Monument to the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  Well, that was what I called the area where three of our youngest hires worked together in the third-floor workroom. Only a few months earlier, I had hired a new registrar, Nicholas Naylor, and taken on a new intern, Alice Price, at the same time. Their simultaneous arrival had coincided with the arrival of an extraordinary number of historic documents, artifacts, and who knows what—all courtesy of the FBI, which had seized the various items throughout the course of several investigations, dumped them in the Society’s lap, and asked us to figure out what they had. We had taken the path of least resistance and put the bountiful collections together in the Society’s largest processing space along with the new hires and turned them loose. I stopped in periodically to check on the progress they were making and to make sure they were on track. Collections weren’t my area of expertise—that role belonged to our vice president of collections, Latoya Anderson—but although Latoya was their immediate supervisor, since I had been indirectly responsible for the temporary presence of the FBI materials, I wanted to keep tabs on it. Besides, it was fun to see what they turned up, and I always welcomed the opportunity to visit our collections. And since Latoya was away on a long-postponed research vacation, it fell to me to keep an eye on things. Or so I told myself.

  Nicholas, a quiet young man in his late twenties with almost Byronic good looks, had been recruited by Latoya to fill the important staff position of registrar. He had previously been working at the University of Pennsylvania, where he had developed a state-of-the-art cataloging system that he had been itching to try on our collections. Since most of our cataloging was mired in the nineteenth century, we’d agreed to give him a chance, and he had made great strides in imposing order on our processing in the short time he’d been here.

  The intern was a lovely self-possessed young woman named Alice Price, who had come with strings attached. Her uncle, a well-connected local philanthropist, had promised to fund her salary if we took her on. I had no problem with that, since we’d been planning to recruit her uncle for a board position sometime soon, and doing him the favor of hiring Alice would be . . . helpful. Luckily, Alice had also turned out to be smart and hardworking, and despite her lack of job experience, she had settled in well and was pulling her weight.

  The third member of the group was Rich Girard, a part-time postgrad student who’d been hired a couple of years earlier to help catalog the Terwilliger Collection, a massive assortment of documents encompassing everything from the arrival on these shores by the earliest Terwilliger family member in the early eighteenth century to the elaborate business maneuvers of twentieth-century Terwilligers. The gift of the documents had come from several generations of the family, all connected to the Society. The current board member, Marty Terwilliger, was my benefactor, ally, and friend.

  Marty was about ten years older than I was and had little patience for fools or fancy dress. She was also smart, determined, and tenacious, which was why she was such a great ally. And she simply couldn’t stay away from the Society—not that I blamed her. She was deeply committed to the place, and also related to half of Philadelphia, including James Morrison, to whom she had introduced me. Marty had a finger in every pie in the city and the surrounding counties.

  She’d divorced a couple of husbands and had never had kids, so she had plenty of free time to devote to the collections. I was always coming across her in odd corners of the stacks (as a board member, she had a key and free access).

  Which was why I wasn’t surprised when I found her with the young’uns in the processing room when I walked in. “Good morning, everyone! You all look busy. You keeping an eye on them, Marty?”

  “Of course I am. Half of this stuff is the Terwilliger papers.”

  I settled myself on a stool. I had requested that Latoya and I get basic progress reports on a weekly basis—mainly details like how many items had been processed and what kind—and the trio had been good about doing so. The most recent report was probably sitting in my email in-box at the moment. But reading about something and sitting in the midst of it while talking to its processors were not the same thing, and I liked to check on how they were getting along with each other, and kind of take the temperature of the room. Rich was laid-back, Alice was eager, and Nicholas was . . . an enigma. He was polite and cooperative, but he seldom volunteered a comment or personal fact. Still, he’d walked into a mess—his predecessor had worked for the Society for decades but had only just started transferring our massive quantity of records to a modern digital format before he’d unexpectedly died—and Nicholas had done an amazing job of creating order out of chaos, so I wasn’t about to complain if he wasn’t warm and cuddly. He was getting the job done.

  The group gathered round and showed off their new finds, and Marty and I nodded approval. We were actually ahead of schedule, and we had a handle on what we were working with. Life was good.

  Reluctantly I stood up. “I’d better get back to my office. Great job, all of you!”

  “I’ll come with you,” Marty said. “I want to talk to you.”

  Somehow that was never good news, I reflected as we walked down the hall together, back to my corner office. When we’d both found seats, I said, “What’s up?”

  Marty gave a snort of laughter. “You look like I’m about to hand you some nasty medicine. I’m not always the bearer of bad tidings, am I?”

  “Let’s say the jury’s still out on that. Was there something specific you needed?”

  “Nope. I just wanted to say how well it’s been going, our taking on the materials the FBI reclaimed and bringing in those two to work on them. Never hurts to have a favor owed to us by the FBI, you know.”

  “Especially since we’ve created so much trouble for them in the past?”

  “Yeah, well, there is that. But on average they’ve come out ahead, so everybody should be happy. You and Jimmy doing okay?” Since they were cousins, Marty could call him “Jimmy” and get away with it, while he twitted her by calling her “Martha,” which she hated. Me, I preferred to call him James—more fitting for a dignified FBI agent.

