Monument to the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  I made a mental note to ask Felicity, our head librarian, because she always seemed to know where everything was. Certainly she would know if someone had requested the material recently.

  I went back to my office, feeling more troubled than I had been before. Yes, things went missing in this building all the time. It was inevitable in collections that numbered in the millions of items. But it was troubling to me that Forrest items were now among the missing. Coincidence? I didn’t think so. I hated to think that the Society was the source of the information that the killer might be using, but in a public institution anyone could access the records and there was no way to prevent that. Of course, the request slips might not tell me anything useful: whoever was doing the research could have used a fake name, but if one name, fake or not, cropped up consistently in association with Forrest items, that would be one more piece of the puzzle.

  Back at my desk again, I studied the list. I had verified that most of the physical objects were where they should be; the things that were missing were mainly letters and files. Not good. I put the printout with my added notes in my bag to share with my partners in crime-solving the next day.

  I checked my watch. It was after five and probably too late to catch Felicity today. I’d have to wait until Monday.

  Before heading off to catch my train, I called James at his office. When he answered, I asked, “Did you reach Marty?”

  “I did. Edith’s funeral will be Monday. Marty’s okay with getting together tomorrow morning, but she’s meeting with Harby in the afternoon. Makes sense to get together out your way.”

  “Since I’m nearer to Wayne, you mean? I guess we can meet at my place.” I shuddered to think how my herd of dust bunnies would react to multiple guests. “Can you or Marty give Shelby a ride? She could take the train, but if you’re both driving that way anyway . . .”

  “Marty’s closer. I’ll ask her to swing by and pick up Shelby.”

  “Anything new on your end?” James asked.

  I debated about telling him about what I had found—or not found—in the Forrest hunt. I decided against it, for now. “Nothing that won’t wait until tomorrow. Have you approached the Big Cheeses there?”

  “Couldn’t if I wanted to. They’re in secret meetings somewhere out of the office. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m guessing those meetings involve chasing a little white ball around. They should be in on Monday, if we have something more solid that I can take to them.”

  “Hurry up and wait, as usual. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “You will.”

  CHAPTER 16

  After a few hurried stops at local shops to stock my bare cupboards and some halfhearted swipes of the duster, I was ready to greet my—what, coconspirators?—at ten the next morning. I had coffee in the pot and pastries on the table. With four heads working together, I thought we had a decent chance to make sense of this nebulous case.

  James arrived first. His only concession to weekend casual was to leave his jacket and tie off, although I suspected they might be in his car. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and his collar was open, and I wished we weren’t expecting company any minute.

  “Good morning,” he said before he closed the distance between us.

  “What you said,” I mumbled when he let go of me and went to help himself to coffee.

  “Nothing new to report since I talked to you last night. At least there haven’t been any more . . . incidents.”

  “You mean deaths. Don’t dance around it—it makes it seem trivial,” I snapped and was immediately sorry.

  “Nell, I don’t take this lightly. Nor does Marty, nor, I suspect, Shelby. We’re doing the best we can, all of us.”

  “I know, I know.” I helped myself to more coffee. I figured I’d need it if I wanted to think clearly.

  Marty and Shelby arrived a few minutes later. I could hear them laughing as they approached my door. I opened it before they had time to knock and ushered them in. Shelby had never seen my home before, so I gave her a couple of minutes to snoop around. A couple of minutes was all it took: it was a very small house.

  “Marty, Shelby, there’s coffee over there, and goodies. I’m a firm believer in the theory that caffeine and sugar are essential to logic.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Shelby said, helping herself to a Danish.

  When we were all settled around my all-purpose table, equipped with food and coffee, James cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming, Marty, Shelby. This meeting is not officially happening, because if these are murders, and I still stress that ‘if,’ the FBI and the police have taken no formal notice of them.”

  Marty gave a short bark of laughter. “Too much work for them, eh?”

  “They really don’t have enough evidence. That’s why we’re here today—to see if there’s a case we can give them that will make them sit up and take notice. Let me summarize what we do know,” James said. He held up one finger. “One, as many as six people have died.” He held up a second finger. “Two, their deaths, taken individually, look unalarming. The individuals were all older, and they all died from what could be natural causes on first glance, or which may have been suicide, or which may have been nudged along using their own prescriptions.” A third finger went up. “Three, apart from their age and social standing, all six of these people are connected through local nonprofit organizations, specifically the Edwin Forrest Trust. Some of them have other connections, but according to what you’ve found, the trust is the only one that links them all.”

  “Jimmy, stop pontificating,” Marty said. “We all agree that the deaths weren’t as natural as they were supposed to look. Let’s just say they were all murdered and move on.”

  James looked pained. “All right. Six people, all members of the same trust, have been killed. What does that tell us? And what do we need to know?”

  “Why don’t we start with the trust?” I suggested.

  “I can do that,” Shelby said eagerly. She pulled out a stack of notes and handed each of us a sheaf of papers. “I won’t bore you with all the personal details. What’s important here is that because he’d outlived all his family and had no children, Edwin Forrest left most of his money to create a home for aged actors. He saw how many of them found themselves old and sick and without money, and he donated his home in Philadelphia plus a lot of cash so they’d have someplace to go at the end of their lives.”

