Razing the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “I’m pretty sure Pat Bowen doesn’t want to hear anything relating to those artifacts she was in such a hurry to get rid of. She may even think that they’re somehow related to George’s death. Have you or the local police interviewed the people he worked with on the township staff?”

  “The local police have, at least on a preliminary basis. But most of the cops have known those local government guys for years, so it’s hard for me to know what questions they asked—or how hard they pushed. By the way, good work with the widow.”

  “I was lucky to be in the right place at the right time, that’s all.”

  “Do you mind kicking some ideas around now?”

  I looked at him incredulously; he was actually asking me? “About the murder? So now you’re willing to share? Sure—I don’t have any other commitments this afternoon.” Not that there was much left of it.

  “Thanks.” He leaned back in his chair and studied the blank wall across the room. “Say you and Ben are right and the bodies in the copse were soldiers from the Revolution, at least one of them British, whose deaths were never recorded.”

  “That reminds me, do your guys want to look at the buttons? Janet still has them, but I told her you might want to see them.”

  “Eventually, yes. Anyway, George Bowen, amateur history enthusiast and artifact collector, stumbles on these bodies, maybe by accident or maybe because he’s been prowling around the property for years.”

  “Janet did say he’s been interested in local history for quite a while, and not because he wanted to sell his finds on eBay. He seems to have kept everything.”

  “Good. So Bowen finds the skeletons and he recognizes them for what they are, and he even brings back a button or two, just to confirm what he suspects or to try to look it up. He has to be excited, and he knows that his wife won’t care. What does he do next?”

  “Tell a friend? Janet says he didn’t go to the historical society with his find, although he might have planned to soon.”

  James nodded. “Maybe. We’d need to find out who his friends were. And we need to know more about George. Option A: he tells someone he’s close to, who shares his hobby or at least cares about it. Option B: he realizes the significance of his find and he runs to tell the township and/or the Wakeman Property Trust to tell them to hold their horses until the discovery can be evaluated.”

  “Okay, both make sense, and maybe he did both. But if it was someone at either the township or the trust, they haven’t come forward about it. So, who did he talk to? And more important, who would have killed him because of what he found?”

  James looked at me then. “That’s the question. As we’ve discussed before, cui bono? Who benefits from keeping this a secret? Is there a time value? Wakeman already owns the land. Is he expecting a change in state or local administration? Does something else come due or expire? Are there new regulations that are going to take effect at some point? And who would know about any of those and their potential impact?”

  “I’m glad we’re just spitballing, because I don’t have an answer for any of these questions.”

  “But I’m not off base, am I?”

  “No, I don’t think so. The question is, what does the FBI do next? Who do you talk to? Do you hand this off to the local authorities? Do you pull rank and do it yourself? Do you go hand in hand with the police?”

  He sighed. “All of the above? Or none? The local police resent the interference, and they kind of close ranks against an outsider. I understand that, and I’m not saying they aren’t good at their jobs. And to be fair, the victim was one of their citizens. Wakeman has to tread lightly because he needs the goodwill of the township to make his project work—he doesn’t want to fan any local resentment.”

  “He’s the one who called you in, remember. He can’t have it both ways. Do you know what approvals he needs, locally? Is there a single person who controls permits, like the zoning officer—and now they’re going to need a new one—or if there’s something that has to be approved by a committee, like the historical commission? Or, heck, if something this big has to be approved by local ballot.”

  James looked at me approvingly. “That’s a good question, and I have no idea. But I can find out. Nell, why do you know about local government when I don’t?”

  “I live in the suburbs. I read the local paper, and I see notices like this all the time announcing zoning meetings or committee meetings or ballot initiatives.”

  “Good call. And I can delegate the task of finding all that out to someone junior in the office. Nobody’s feathers will be ruffled if we’re looking at zoning codes—that’s public information.”

  “How much pull does Wakeman have at the FBI?”

  “Officially? None, of course. We’re a neutral government agency, and we aren’t even dependent on keeping the local politicos happy, just the national ones. Off the record? It never hurts to have a friend in high places, so if we can accommodate someone like him without bending any rules, we will. Does that answer your question?”

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

  He looked down at his hands. “Look, Nell, I’ve got some business to see to tomorrow morning, but maybe after that we could go over some property listings?”

  It took me a moment to figure out what he mean by listings: a place to live. Together. Why was I avoiding thinking about that? “On paper or online? Or in person?”

  He looked at me then. “Whichever you want. I think we need to move this forward. Don’t you?”

  Yes. Maybe. “Fine. Tomorrow is good for me.”

  I could swear he looked relieved. “That’s great.”

  Maybe. I wasn’t sure. Maybe if we looked at places that were neutral, new to us, with no history and no associations, it would be easier. I hoped. What was wrong with me?

  “Where will you be tonight?” I asked.

  “My place, I assumed. You want to join me there? Or, no, I can meet you out at your place, since I’ve got some people to interview out that way.”

  I wasn’t invited to that party. Of course, there was no reason why I should be; I was representing the historical community, not law enforcement. Still, I felt shut out, just a little. “Why don’t we meet up at my place tomorrow?”