  “We’re doing fine, thank you very much, and that’s all I’m going to say.” I smiled at her.

  She smiled back. “Okay, I won’t pry.” She bounced up abruptly. “I’m headed back to the processing room before I lose the thread of what I was doing. See you around.”

  “Bye, Marty,” I said as she disappeared. I heard the phone on Eric’s desk ring, and in a moment he came to the doorway. “Agent Morrison for you,” he said, pulling the door closed as he retreated. Eric was still fairly new at his job as my assistant, but he’d quickly made himself indispensable, and his polite southern accent soothed a lot of my more demanding callers. He’d long since picked up on my relationship with Special Agent James, although he couldn’t always tell whether James’s calls were business or personal.

  James’s ears must be buzzing, I thought as I picked up the phone. “Good morning, Agent Morrison. How can I help you?”

  “Good morning to you, Ms. Pratt. Though maybe not as good as yesterday morning,” James said. Yesterday morning, we’d awakened together. He cleared his throat. “Actually, this is business, or almost business. Sorry to be so vague, but what can you tell me about Adeline Harrison?”

  “Mainly what I read in her obituary this morning. I knew her, but only slightly. We met maybe two or three times, when I first started at the Society, but she was on her way out then. It was a gracious exit—I think she felt she’d outlived her usefulness to us, or maybe she was cutting back on all her activities. She wasn’t exactly young.”

  “Tough old stock, though. I’m guessing you’ll have a file on her?” James asked.

  “Of course. She used to be a board member here. We keep files on all former, current, and potential future members.”

  “Can you take a look at hers and give me the high points?”

  “You want it now?”

  “No rush—how about after work? Meet me at the hotel bar on the corner?�
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  I mentally reviewed my schedule. Blissfully empty. “Sounds good. I’ll make copies of what I find. But you didn’t tell me why you wanted to know.” Although based on the knot in the pit of my stomach, I had a feeling I could guess. The FBI wasn’t usually idly curious about death from natural causes.

  “I think Adeline Harrison was murdered.”

  CHAPTER 2

  James’s office was on the other side of Market Street and several blocks toward the Delaware River, but the hotel bar he’d suggested was right around the corner from the Society at Broad Street. I didn’t mind being James’s peephole into the cultural activities of the greater Philadelphia region, and I was happy to provide him with whatever information I could, but I could see that if his superiors knew of our personal relationship, they might suggest that one or the other activity should stop. I didn’t want to put James in a position to have to make that choice—or put myself there, either, for that matter.

  I finished up my paperwork and made it to the bar before James and snagged a table. I ordered a glass of wine and watched the door for his arrival. I will admit that I sometimes indulged in a little private pleasure, watching him when he didn’t know I was doing it. He was good to look at: not so striking that he drew stares (anonymity was useful in his work), but he filled out his clothes nicely, with a hint of hidden strength. He moved as though he was secure in his skin, which I admired. Me, I was always worrying about those last five pounds, and I mainly settled for looking competent and professional.

  I saw James walk in and pause to scan the room, before lighting on the table where I sat. Then he smiled like he meant it. As he made his way over to the table and sat down, a twentysomething server appeared in about fifteen seconds to take his order, then left, swinging her hips just the slightest bit. To his credit, I don’t think James noticed, because he’d already turned back to me.

  “We must stop meeting like this,” I drawled. “I feel like a spy in some bad sixties movie. Am I supposed to slip you the secret microchip or what?”

  “Hey, that’s before my time, Nell, and yours, too.” He laughed. “Most spies these days send their information electronically in encrypted files, or so I’ve heard. I was only looking for some background, and it’s more fun talking to you than Googling the deceased.”

  His drink arrived and we both took a brief time-out to fortify ourselves. Then I said, “Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for?”

  James contemplated the depths of his drink for a few seconds before responding. “Nell, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  Even though I’d been expecting something like this, his statement chilled me: if he was worried, then I should be, too. “Why?” I prompted.

  “Maybe being around you has made me more sensitive to anything to do with the cultural community, but I get nervous when the people involved start dying.”

  “What was suspicious about Adeline’s death?” Then the fuller meaning of his words hit me. “Wait a minute. You said ‘people,’ as in more than one person?”

  “Tell me what you’ve got on Adeline first, and then I’ll fill you in.”

  “All right. You know that Adeline was a former Society board member, so of course we have a full file on her. She’s been a consistent supporter since she left the board, and she came to the occasional event. There’s nothing out of the ordinary in her file for someone of her age and social profile. Widowed, left comfortably off. No children. A nice home, inherited, filled with some lovely things, or so say the notes in her file—I was never in the house. We’re hoping for a modest bequest from her estate, but we weren’t her only interest, so whatever she left may be spread around. Does that tell you anything?”

  “It’s more or less what I expected.”

  “Then what are you looking for? When you called me up to ask for background information, I had to assume it wasn’t just a burglar breaking into her home or a mugging on the street.”

