Monument to the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “I asked the coroner to check to see if there were elevated levels of any of the prescription medications we found in his medicine cabinet. The coroner’s a good guy, so he did that quickly and then called me. Same prescription.” He turned to Marty. “At the risk of repeating myself, was Benton ever a Society board member?”

  “No, but I think he was on the board of the Art Museum some years back. He had more money than Freddy—or me, for that matter. Decent guy, though, and a wicked bridge player. He could look you in the eye and finesse your face cards like nobody’s business.”

  “And you think these three deaths are connected?” I asked.

  “Either they’re an extraordinary coincidence, or there’s a fairly subtle serial killer running around.”

  CHAPTER 6

  We all stared at each other, James’s last words hanging between us like a physical entity. It seemed absurd: a serial killer preying on the elderly Philadelphia cultural elite? Besides, I didn’t want to see anybody else die before their time, elite or not. It wasn’t their fault that they’d been born to long-established families and raised in a privileged environment and grown old with their peers. I sneaked a glance at Marty: she fit the description, except for her age. And to give that community its due, the elite had largely used their money generously, supporting good causes and institutions—like the Society—that might otherwise have floundered. What’s more, they gave of their time and connections.

  I was the first to break the silence. “Shelby, show James what you’ve been working on.”

  “Does this mean I’m a consultant for the FBI now?” she asked him directly, dimpling.

  “If you like,” he said with good humor. “What is it?”

  Shelby handed James copies of the board member spreadsheets. “At Nell’s suggestion, I’ve been putting together a list of people who match the general description of your two—now, three—victims. You know, old families, some disposable income, civic-minded. I’ve been looking at what information we have in our files here and expanding from there. I’ve come up with a list of local benefactors and their board connections, just to see if there is any overlap between the victims. Or who might be next on the list.” She grimaced at adding that last thought.

  “Interesting,” James replied, leafing through the pages.

  Shelby continued, “Our secret weapon is our own in-house ‘who’s who.’ Who knows who, and how, and why. What clubs they belong to, what charities they support. Where their summerhouses are, and who they vacation with. A lot of that stuff doesn’t show up on any database.” She sat back triumphantly. Marty winked at me.

  James had the decency to look impressed. “Thank you, Shelby. This could be very useful to us.”

  “And this is only what I’ve found in one day. There are a lot of blanks to fill in, if Nell wants me to go ahead. Or if there’s something you’d like to see added.”

  “Please, continue what you’ve started. That is, if Nell can spare you?” He looked at me with a smile.

  “Of course. Anything to help.”

  “Hey, I’m in too,” Marty protested.

  “I never doubted it, Martha,” James said drily. “All of you, I appreciate the help. If we can find out what connects these people, apart from their social status, maybe we can start working on who would be killing them. But”—he glanced at me briefly—“please keep this quiet. As I keep reminding Nell, the Bureau frowns on using, uh, outside personnel in its investigations.”

  “You mean amateurs like us,” Marty said bluntly. “We know. But is it even an official investigation yet?”

  James looked pained. “Not unless either the local police invite us in, or I can prove a connection between the three deaths. I haven’t got a lot to work with here. That’s why I’m using you three—no paperwork, and your price is right.”

  “Gee, thanks. I love being exploited by government agencies.” Then I added, more somberly, “We don’t take this lightly. If we can help, we want to. Right, ladies?”

  Nods all around. “All right, then,” I said. “Marty, why don’t you take Shelby’s charts home, look them over, and add what you can. Shelby, tomorrow you can go back to fleshing out your information. Your first pass is great, but I’m sure there’s more information in the files and from outside sources. James, you let us know if there are any new developments, or if you want us to look at another angle. Is everybody clear on that?”

  “Yes, ma’am! Will do, ma’am!” Shelby barked out like an army private, but she was smiling.

  “I’ll work on the list tonight,” Marty said. “It’s a great idea that you and Shelby cooked up—and Jimmy didn’t even think of it.” She looked pointedly at him and he ducked his head.

  Marty and Shelby gathered up their things and exited together, leaving James and me alone in the darkening room. “What if we don’t come up with anything? What then?” I asked.

  “At least we’ll have covered all the bases. As I’ve said, it may all come to nothing, and these people’s time had come. Or maybe this represents a cluster of suicides—they do happen, you know.”

  “I thought that was usually at colleges, or someplace like the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.”

  “Not all suicides are as obvious. You have plans for dinner?”

  The quick change of subject confused me for a moment. “Nothing out of the usual. You have some ideas?”

  “How about takeout at my place?”

  “Sounds good to me, as long as I can catch a late train home.”

  “I think that can be arranged.” He smiled.

  I took home a substantial doggie bag. Somehow we never quite made it to dinner.

  On the train to the city the next morning, I reflected on the nebulous problem James had handed us. Three deaths, in two different states; one in the city, one in the suburbs, the third someplace I knew nothing about. Three people close in age, linked by a history of social involvement. None married, or at least not when they died. I made a mental note to ask Shelby to include a column on marital status at time of death, or if there was anyone else living in the deceased’s house.