  He stood up; I stood up. We were at my workplace, so no lingering good-bye kiss. And it looked like I’d be going home alone tonight. That was what I wanted, wasn’t it? Some space? Some time to take a long hard look at my place and decide what I liked about it and what didn’t work? That’s what I told myself. “I’ll walk you to the elevator.”

  After seeing James off, I went back to my office. I was surprised when Eric handed me a message slip from Janet Butler. “Did she say what she wanted, Eric?”

  “No, just said she needed to talk with you.”

  “Nell, thanks for getting back to me,” Janet said somewhat breathlessly when I called her back. “Look, this may sound really weird, but Pat Bowen wants to talk to us.”

  “Us? Did she say that?”

  “Yes, she did—both of us.”

  “Isn’t she in the middle of planning a funeral for her husband?”

  “Yes, that’s on Sunday. But she said it was important. Can you meet me here in West Chester tomorrow morning?”

  “Sure, no problem. Nine?”

  “Nine is great. See you then.” Janet hung up, leaving me wondering what on earth Pat Bowen thought was so important that it couldn’t wait until after the funeral.

  CHAPTER 17

  I went home—alone. I threw together a skimpy dinner and ate it—alone. Was this place more quiet than it used to be? As I ate I studied my onetime carriage house, with its tiny kitchen carved out of one corner, and the fireplace I had insisted on adding as a pure indulgence. I liked my fireplace. Its light and warmth struck some fundamental, even primitive, chord in me.

  All right, I
wanted a fireplace in our new place. But not some stark, architectural construct with lots of glass and angles or—heaven forbid—a switch to turn it on and off; I wanted a fireplace that belonged, that was integral to the structure of a building, inefficient and messy though it might be. Which, I reminded myself, wasn’t likely to come with a modern apartment. Okay, back to the list. Fireplace. Closets. A bigger kitchen. A garden? No, neither of us seemed much interested in land or lawn. But definitely space for each of us to be alone, which meant at least three bedrooms, or at least two plus a study. This hypothetical place was growing by the minute. And it looked like it would have to be a house. City row house? Something on the fringes of the city? I hadn’t looked at real estate listings for years, but it seemed I was going to. That seemed like such a big leap forward. Living together—okay, I was getting used to the idea, sort of. But buying something together? That was—yes, I had to use the word—a big commitment. Financially it made sense, I had to admit: rents in or near the city were wicked, and a mortgage would probably be no higher. But whose name would go on the documents? I (and my bank) owned the little house where I sat. I liked that. I could call the shots, make any changes I wanted. I was responsible for it. I didn’t have to negotiate everything with someone else. I felt I was in uncharted territory. James and I had seen each other under pretty much the worst possible circumstances and survived; handling day-to-day living should be a piece of cake, right?

  Nell, what is your problem? Easy: I was scared. I’d been married once when I was young. It hadn’t worked out and had just kind of ended, without recriminations or hurt feelings. I’d thought that it was good that we’d been so civil about it, but Marty had told me, not long ago, that I should be troubled by how the marriage had dissolved with so little pain. Had the marriage meant so little to me? I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. I had long since chosen to see that split as specific, not symptomatic—but it was hard to hold to that rationalization when I hadn’t managed to find another serious relationship since.

  Until James. With James it was different. Of course, I was older, and James was older than my husband had been when we married. I had my own life and I had thought I was happy, until we’d been thrown together. Now I had to rethink a lot of things. Why was I so reluctant to face this head-on? I loved him, he loved me. But where did that take us?

  * * *

  As I headed to West Chester the next morning, I struggled to understand why Pat Bowen would want to see me as well as Janet. She’d met me only the one time, and I didn’t think we’d exactly bonded. Janet she knew only slightly better, and Pat had professed nothing but contempt for her late husband’s historical interests. So why talk to either of us at all? At least I knew why I was headed to West Chester: it was possible that Pat held information that could point us toward who might have wanted her husband dead—information that both the police and James wanted. But if that was the case, why hadn’t she simply told the police? Had they asked? Why call in the historical society and near-stranger me?

  When I arrived and rang the doorbell at the CCHS, Janet pulled the door open immediately. “She’s not here yet.”

  “I’m early,” I replied. “I thought we should talk before Pat gets here. You still don’t know why she’s coming to see us? Or why she wanted me here?”

  Janet shook her head. “Not really. It’s not like we’re close—I knew George better than I know her.”

  “Maybe she’s got something she didn’t feel comfortable telling the police,” I speculated. “After all, she’s almost too close to them, since they all live in the community here. We’re more neutral.”

  “I can’t believe she’d have anything worth hiding, although I suppose she might be feeling guilty about not sharing George’s enthusiasms. Look, let me get right to it: Do you think George was killed because of something he found? On the Garrett farm?”

  “I think it’s possible. George had been poking around here for a number of years, right? Nobody seemed to care. Suddenly he finds something that might actually be important, and he’s killed pretty quickly after that. Maybe that’s circumstantial, but I think it’s suggestive.”

