This was not a normal occasion.
CHAPTER 26
Once outside and in the clear, I pulled out my cell phone, which I had politely shut off during the meeting. James had finally responded, and had left a terse voice mail message. He said he had good news. I was both relieved and dismayed: finally he was ready to make a move, but he still didn’t know what I knew. I hit Reply, and he answered immediately.
“Nell, where are you?”
“At the Water Works.”
“What’s up?”
I took a deep breath. “I think Nicholas Naylor is the killer.”
He was silent for a moment. “Your Nicholas? Why?”
“He’s been squirreling away the Society’s Forrest documents—I stumbled over them in his office today. He used to work with the Forrest materials at Penn. James, he fits. What’s your news?”
“We’ve finally opened an active investigation. I guess I overwhelmed their doubts with the sheer weight of our circumstantial evidence. Where is Nicholas now?”
“Here.”
“At the Water Works?”
“Yes. Or at least, he was—we had a meeting here with an administrator. He’s not with me, though. He said he wanted to enjoy the building without the tourists.”
“I’m on my way,” James said grimly. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. You should leave—now. Stay away from him.”
“I’ll find a cab.”
He hung up before I did. It was sweet of him to try to keep me out of harm’s way, but this was a very open, public place. I wanted to see him confront Nicholas, if only to confirm what I suspected. I didn’t think Nicholas posed any threat to me. He probably believed he was smart enough to have covered his tracks, and that he could bluff his way out of any trouble. He’d done well so far.
Nicholas was nowhere in sight, although there were parts of the public spaces that I couldn’t see from where I was standing. Had he left already? It would take James a few minutes to get here from his FBI office. I didn’t want to run into Nicholas, if he was still here, but I thought it would seem natural to stroll around the grounds and admire the view, which was pretty impressive. I decided to start with the gazebo structure at the far end and work my way back toward the drive.
The sinking sun was in my eyes, making it hard to see. I felt painfully exposed, crossing large stretches of pavement, trying to look natural, all the while trying to keep one eye out for Nicholas and the other out for James. But I figured that visibility kept me safe.
I’d reached the last building, a small, round columned temple, which offered a commanding view of the river, the train tracks, and highway across the river—and the rest of the Water Works buildings. I leaned over the railing, admiring the cheerfully decorated buildings of Boathouse Row to the north, before turning around and looking for Nicholas—and I found him. No wonder I hadn’t seen him before: he was seated near the bottom of a shallow flight of stone steps, almost like bleachers, which must have been twenty feet below the level of the rest of the buildings. He was alone, staring across the river.
James, where are you?
I hesitated, not sure whether to retreat while I still had the chance. It had been some twenty minutes since Nicholas had left the meeting, so I had to assume he was either lost in contemplation or was waiting for me. At that moment, he looked up and noticed me. Now what? I had no choice but to raise my hand and wave. If I ignored him, that would look suspicious. I figured I’d do better if I tried to act natural (like that was possible). I was just a clueless fundraiser-turned-president who was here to network with my peers and collaborate with local institutions in order to share local history with the public. That was my job, and any other day it would have been true. Today my job included distracting an employee so he’d stay around long enough for the FBI to take him in for questioning in a string of murders. So not in my job description. But I was going to do my best, so I should go talk to Nicholas and pretend it was business as usual. If I could do that with my heart trying to jump out of my chest.
I crossed the pavement and went down the long flight of stairs that reached the level where he was sitting. I plastered on a smile.
“I thought you’d be long gone by now,” I called out as I approached.
Nicholas had resumed his contemplation of the slow-moving river, and now he turned slowly to look at me. “I suppose I was caught up in the spirit of the place. It’s quite striking, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.” I stopped a safe few feet away from him and sat on the lowest tier of steps.
Nicholas turned to look back at the row of columned buildings behind and above me. “In the decades after it was first built,” he began, as if lecturing, “the Water Works became a destination site in its own right. People would come here for recreation, bring a picnic, and make an afternoon of it. Entertainment was much simpler then, don’t you think?”
“I agree.” At least that was the truth. “And the so-called garden cemeteries like Mount Laurel fall into the same category as the Water Works—entertainment for the masses, unrelated to the underlying purpose. But to look at it another way, I often think that people then had more time to focus in those days, because they weren’t constantly inundated with imagery and . . . noise, I guess. Visual noise. Back then they could stop and smell the roses, so to speak.” I was babbling, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. Did Nicholas notice? How long would it take James to look down here, out of sight of most of the other buildings? Was he even coming? Had something happened? What was I supposed to do, just go home as though everything was fine?
Nicholas went on, his voice almost dreamy, “Edwin Forrest used to enjoy an evening constitutional along the river, when he was in Philadelphia—good for the breathing, he thought. He’d come this way and profess to be surprised when he was recognized by his fans, but in reality he fed off their adoration. In fact, he once gave an impromptu performance of a bit of Coriolanus on the steps here—the setting with all the columns must have felt right. No amplification then, of course, but I imagine his voice would carry regardless. Can’t you visualize it?”