  “And that’s what’s in the trust?”

  “What’s left of it, yes,” Shelby said. “That’s the only thing the trust supports, except for the collections and honoring Edwin’s memory, but that’s only a small portion—that’s why we have some of his memorabilia at the Society. The problem is, they’ve run out of aged actors who want to use the place, and the building needs a lot of work if it’s going to be used for anything else.”

  “All that sounds harmless enough,” James said. “Was the will ever challenged?”

  Shelby nodded. “It was, but only one blood relative was ever identified—or at least, only one ever received anything from the estate. The whole issue has been dormant now for a century.”

  “Thank you, Shelby,” I said warmly. I turned to the other two. “But it doesn’t get us any closer to identifying a reason for killing the trustees.”

  “The trust is pretty closely held. Maybe someone on the board was dipping into the pot, figuring nobody would notice?” Marty said.

  “So if someone, or several others, did notice, the embezzler thought the only way to avoid scandal was to kill the ones who knew?” James said. “Seems thin.”

  “Well, people are dead!” Marty shot back. “Who ever said motives were logical? They only have to be logical to the person who’s doing the killing.”

  “That’s a fair point, Marty,” James conceded. “But as I’ve told Nell, we frown on starting with motive and investigating from there. What we need most is evidence.”

  “But we’ve been over and over this, James,” I protested. “In each an
d every case, there is none. Nobody except you, and now us, thinks the deaths were suspicious, so the victims were buried, the potential crime scenes were cleaned up, and everybody went on their way. I can’t blame the authorities for not noticing—taken in isolation, each death looks innocent enough. Take them as a group and things look different, and nobody saw the whole picture. It may seem odd to us that the remaining board members didn’t think something was unusual about all the deaths coming so close together, but to be fair, the police declared them natural, and all the board members are far from young, so maybe they thought it was nothing more than normal attrition.”

  “Which is why we’re all sitting here getting frustrated,” Marty said. “We need a plan. We need to do something.”

  I stared at my ceiling, where the bright June light highlighted some substantial spiderwebs. “Let’s look at the most recent death. We think Edith had a visitor on the day she died. Can we prove that for any of the others?”

  “Unlikely,” James said. “We do know that most of these people lived alone, except for Edith.”

  “Maybe it was some kind of suicide pact?” Shelby said. “Like, if you think you’re ready to go, here’s a number to call, and some kindly person will show up and take care of you, painlessly? Like a discreet Kevorkian.”

  “Not the ones I knew,” Marty said flatly. “They weren’t ready to go. But like you said, Jimmy, most people wouldn’t know that. Me, I knew most of them, and as far as I could tell, none of them were depressed. None of them were short of money. They were all still physically active and enthusiastic about what they were involved in. Not the type for suicide, even assisted suicide.”

  What a glum group. “Come on, we can do better than this!” I said firmly. “What about the ones who aren’t dead? We can still talk to them, can’t we? See if anyone has approached them lately, for any reason. It might not have been connected to the trust—it could have been to sell them insurance or to discuss a state-of-the-art tombstone. But if more than one had the same person show up, it could lead somewhere.”

  “We could check to see if they all used the same mortuary,” James said grudgingly. “That would be public information. I can’t ask if they all took out new life insurance policies in the last few months of their lives.”

  “Elwyn can,” Marty said. “You know, my brother? The insurance agent?”

  James looked pained again—this was fast becoming a standard expression. “Marty, you know I can’t ask you to ask your brother to find private information. It wouldn’t be admissible in court.”

  “Who cares about court?” Marty shot back. “We’re trying to keep the rest of the board alive!”

  “Can you please hold off on pumping Elwyn?” James said. Marty grumbled but said nothing.

  “What about the living ones?” I repeated. “Can’t we talk to them?”

  “Of course you can. There’s nothing stopping you,” James said. “Do you know any of them, Marty?”

  “Yup, three of them. One’s in a nursing home. She’s sharp as a tack, but she broke a hip recently and she’s still recovering. But what the heck are we going to say without scaring them to death? And how can we tell them anything if we can’t mention that we think their lives are in danger?” Marty looked exasperated. “Jimmy, these people are old, but they’re not stupid. And I’m not going to treat them like they’re stupid. I show up out of the blue, pretending to be all nicey-nice and then start asking them about the Forrest Trust, what are they going to think? I have to give something to get something.”

  James was shaking his head without looking at anyone. “I shouldn’t have started this. You’re going to screw up an investigation that hasn’t even started.”

  “Jimmy, we’re trying to save their lives!” Marty all but yelled.

  I laid a hand on his arm. “James, do you have any better ideas? We can’t just sit here waiting for the next obituary.”

  He finally glanced at me and smiled, even if it was a poor excuse for a smile. He turned to Marty. “Who do you know?”

  “Rodney Lippincott. Louisa Babcock—she’s the one in the nursing home, in Devon. Irving Sedgwick, but he moved to California a few years ago. You think he’ll be safe there?”

