He shrugged. “About the same. But there’s more out there, if we can find the time to look.”
“When’s your lease up again?”
“End of the month. I can always flash my badge and lean on the rental agency, but I’d hate to do that. They’d miss renting to the returning students.”
Not a lot of time to make a big decision, although that didn’t seem to be troubling James. “No pressure, right?”
“Nell, if you’re having doubts . . .”
“No, it’s not that. You know, something’s been bothering me about Pat Bowen.”
James seemed startled at my abrupt change of topic. “About the murder?”
“Not so much that. But she said that she and George had kind of grown apart. He had his interests—in this case, local history—and she had hers, and they didn’t seem to have anything together. Now she feels bad because he’s gone and there’s nothing she can do about it, except try to find out what happened. It’s like she’s lost him twice. How do couples avoid that? The drifting apart?”
“Nell, I don’t know. I don’t have a lot of experience in this. But—what’s the expression? Don’t borrow trouble? The Bowens must have been married for thirty years or more. You and I, we’ve got a long way to go before we get bored. Don’t we?”
“I hope so.” I reached out for his hand across the table, and we gazed meaningfully into each other’s eyes until the busboy came over and grabbed our empty cups. We weren’t very good at mushy.
He finally said, “So what now? Are you going to see Wakeman anytime soon?”
“We don’t have anything planned, but he kind of makes up his own rules. I’ve got Lissa looking at the early history of the area, so maybe she can figure out who the old bodies were. The FBI still has them, right?”
“We do. It’s not quite clear what we’re supposed to do with them. Bury them somewhere nearby, I suppose.”
“It would help if we know who they were—there might even be family around here somewhere. Anything else you need me to look for?”
“Not that I can think of. Just stay safe, will you?”
“I try, honestly. Things keep happening.”
He gave me a look but didn’t say anything more on the topic, and our parting was sweet but short when he drove me home. I waved as he left and returned to my small, lonely home.
CHAPTER 19
Bright and early Monday morning I was seated at my desk at the Society with a steaming cup of coffee in front of me (on a coaster, of course, to protect the mahogany) when Eric answered the phone, and called out, “Mr. Wakeman is here.”
Without an appointment. I sighed. So much for a quiet time to gather my thoughts for the coming week. “Can you bring him upstairs, please?”
“Will do.” Eric headed quickly for the elevator, while I tried to figure out what Wakeman could want from me now. Maybe he wanted to end our informal agreement? I was starting to think that would be fine with me. I still believed he should have gone to Janet Butler first, and I was glad she didn’t hold it against me that Wakeman had more or less ignored her and her institution and gone straight to me and the Society.
When Wakeman arrived, striding ahead of Eric, he was not alone; he had with him a young man I thought I recognized from the press conference. I stood up to greet them.
“You’ve met Mason here?” Wakeman nodded toward the man next to him.
“You were at the press conference, weren’t you?” I said to him.
“Scott Mason,” he said, extending him hand and flashing a smile with a lot of white teeth, and we shook. “I’m the manager for the Paoli project.”
I had to assume he liked saying that, because I’d heard it before. Of course, he had probably forgotten we’d already met. “Well, what do you need from me today? Do you want me to call Lissa in?” I wasn’t sure she was in the building, but if it involved the history of the site, she should hear it from the horse’s mouth.
“Nah, you can fill her in later,” Wakeman said. “Listen, is that FBI agent any closer to solving this Bowen thing?” he asked bluntly. Not one to beat around the bush.
“No. Frankly, I’m not sure why you asked the FBI to participate. It only annoyed the local police, by implying that you didn’t think they could do the job.”
“Not sure they can,” Wakeman answered. I wasn’t going to comment, since I had no direct knowledge of that police force, but I was pretty sure having an FBI agent forced upon them by someone who didn’t even live in the community did not sit well. He went on, “Look, I’m not here to argue police procedures. Mason here thinks we can move forward on schedule in spite of this murder problem. But we don’t want to look like jerks, like that guy dying doesn’t matter. It does, of course, and we want to get that message out. What I want from you is to get this story together fast. You know, the history of the property, the history of the battle—real local color. Check with the township, find out what other historic projects they’ve supported—isn’t there an old mill or something they restored? Or was it a blacksmith shop? Anyway, check those out. Make it clear that they’re on board with us going ahead. If you find anything good, we can name a road after one of the dead guys or something.”
I kept a smile plastered on my face and silently counted to ten. Wakeman was crude and rude, no question. But I had to add shrewd to that list. No matter what his real feelings were about history and the Revolutionary War, he was first and foremost a businessman, and he had a project to advance. Waiting cost money and momentum. He wanted me to put together a pretty story about the poor fallen dead, lying there in that field for a couple of centuries. I could do that, couldn’t I?
“When do you want this, Mr. Wakeman?” I said sweetly.
“End of the week?” he said. He might have smiled, for maybe a tenth of a second. Had he expected me to refuse?