Oh, hell. He knew I knew. I felt suddenly cold. He wasn’t looking at me, but rather out over the river, gilded by the low sun. I on the other hand was staring at him as though he were a snake poised to strike. Was he toying with me? How much did he know, or guess? Should I bull my way through this absurd conversation? Should I run? Where the hell was James?
Nicholas didn’t turn but he said quietly, “You know, don’t you? That’s why you’ve been keeping tabs on me.”
Well, that answered that question. “I won’t bother to say, ‘know what?’”
“I’m glad to hear that, Nell. I do respect your intelligence.”
“What gave me away?”
“Little things. I know Felicity was checking the call slips—I saw them on her desk. I’ve seen you poking around in the stacks, and I could tell what you were looking for. My mistake. It never occurred to me that anyone would look at the slips if they went hunting for the documents and didn’t find them. After all, nobody’s looked for them for years. I didn’t want to muddy the provenance of the documents, which is why I never took them out of the building—that would have cast doubt on their authenticity, and that was the last thing I wanted.”
Suddenly I was tired of guessing, of trying to piece together fragments that made no sense. I had the primary source sitting in front of me. “Nicholas, what did you want? What did those people ever do to you?”
Finally he turned to look at me. If I’d expected to see a monster emerging from behind the facade, I was disappointed: Nicholas looked no more than mildly curious. He ignored my question and said, “What do you know about Edwin Forrest?”
Humor him, Nell. Let him spin out his story until James shows up to save the day. “I’ve learned a lot about him in the past couple of weeks. Forrest was one of the first American superstars, if I may pin that anachronism on him.”
Nicholas nodded thoughtfully
. “That he was. Fiercely talented, extremely hardworking, and dedicated to his profession, which, after all, took him from the mean streets of Philadelphia to more places than he could ever have imagined. He changed the face of American theater, almost single-handedly. And he was rewarded for it by the public, in both praise and income.”
“He wasn’t exactly a saint. His private life was a mess,” I said bluntly, which might not have been a good idea. Not smart to cast aspersions on the idol of a serial killer, Nell. But I was nervous.
“It was,” Nicholas agreed without rancor. “I think he had little patience for humdrum realities—he thought he was above common judgment. And of course, his wife, Catherine, was a slut.”
The term sounded harsh as he said it, although it was probably accurate. “Why does he matter to you?”
“Oh, come on, Nell. I’m sure you’ve already guessed: you must have read the will by now—it’s the basis for the trust. I’m a lineal descendant, although Forrest never publicly acknowledged my ancestor. Times were different then. But I can prove that I’m the last scion of Edwin Forrest.”
“I thought it had to be something like that.” Damn, Nell, can’t you come up with something better than that? “So, what? You felt your ancestor—it was a she, right?—she was deprived of what was rightfully hers?”
Nicholas smiled at me. “Very good. Yes, in part. She was too willing to settle for the crumbs he tossed her. I intend to claim what should have been her inheritance, plus interest.”
“I’m sure you know others tried and failed.”
“You mean that pathetic distant cousin? I have a far stronger claim.”
“Nicholas, most people have never heard of Edwin Forrest, even in Philadelphia. How did you come to know so much? About your ancestor? About the man himself?” Spin it, Nell, just like Scheherazade. Just a little longer.
“Family history. Tales handed down from generation to generation. Surely you know about that? Your good friend Marty can quote chapter and verse about what Major Jonathan Terwilliger said and did in seventeen whatever. My family had less to work with, but they treasured the small number of stories they had about Edwin. And we had a few artifacts, memorabilia. They’ve all come to me now.
“My great-great-grandmother—Edwin’s bastard daughter, Elizabeth, to be specific—was grateful for whatever scraps he threw to her. She received a tidy little legacy in Edwin’s will and professed to be content. I’ll concede that perhaps they agreed that if he had acknowledged her directly, she would have been dishonored in the eyes of polite society. Of course, anyone with any sense still jumped to the logical conclusion when they heard the terms of the will, but at least the fiction could be maintained.”
“Miss Lillie,” I said, almost to myself.
I didn’t intend for Nicholas to hear me, but apparently he had. “Very good! You have been doing your homework! As I said, Elizabeth, or Lillie if you prefer, was content with her share—after all, her nominal father was a well-to-do stockbroker, so she was financially secure in any case. But what Edwin left her was a very small portion of what he was worth at the time of his death. Instead of supporting his own flesh and blood, he had to go and endow an absurd place to shelter decayed actors and actresses. He was thinking of his future reputation, feeding his glorious ego. And now the trustees want to give everything away. I was running out of time.”
“What is it that you want, Nicholas?” I said again. “Is this really about what’s left of the money? How do you think you can get your hands on it? Because the lawyers went through the will when Edwin died, and nobody managed to challenge it successfully. What makes you different?”
His face flushed. “Because nobody back then could ever prove their case. I can prove mine, far better than that pathetic cousin. I am Edwin Forrest’s direct descendant.”
“So that’s why you started working at Penn? Because you wanted access to its Forrest collection?”