  Janet nodded. “I agree. Poor George—he finally found something and he never got to enjoy it. So who would care about two very old bodies enough to kill George?”

  “Wakeman is the obvious suspect, because he wouldn’t want his pet project to be derailed or held up. But I have trouble getting my head around that because, first, he came to me to ask to do a full historical analysis of the place. I told him up front that I wouldn’t be party to any cover-up if we found something he didn’t like. He said he was okay with that.”

  “Maybe he knew there was something to find and wanted to be prepared,” Janet suggested.

  “Maybe. But if he knew, and he suspected it would become public, why kill George? Plus, he’s the one who called in the FBI from the start. If he’d wanted to hush things up, he’d have done better leaving the investigation to the local guys. Heck, he could have paid them off to keep quiet.”

  “So you think he’s really not involved?” Janet asked.

  “Based on what I know about him, and what he’s done, I do. I don’t think he had anything to do with George’s death.”

  “Then who?” Janet asked.

  We were interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. “That’ll be Pat—I’ll go let her in. Why don’t you wait here?”

  I sat and thought about what I’d just said. I didn’t believe that Wakeman was implicated in this crime. Sure, he was rough around the edges, but he had a solid public reputation. He’d taken charge of more than one floundering local project and made it happen, usually on time and on budget. Would he sacrifice the reputation he’d built over the years for the sake of one small suburban development? Unlikely. I thought he was more of a realist than that.

  Janet returned with Pat in tow. “Would anybody like coffee? Tea?”

  “Can we just get this over with?” Pat said. “I know I’m the one who asked to meet you, but I’ve got a house full of relatives, and I’ve got to get back soon.”

  “Of course, no problem,” Janet said. Janet’s office was like mine in that it had a settee and a couple of chairs, so the three of us settled into a rough circle. Pat took a deep breath before jumping straight in.

  “You must think I’m crazy, what with George’s funeral tomorrow and all. But I had to get out of the house. It’s bad enough having the kids and grandkids around, much as I love them, but then there are all the people in the neighborhood who keep showing up with casseroles, and then I have to repeat the same damn details, over and over. I mean, it’s wonderful that he had so many friends, but I needed some space.” She paused to collect herself. “I’ve been thinking of what we talked about before, about the stuff George liked to collect. I’m sorry I dumped it all on you and ran, Janet, but I wanted to get it out of my sight. I couldn’t bear to see it sitting there in the garage.”

  She turned to me. “Ms. Pratt, I’ve read about you in the Inquirer, and I know your Society is one of the best of its kind in the country, and I want George to have the best. If he found something important, I want him to get the recognition he deserves for it.”

  She shut her eyes for a moment, fighting for control, and when she opened them, she began again. “George always loved history. When the kids were little he dragged us on every tour within a hundred miles. We even took the kids to see Gettysburg, where they were bored silly. Williamsburg, one vacation. He’d always hoped to visit Monticello, but we never found the time. Then the kids grew up and left home, and I really didn’t care about all that stuff, so the trips stopped. But George still cared. Don’t get me wrong—we’d been married a long time, and I had my own interests and George had his. And one of his was roaming the countryside looking for bits and pieces of history. You know, foundations of old buildings he’d read about, or just tracing the paths of battles. He had plenty to
keep him busy around here. I didn’t pay much attention after a while, although he’d keep coming to me with his latest treasure, all excited. Even up to the end . . . He was so wound up, and I just ignored him.”

  She looked down at her lap, trying to hold back tears. “And now you regret it?” I said gently.

  “I do.” Then Pat looked up again. “Was this obsession with collecting old stuff what got him killed?”

  That seemed to be my territory. “It’s . . . possible. It looks like George had been where those older bodies were found shortly before . . . we found him, so it’s pretty likely he discovered the bodies, and took a couple of small items with him as proof. They were in those boxes you brought in. Do you know if George spent time on that farm?”

  Pat nodded. “Oh, sure—he’d known the Garrett family all his life. It’s kind of rare that you find a place that’s been in the family as long as that one had, until Ezra took it into his head to sell it.”

  “Why did he decide to sell?” I asked. “I mean, did he want the money, or did Wakeman sweet-talk him into it somehow?”

  Pat shook her head. “George and I talked about it. It wasn’t anything complicated. Ezra Garrett had two kids, and only Eddie—the younger one—wanted to stay on and keep the dairy business going. His brother, William, didn’t want anything to do with it. Anyway, selling it made sense financially. Once Ezra decided to sell, he planned ahead. He didn’t want to see a ticky-tacky housing development there—we’ve got enough of those already—so he decided he’d sell it before he died. He did his research. He didn’t want another corporate park, either, but he saw something about Wakeman’s plans for a structured community, and they got to talking, and he finally sold it to Wakeman’s company for a nice piece of change. The kids got their share. And I’ll give Wakeman and his people credit—he’s been taking his time, getting to know people around here. He’s smart. I think he’ll make a good job of it. Of course, I may not stick around to see it. Now that George is gone, I’ll probably sell the house and move closer to our kids. I’d hate to have to drive by that pond every time I want to get groceries.”