  I tried to recall the few times I’d met Adeline. I thought we’d had one conversation at an event outside the Society where we had discussed historic preservation. Maybe something about the Somerhof Museum? Furniture refinishing? Or needlework seat covers for antique furniture? I couldn’t bring the memory into focus. Of course, at the time I had had no idea that the passing conversation would figure in a possible criminal investigation into her death. But no one could remember every casual chat they ever took part in. We picked out what interested us, stored it as a memory, and threw out the rest.

  Marty had mentioned that Benton had played bridge, an activity that could have brought him into contact with a number of people—although I’d never heard of anyone being killed over leading with the wrong card. Maybe he’d been kicked out of his bridge group and committed suicide because he couldn’t stand the shame?

  The first victim, the one from New Jersey, I knew nothing about. Luckily, Marty seemed to know everyone everywhere, so she could fill in a lot of the blanks. If she didn’t know a person, that person wasn’t worth knowing, at least under the umbrella of Philadelphia society. Not that she was a snob about it. It was just that she’d grown up with a lot of interconnected family, attended local schools, and was fully immersed in city history. On the one hand, Marty tended to be direct with her questions and peremptory in her judgments on occasion, but while she was what I would call tact-challenged, she always got the job—whatever it was—done.

  I relished my walk from the station to the Society. The mornings were still cool; later in the summer, when all the stone and concrete in the city held the heat, it could be steamy before nine, but we weren’t there yet. As I walked, I mulled a few things over. Work at the Society was going well. We were fully staffed for a change; we had the treasure trove of FBI-recovered objects and documents to sort through; and we had no major events looming. June
was usually peaceful—later in the summer we would have a higher percentage of visiting scholars or genealogists using their precious vacation weeks to fill in an entire family tree. Of course we welcomed them, but it was also nice when the building was cool and quiet.

  On that warm and fuzzy note, I walked into the Society, smiled at Front Desk Bob, and made my way to the elevator, greeting Edwin while I waited.

  Upstairs, I had barely settled in my chair when Shelby came bustling in, looking excited.

  “You’re in early again,” I said. “Should we get some coffee?”

  “Like I’m not wired enough already? But sure, if you want some.”

  We strolled down the hall and made the first pot of the day, since I’d arrived before Eric for a change. While we waited for it to brew, I said, “Any luck with . . . that project?”

  “I think so. I woke up with some great ideas, and that’s why I came in early.” She glanced around to make sure there was no one else who could hear. “This is so cool, helping out the . . . you-know-what.”

  “It is. And we kind of owe them, what with that wealth of stuff they dropped in our laps this year.”

  “Found anything good? As in, we really hope to keep it?”

  “You’d have to ask Nicholas. He’s in charge. I try to stay out of the way, but it’s hard because I love to see the new stuff. Oh—good morning, Nicholas.”

  I hadn’t heard him approach, but he was light on his feet. His cubicle was just down the hall, close to the staff room, with only the staircase between.

  “Good morning, Nell, Shelby.” His manner was almost courtly, but he didn’t smile. Nicholas seldom smiled.

  “Coffee will be ready in a minute. Shelby was just asking about how the processing of the FBI materials is going. I could give her numbers, but maybe you could tell her what your overall assessment is, for the materials you’ve looked at?”

  He appeared to consider the question carefully before replying. “As you might expect, it’s a hodgepodge. The FBI provided lists of what they’d found, or thought they’d found, but of course their descriptions are all but useless. They also identified which items they knew or guessed had been stolen, mainly from information provided by the owners—but not surprisingly, the two lists are impossible to compare. So it’s a slow process.”

  “Have you found much that doesn’t appear on the lists of missing items that the owners reported?”

  “Some. Perhaps. You’re thinking that we’ll have a shot at keeping the unclaimed items?”

  “That’s what I hope, even if we have to consider them a long-term loan in the event someone might come forward in the future to claim them. I’m no expert on the legalities. What I guess I need now is a sense of the scope of those items—ten percent? Twenty? And what categories they fall into, if you can give me that. We’ll need to start thinking about where to store them, going forward.”

  “Of course. I think you’re right—it’s probably between ten and twenty percent. I’d have to check the categories of the articles involved. Excuse me, the coffee’s ready.” He stepped between Shelby and me and filled a mug, then turned and left without further comment.

  “Is it just me,” Shelby drawled, “or is that boy a little rough around the edges?”

  “What he lacks in social graces he makes up for in technical skills. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.” We filled our own mugs and went back to my office.

  Once we were settled, I asked, “What have you come up with?”

  “A few other categories that might be helpful, like other organizations the people belong to. I’ve split that between public ones and less formal ones, like the bridge players Marty mentioned. People might have different intentions and different levels of involvement, depending on why they joined. You know, duty versus fun.”

  “Good point, and I was thinking along the same lines myself. Anything that gets us closer to linking these people, on any level, will be helpful. Although where you find some of the informal organizations is beyond me.”