“I think that can be managed,” I replied. It was Monday—that at least gave us a week. Then a thought occurred to me: here sat the project manager in front of me. I needed to talk to said project manager, and see if I could figure out if he had anything remotely resembling a motive for wanting to silence George Bowen. I turned to him. “Mr. Mason—” I began.
“Scott, please.” He smiled eagerly. He didn’t look much past thirty, but maybe that meant he was extra hungry to prove himself and impress his boss.
“Scott,” I corrected myself. “Can I assume you’ve spent time on the site or in the township and you know the people involved there?”
“Of course. Why?”
“It might be helpful to us if you could fill me in on their personalities, their roles within the community. Then I’d be able to pitch what we write more accurately, to be more effective.” That might be BS, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. “That is, if you can spare him for an hour, Mr. Wakeman?”
“Yeah, sure. Scott, you stay. But don’t forget that meeting at eleven. Thanks, Ms. Pratt.” He stood up and strode out the door, and Eric raced to catch up to escort him out.
Scott and I were left alone with each other. “I hope you don’t mind, Scott,” I said. “I live in Bryn Mawr, not that far from Paoli, but I won’t pretend to know the local personalities in Goshen Township. Have you been involved in the negotiations with them from the start?”
“More or less. Well, Mitch has had his eye on that property for a long time, but he waited until he knew he had it locked in before starting any real planning. That’s when he brought me on board. You know much about the town planning process?”
“I can’t say that I do.” I thought for a moment. “Listen, do you mind if I see if our researcher, Lissa Penrose, is in the building? I’d like her to hear what you have to say, and then you wouldn’t have to repeat yourself. I’ll have to go look for her, but if she’s here, she should be right down the hall. Would you like some coffee while I go get her?”
“Uh, okay,” he said
.
“Great. Be right back.” As I passed Eric’s desk, I said, “I’m going to find Lissa. Could you get Mr. Mason some coffee?”
“Sure thing,” Eric said.
I hurried down the hall, past the elevator, and into the processing room. Luckily Lissa was there, deep in conversation with Ben—again. “Lissa?” I called out.
She looked up, said something to Ben, then came over. “You need something, Nell?”
“Yes. Wakeman was just here again and he wants a historically accurate account about his project site—and the old bodies—by the end of the week. I’ve got the project manager in my office now, and I’d like you to sit in while we talk. And then you’ll have to hit the ground running, I’m afraid.”
“I can handle it,” Lissa said calmly. “Ben’s been filling me in on a lot of the details on the history and the battle, which will save me time.”
“Great. Let’s go. Oh, and if some of my questions seem a little, uh, oblique, just go with it, okay?”
“You’re still looking at the murder?” she said, raising one eyebrow.
“Yes, kind of. I can’t be too direct, but this man might know something that would help.” Or he might be a killer, for all I knew, despite his fresh-faced appearance; he certainly had a strong motive for seeing this project continue. But I was on my own turf, surrounded by people, and I thought I could be tactful if I tried. I just didn’t want Lissa to put her foot in anything by accident.
I led the way back to my office and introduced Lissa and Scott. We settled ourselves on the settee and flanking chairs, and I prompted Lissa to describe what she had done so far—in less than a week!—and what she planned to do next. Scott seemed pleased, nodding enthusiastically.
When Lissa had about wrapped up, I broke in. “Does that sound like the kind of material you had in mind, Scott?”
“It does, precisely. I have to say, this has been kind of an intriguing process. How much do you know about Mitchell Wakeman?” Scott asked.
I guessed he was itching to talk about his boss, who he obviously admired. “Mainly what I read in the papers. How long have you been working for him?”
“Since I graduated from college. I have a degree in architectural engineering, but Mitchell Wakeman likes everybody to get his hands dirty, so I’ve done a lot of things since I started working for him. This project is different, though.”
“How do you mean?” I asked, honestly curious.
“Well, he’s done a lot of big important buildings in the city, as I’m sure you know. He’s made his name, and he’s made a lot of money—he’s not shy about either one. And he’s given a lot back to the community, too.”
“So what is special about this project?” I prompted.
“It’s kind of like he wants to distill everything he’s learned in his career and create this kind of ideal community, you know?”
I nodded. “I think so. The way he’s described it to me, it would include homes for a range of lifestyles, from condos to fairly large freestanding houses, plus communal areas for the residents and basic amenities like shops. Have I got that right?”
“More or less. But he doesn’t want it to be an insular community, closed off from the established local community. He wants it to be welcoming for area residents, too. Like with a small concert hall or movie theater, to draw other people in. It’s not like a gated community, all closed in. He took a long time to pick his site, and he thought about it carefully. If you live in the suburbs, I’m sure you’re aware of urban sprawl.”
I had to laugh. “Yes, I’ve seen that even in the decade or so I’ve lived around here.”
“It’s certainly true in Chester County. Mitch wants to slow down that growth and create something that harmonizes with what’s already there, while at the same time make it efficient, green—all that good stuff. It’s a multiyear plan, and so far you’ve probably seen only the first phase.”
“Wow,” Lissa said. “This really sounds Utopian. And he thinks it can work? I mean, is it financially viable?”
