neighborhood.”

  I wasn’t surprised. “Maybe that’s why he’s so committed to the project. And maybe he thought he was safe there. Cherisse was more anxious—I told you, she’s the one who noticed the car. She’s not from the neighborhood?”

  “No, from out past Chester, but she went to Temple, so she knows the general area. She was a bit younger than Tyrone, so maybe her experience was different. Ready?”

  “Yes, let’s go. I really need to get back to work.”

  The last time I’d been in this hospital, it was when James had been injured, so it didn’t hold happy memories for me. “Is there anything you want me to say, or not to say?”