“Yes, so I could go through the library’s holdings carefully, without attracting too much attention. And then the position opened up at the Society, which has most of the rest of the materials. That was fortuitous, wasn’t it? I knew what I was looking for, and I found it. Combined with what’s been handed down to me, there’s finally enough to take to court. But then the damned trustees got it into their heads that they should dissolve the trust, and if that happened, it would be too late for me. I had to move quickly or lose my chance.”
What he said might make sense, but why resort to murder? “I can see why you would need to do something, but why kill the trustees, if your case is as strong as you say? Why not just take it to court? Or convince them to come to some sort of settlement?”
“I never intended to kill anyone. I approached them one at a time and made my case. Most of them wouldn’t even listen to what I had to say, which I thought was rather rude of them. And then I thought that perhaps a newer, younger appointment to the board, someone with a fresh viewpoint, might be more willing to hear me out. More flexible. Only, to install a new trustee I had to create a vacancy, which turned out to be surprisingly easy.”
Somehow that didn’t quite jibe with the fact that he had gone calling on the trustees armed with a baggie full of pills. Just in case they didn’t go along with his agenda? But bringing that up now was not a good idea. He didn’t have to know how much we had already learned, or guessed.
“But, Nicholas—six people?” I said. “Wasn’t it clear that you weren’t going to win them over?”
“They wouldn’t listen.” He said it as though it justified everything. This young man had some serious delusions.
“That’s a very interesting story, Mr. Naylor.”
James had arrived.
CHAPTER 27
I’d been so focused on watching Nicholas that I hadn’t heard James’s approach, and apparently neither had Nicholas, so intent had he been on convincing me—just as he claimed he had tried to convince the trustees, six of whom had died at his hands. I wasn’t any more convinced than they had been—which, when I stopped to think about it, meant that he would have had to eliminate me too, since obviously I knew too much, and I was in his way toward achieving his goal.
James had spoken from the top of the stairs behind us, and then began to descend at a normal pace. “I’d like to hear more of the details,” James said, sounding calm and reasonable. “Say, back at my office?”
Nicholas wasn’t fooled. “Nice try, Agent Morrison. I can’t say I’m surprised. It was only to be expected that if Nell was concerned about the deaths, you must be involved as well. So you represent the official arm of the law, come to haul me in?”
James glanced briefly at me before answering. “That was the general idea.”
Nicholas smiled faintly. “Tell me, what do you think you can charge me with?”
“Right now I only want to hear the rest of your story,” James said.
Nicholas continued to look surprisingly untroubled. “You want to take me in for a talk? How do you justify that? You have nothing on me.”
“I think you’re wrong there,” James replied, his voice as level as Nicholas’s. He began walking slowly along the walkway on the river side, and I stood up and inched away from Nicholas without taking my eyes off him. Finally Nicholas looked surprised. Had he really believed he could get away with murder, six times over? And then decline the FBI’s request for a conversation? I was beginning to believe that Nicholas had a rather shaky grip on reality.
We must have made an odd tableau, the three of us, all in a row, bathed in golden light, focused intently on each other. James was moving carefully toward Nicholas, so I kept moving away, just as cautiously. So engrossed were we that none of us noticed Phebe approaching. She leaned over the railing and called out, “Yoo-hoo. There you are! I was afraid you were still on the grounds. The guard wants to go home. It’s well past closing time.”
In the time it took her to say that, before she had even begun to absorb what we were doing, our tableau collapsed. N
icholas, the most tightly wound, was startled by Phebe’s unexpected appearance, and his hand crept toward his leather bag. He pulled out a surprisingly large knife, and I found myself wondering if he carried that around the streets of the city regularly. James’s focus on Nicholas hadn’t wavered, so he saw Nicholas’s move and said urgently, “Nell, he’s armed!” and quickly moved to put himself between us.
Which Nicholas took to be a threat. Almost by reflex, he brought the knife in front of himself. James moved to deflect it and Nicholas held his ground, and the knife was between them. I was behind James so I couldn’t see what was happening until James stepped back to avoid Nicholas’s lunge, and then he tripped over me and we both fell onto the stone steps, and James’s head hit with a thud that I could feel in my gut. When we all stopped, James was lying on top of me, pinning me down, but Nicholas was left standing, blood on the knife, on his hand, looking shocked. The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than a couple of seconds. And then Phebe started to scream.
James wasn’t moving. He outweighed me significantly, so I couldn’t move either. “Call 9-1-1!” I yelled at Phebe, with little confidence that she was listening. She was still screaming. God, would the woman never shut up? “Get help—now!” I yelled again. She finally cut off the sound, looked down at us, then turned tail and ran back toward the administration building, where I hoped she had the brains to find a telephone or the guard.
I turned back to the bigger problem. Nicholas still hadn’t budged, apparently stunned, but I could see that the import of what had just happened was beginning to sink in. Attacking an FBI agent in front of witnesses was not a good idea, and he looked panicky, which made him unpredictable and therefore even more dangerous. Maybe he had stayed cool during a whole string of murders, each carefully planned and executed; but striking a blow, up close, with a deadly knife, was an entirely different thing, and he clearly hadn’t been prepared for it. I had no idea what he was likely to do next. Fleeing seemed like a good option for him, but unfortunately James and I were more or less in his way.
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