  “Maybe,” James said. “So far the deaths have been pretty localized. Where does Rodney live?”

  “Delaware. DuPont country.”

  James shook his head again. “Another jurisdiction heard from. Why am I not surprised?”

  “What do you want me to do?” Marty demanded.

  “When we’re done here, maybe you and the girls can go out for lunch. South of here.”

  “And visit an old friend I haven’t seen in a while?” Marty smiled. “Then maybe also pay a visit to that nursing home? How’s that sound to you, Nell?”

  “I’d love to meet friends of yours, Marty. I’m sure they’re very interesting people.”

  “Oh, they are, believe me. Shelby, you in?”

  Shelby looked between us, torn. “Do you really need me? Wouldn’t three visitors at once just complicate matters?”

  “I’ll take you back to the city, Shelby,” James said.

  “Oh, would you? That would be great. Do you mind, Nell?”

  “Of course not.” There was no reason to drag Shelby in any deeper.

  “Don’t forget Edith’s funeral is on Monday morning,” Marty reminded us.

  “Oh, right,” I said. “When and where, Marty?”

  “St. Mary’s, in Wayne. Not far from the house. It’s at ten.”

  “Why don’t I attend and then head into the city after? James, does that work? Or were you planning to go to the funeral? You were related, after all.”

  “I’m not sure yet,” he said, with no further explanation.

  “Okay, so it’s a plan,” I said firmly. “Marty and I will go to Delaware and talk to Rodney, and James and Shelby will go back to the city. Then Marty and I will talk to Louisa after we see Rodney. I’ll attend Edith’s funeral on Monday, and then we’ll all meet Monday afternoon at the Society and figure out what we know. Right?”

  “And I don’t know anything about your plans, and you can’t tell me anything when we have dinner tonight,” James wrapped it up.

  I loved the way he’d sneaked that last part in. “Uh, okay. Where?”

  “I’ll drop you back here, Nell,” Marty said. “I should stop by and see how Harby’s doing, and make sure he has a clean shirt for Monday while there’s still time to do anything about it.”

  “Sounds good,” James said.

  Only I wasn’t sure if anything about this was good.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was nearly noon when James and Shelby left for the city, while Marty and I planned to head in the opposite direction.

  “Marty, how do you know this Rodney Lippincott? He’s not another relative, is he?” I asked.

  Marty was wandering around my house, picking things up and putting them down. I loved the house dearly, mainly because it was all mine, and every creature comfort within its walls I had created—it had started life as a stable. But I’d seen Marty’s house, and this was not in her league.

  “Nice,” she muttered to herself, looking at my woodwork, salvaged from a local junk dealer and carefully stripped and refinished. “What? Oh, Rodney. No, no relation that I know of. Kind of an almost relation, though, since he was courting my mother before she met my father. One look at Dad and Mom was a goner. But Rodney kind of hung around the edges of our life, when I was younger. I think he thought a small piece of my mother was better than nothing. That’s why I’m pretty sure he’ll see me now.”

  “So he never married?”

  “Sure he did, and had six kids. I just think he’s a hopeless romantic at heart. Anyway, the wife’s gone now, and the kids are scattered all over. Listen to me—kids! They’re my age, and they’ve got college-age kids of their own. Let’s hit the road, I want to pick up something to take to Rodney—he’s got a sweet tooth.”

  “Fine by me.”
I was hungry again, and too antsy to sit still, even in my own living room. Besides, I knew Marty had no patience with small talk; she’d rather be doing something. “How do we get there?”

  “Route 1, south.”

  “Then we can stop at the Brandywine Museum and have a quick lunch and buy some of their goodies for Rodney.” I loved that museum, loved eating in the glassed-in lunch area overlooking the Brandywine River. I’d been there many times before, though not recently.

  We wended our way southward to Route 1, with Marty at the wheel. Her style of driving was rather dissimilar to mine, to put it mildly. She was prone to jackrabbit starts and abrupt stops, with a bit of tailgating thrown in to add spice. I made sure my seat belt was buckled and tried to admire the pretty landscape and ignore the rest. This end of Pennsylvania was delightful—lots of history, mushroom farms, old stone houses. Past Kennett Square, we turned southeast on local roads.

  It took us a bit over an hour to arrive at Rodney Lippincott’s home. If I’d been expecting another stately mansion, I was immediately dissuaded: Marty pulled up in front of a very ordinary tract home in a housing development that probably dated to the 1950s. As she turned off the engine she said, “I know what you’re thinking. Rodney decided the kids should enjoy the family inheritance sooner rather than later, so he downsized when his wife died. Kept some nice stuff—you’ll see, inside—but bought this house outright. It suits his needs.”

  “Okay,” I said, reminding myself not to judge a book by its cover. I also had to remind myself that while Marty’s extended family and many of their friends might be well established after a couple of centuries in the area, they didn’t necessarily have a lot of money. What they did have was a strong sense of civic responsibility, and that extended to preserving their historic heritage, usually through volunteering to serve rather than writing checks. Hence Rodney and the Forrest Trust, most likely.