  “Well, as you’ve said, a lot of that is recorded in our files, based on conversations staff members have had with them now and then. Plus, if I go looking online in the Inquirer and search on each name, there are often mentions of events they’ve attended. Like the Flower Show, for example. They may not have any official involvement with the organizing committee, but if they show up there year after year, maybe they actually like flowers, or even belong to some gardening group. Of course, this is all pretty time-consuming.”

  “I can see that. How many names have you put together so far?”

  “Probably around three hundred.”

  I didn’t know whether to be buoyed or depressed by that piece of information. Three hundred people was a lot to sift through for small but potentially significant details. “Why don’t you wait until you can sit down with Marty and go over the list with her? I’m sure she’ll have plenty to add. That could save you some time.”

  “You expect to see her today?”

  “You couldn’t keep me away,” Marty announced from the doorway. “And I might have something.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “That was fast!” I said. She’d had the spreadsheets for barely twelve hours. “So, tell us!”

  “Maybe we’d be more comfortable at a table. Is the boardroom free?”

  “I think so. I’ll ask Eric.” I stood up and walked around my desk and out into the adjoining room, where Eric was already setting up for his day.

  “Mornin’, Nell.”

  “Morning, Eric. Can we use the boardroom for maybe a half hour? There’s nothing scheduled in there, is there?”

  Eric flipped through his desk calendar. “No, ma’am, it’s clear. You need coffee?”

  I smiled at him. “Way ahead of you, Eric. But help yourself to what’s made.”

  Marty, Shelby, and I trooped down the hall to the boardroom, a windowless space that lacked charm but did have a door that closed, giving us some privacy.

  Once we were seated at one end of the large table, Marty turned to Shelby. “I’m no expert on spreadsheets, but you can sort them by whichever column you want, right?”

  “That’s right.” Shelby nodded, looking puzzled. “You want to sort them by something other than name?”

  “I do. I couldn’t do it at home, but when I started filling in some of the details that I knew off the top of my head, a couple of groups kept coming up over and over again.”

  “Such as?” I pressed.

  “Well, the Society, of course. We’ve got the most information on those people. There must have been at least ten names on the list who were once on the board here, who aren’t anymore. Then there’s the Art Museum, which has a huge board, and I’m sure you’d both recognize most of the names on that list. And there’s one real outlier: the Edwin Forrest Trust.”

  I stared at her and said slowly, “Edwin Forrest, as in the statue out by the elevator? I should know about that one, shouldn’t I?”

  “You should, because we have half of their artifact collection on indefinite loan. Plus a tidy endowment to care for it.”

  “Ah yes, that I remember,” I said.

  “So that whopping big statue downstairs near the elevator doesn’t really belong to us?” Shelby asked.

  “Nope,” Marty said.

  Shelby was looking back and forth at us. “Who’s Edwin Forrest?” she said plaintively.

  Marty and I exchanged a glance and grinned. Marty said to Shelby, “For shame! Of course, you’re not from around here, but that’s hardly an excuse to be ignorant of the first great American-born actor. He was the George Clooney of his day, and more. And he was born here in Philadelphia.”

  “Well, his publicist is doing a lousy job! So what’s this trust all about? I assume he’s been dead for a while?”

  “I don’t know the details of the trust,” I said, “apart from that nice line item on our budgets. Weren’t there strings attached, Marty?”

  “There were, and
still are. The income from the trust’s endowment could be used only to preserve and make available to the public the items from the collection. The Society does have other papers and such that didn’t come through the estate, which complement the pieces nicely, but we’ve done bupkes about presenting them.”

  I had a small brainstorm—probably the caffeine kicking in. “Shelby, why don’t you pull together a brief summary of what we have on Forrest, and the details of the trust. That’s not under the table or anything—it should count as regular business, especially if we’ve been failing to live up to the terms of the agreement so far. It sounds as though we could all learn something about the trust.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Shelby replied.

  I turned back to Marty. “So, what’s the connection between the names you’ve highlighted and our victims?”

  “All of them are, or were, current trustees either here or at the museum or on the trust. One or more of the three.”

  “Any overlaps with the Society, apart from Adeline?”

  “Sure. Just look at the museum list—it’s loaded with our board members, past and present.”

  “And you don’t think anyone has targeted museum board members?” It would be a daunting task to review that board—the list of current trustees went on for pages and looked like a mini Philadelphia Social Register. And that didn’t even take into account former trustees.

  Marty shrugged. “I don’t know. We only just started looking at this problem. We’d have to go back a few years to see if our three victims have been on the museum board anytime recently.”

  “I can do that,” Shelby said. “But none of this makes any sense. What’s the motive? Somebody’s got it in for patrons of the arts? High-profile society figures? I thought Philadelphia was pretty laid-back these days about that kind of thing. And I’ve never heard a bad word about the museum. What’s there to complain about? Is there some guerrilla group that thinks it should be free for the public?”