  He nodded. “What I’ve learned corresponds to what you just said. Adeline Harrison lived in an old home out in Delaware County. Lived alone, but she had someone in to clean for her twice a week. No local family checking in with her regularly, although she has some scattered grandnieces and -nephews. The cleaning woman found her when she arrived in the morning, two days ago. I got the preliminary results for the postmortem from the county ME a couple of hours later. No sign of trauma, but of course the toxicology reports will take a while.”

  “Poor woman. What leads you to think it was murder?”

  James sat back in his chair. “I wouldn’t have, except that I remembered another case in New Jersey, a few months ago—one Frederick Van Deusen. Ring any bells?” When I shook my head, he went on, “Same scenario: older person but male, socially connected but no near relatives, active in good works and was or had been on a couple of nonprofit boards, no sign of trauma. It certainly could have been a natural death, and no one would have thought twice about it. But since it was an unattended death, a full autopsy was done. Nothing out of place in the man’s toxicology screen, just the usual medications a person of his age would be taking, all duly prescribed, although some of the levels seemed a bit high. By the time anyone became suspicious, there was no crime scene to check—the house had already been cleaned up and was on the market.”

  “Anyone being you, I take it? What made you think there was anything suspicious about this death?”

  He smiled to himself. “Since I’ve met you, I’ve been more aware of the extended cultural community around here—I’ve got a computer program set up to search on certain specific terms, and I take a quick look at whatever pops up. Van Deusen fit the profile. That’s why I took a second look at the case, and why I noticed the elevated medication. But it wasn’t significant enough to pursue.”

  “But I still don’t understand. Why were you involved at all? Even if that was a murder, shouldn’t it be a local matter in New Jersey?”

  “It was. But I knew enough about that other death that when I learned of Adeline Harrison’s death, I noticed the similarities, and I asked the ME to check what prescription drugs she was taking. Turns out it was the same one that registered high in the New Jersey case. It could be nothing, because it’s a common enough drug that plenty of older people use, although there are only a few of those that can be dangerous if too many are taken. But to get back to your question, if these deaths were both murders, that makes it an interstate matter, and therefore the FBI can and should be involved.”

  “So now you’re drumming up work for the Bureau?” I asked.

  “Not exactly—just being conscientious. If nothing comes of it, no loss. As I said, being around you has made me pay more attention to cultural matters and connections. And when I saw that Adeline had been one of your board members . . .”

  “You naturally assumed the worst.” I finished his sentence for him. “You do know that some people actually die from natural causes?” I thought for a moment. “Do you have any more information on that New Jersey death?”

  “Now you’re curious? I don’t have the file yet. It’s on its way.”

  “Anything like that death going back further?”

  “Nell, I just learned about the Harrison death this morning. I haven’t had time to look into the details, or for other incidents. This may be nothing.”

  “But you called me, just in case? Should I be flattered?”

  He smiled. “I knew you’d know something about Adeline. And I knew I could trust you not to talk about this.”

  “Fair enough. So you don’t have anything else, beyond a vague suspicion?”

  “Not yet. And I’ll admit, if they’re both murders, there’s no obvious motive for killing either of them. After all, both victims were well into their eighties. Why would anyone want these two nice, harmless old people dead? Why not just wait for old age to do its work? Unless someone out there just likes killing people and picks people who can’t put up much of a struggle.”

  “Odd, and sad, too. But
I suppose I’m more used to it, given the demographic of most of our members.” I reached into my bag, pulled out a slender envelope containing the materials I’d gathered on Adeline Harrison, and passed it to James. “Nothing in there jumped out at me. She seems to have led a blameless life, managed her finances well, and served quite a number of mainstream good causes, as was typical of her generation and social group. I’m not sure that will help you much.”

  “I suppose it eliminates some possibilities. I know how thorough the Society’s research is.”

  “Sure, we like to hunt down people with ill-gotten funds or secret babies and blackmail them into giving us lots of contributions and serving on the board,” I replied, tongue firmly in cheek. “Or leaving us the entire contents of their family homes, sight unseen. Did Adeline have any nice old furniture? Silver?”

  James smiled again; I liked being able to make him smile. “That’s not exactly what goes into the preliminary report. ‘Victim was found lying in a north-south direction approximately eighteen inches from an exquisite Chippendale chest with original hardware.’”

  I chuckled. “Maybe you could suggest that. Who knows what such details might reveal? Did you have plans for dinner?”

  “Sorry, I’ve got to go back to the office. Rain check, definitely.”

  “No problem.” I hesitated a moment before adding, “I’ll look at the New Jersey file, if you want to send it to me. If you think it might help. We might have something on him—a lot of our members live in New Jersey.”

  “I’ll send you a copy once I receive it. You ready to go?” James asked. “May I walk you to your train?”

  “I would be delighted, sir.”

  Outside it was still bright—the longest day of the year was fast approaching. We stopped at City Hall Plaza, where I would descend to the train platform that lay under the plaza.

  “I should get the New Jersey report tomorrow, or maybe the day after. Maybe you’ll see something that I wouldn’t.”