“We think so.” Scott nodded. “Again, he’s been moving carefully. We’ve run the numbers, and we keep doing it as circumstances change. He’s got enough contacts in and around Philadelphia—not to mention quite a few landmark projects that he’s brought in on budget—that he was able to line up really solid funding. I know, it’s rare, but if anyone can do it, Mitchell Wakeman can.”
“I am impressed,” I said, and I meant it. Now for my big question, for which Scott had given me a perfect opening: “So, tell me, Scott—does this discovery of these bodies, both new and old, throw a wrench into the project?”
“I’ll be honest: I don’t know. We have always intended to preserve the historic and physical integrity of the site to the greatest extent possible. I’m sure that there are many things yet to be discovered all around the area, and relics pop up all the time. Will it delay ground breaking? I don’t think so, or if it does, not for long. Did Mitch show you the spot where they were found—before he knew they were there, of course?”
“I think we saw every square foot of the property, but I can’t say I know where those men were buried,” I replied.
“You probably went past it when you came in. It’s a cluster of old-growth trees, on the side toward Paoli. Of course, we wouldn’t be callous enough to build a home over that particular place, but we never intended to. We always planned to retain that as a buffer or screen between the homes and the road. So, to get back to the point, what we want from you here at the Society is perhaps above and beyond what is necessary: we want to learn more about these poor soldiers, if that’s what they were, not cover them up. If they were local we want to know it. If they were Hessians or something, we want to know that, too. I’m not a historian, but I don’t believe we should ignore our history, especially when it’s right under our noses like this.”
I had to admit, Scott gave a good speech. I really wanted to believe Scott Mason. Was there any reason why I shouldn’t have? “Will a historic discovery of this kind upset any of the funders?”
“I don’t think so. We haven’t spoken with them directly yet—we were waiting to see what you people found out first—but they take the long view, and they’ve seen things like this before.”
Check that point off the list. “What’s it been like, working with the township staff?”
“I’m not surprised you ask, Nell,” Scott said. “Again, we approached this cautiously—we didn’t just ride in roughshod and tell the local government that we were building a whole new development in the midst of their township whether they liked it or not. That’s not the best way to get things done, and we do value their cooperation.”
“I assume you need township approvals of some sort? Have you run into any opposition? Any naysayers?” I wondered what George had thought about the project.
“We are well on the path to obtaining all necessary permitting. We’ve met no substantial obstacles. After all, we’re becoming a part of their community. We need their infrastructure—water, sewer, power, schools, snowplowing. The whole range. And they need to know that those will not impose any new financial burden on the current citizens of the township. The tax revenues generated by this project will be far higher than they’ve been historically for the dairy farm. It’s a win-win situation for everyone.”
I was getting kind of overwhelmed. This sounded like the best of all possible worlds, a thoughtful and conscientious project intended to be fully integrated with the existing community and to actually improve the quality of life there. He almost had me sold.
“Scott, it all sounds wonderful, and I’m glad you came to us for help. Tell me, is there any township employee you’ve dealt with more than the others?”
“Well, the township manager, Marvin Jackson. He’s a paid employee of the township. Then there was George Bowen—he was the zoning officer and also sat on the board of supervi
sors. That’s an elected position. It’s a small group, so there’s a lot of overlap among the committees. Why do you ask?”
Because I’m investigating George’s murder. I didn’t say that. But now I knew that Scott had known George and had obviously worked with him to some extent. “I’d like to learn if there have been other historic discoveries within their boundaries and how they’ve handled them. Archeology has changed, and public opinion swings back and forth. If Mr. Wakeman wants us to make the strongest case for this project, then we need to know what’s happened in the past.”
“Of course. Was there anything else? Because I should leave for that meeting Mitch mentioned.”
“Did you have any questions, Lissa?”
“I think you covered it, Nell. I really would like to see the details on how the township set up the historic district—it could be a good model.”
“No problem.” Scott beamed. “I’m sure the township sent us a copy for our files. I’ll fax a copy over as soon as I get back to the office.”
“Thank you, Scott,” Lissa said. “That’s all I need for now.”
“So I think we’ve covered it,” I said firmly. “We’ll definitely have something for you by the end of the week. And thank you for taking the time to talk to us.”
Scott stood up and smiled. “Nell, I really believe in this project, and I’m proud to be part of it. If you need anything else, just let me know. Lissa, it was nice to see you again.”
“Same here,” Lissa said.
“Let me walk you out.” I escorted him downstairs and to the door, then made my way slowly back to my office. His story hung together, and I knew of nothing that contradicted it—but didn’t explain why the body of George Bowen had ended up in the pond. James could look into the financial aspects of it, in case Scott had been lying when he said the funders weren’t troubled by finding a few old skeletons. If it turned out that Mitchell Wakeman had strangled George himself and somebody had a video of it, it might be a different scenario, but that seemed more and more unlikely to me. Wakeman was a rare bird: exactly what he appeared to be, an honest businessman, even if he was a bit rough around the edges.
Razing the Dead Page 16