Instead of cereal I made myself some marginally more grown-up scrambled eggs, and sat at my table and looked through the mail while I ate. Mostly junk mail and solicitations—as a former fundraiser I sympathized with the senders, but I didn’t write checks to them—but one letter caught my eye: it was from the group of psychologists who owned the “big house” for which my little building had once been the carriage house. I opened the letter with some trepidation. Was the group telling me that they had sold the front property to someone else? I wasn’t sure what that would mean, but the area was kind of transitional. The grand old houses now held a shifting mix of multifamily residences and discreet commercial offices such as those of “my” psychologists. I didn’t see whoever handled zoning in Bryn Mawr loosening the restrictions anytime soon, but odd things could happen.
The letter was a preliminary offer to buy my little property. It seemed that the practice was prospering and they wanted more space, and had decided that my ex–carriage house would make an excellent site for group sessions. The price they preemptively offered made me blink and look again: it was more than twice what I had paid for the place a decade ago, admittedly before a lot of fixing up, and it was more than fair by current market standards.
Was this a sign from above? Had James somehow exerted pressure on the group to buy me out? I smiled at that paranoid thought. My first impulse was to call him and tell him about the very nice offer, but after a moment of consideration I decided to sit on it overnight and see how I felt about it in the morning. I could talk to James about it at dinner tomorrow. At the rate that list of topics was growing, it was going to be a very long dinner.
The next morning I slept in, since I didn’t need to be in Goshen until ten and it was a relatively short drive away; I’d even scheduled lunch with Janet. But I found I was restless. After I’d washed up my few breakfast dishes, I kind of drifted around my small home, looking at it with a new eye. A decade ago I’d transformed it from a badly renovated rental unit to a comfortable home—for one. I’d been happy here, though—or had I just been kidding myself? What did it mean, that I’d built myself a home with room for only one person?
Finally, I couldn’t stand fidgeting any longer and decided to leave early. I could sit in my car in the parking lot and make notes of the questions I wanted to ask, if I arrived with time to spare. Since I was driving against traffic headed toward Philadelphia, I took Route 30 to Paoli and then turned onto the Paoli Pike, following it to the Goshen township building, a sturdy, modern brick structure. Scott Mason was already waiting, ever the eager beaver.
“Good morning,” I called out as I got out of my car. The air still felt pleasantly cool, although it promised to be hot later. “Are you an early bird, or do you live near here?”
“Hi, Nell. I live in the city, but I thought I’d allow myself plenty of time for traffic. I forgot it would all be going the other direction, so here I am. You have any questions before we go in and meet with the guys?”
“Tell me about who we’re seeing?”
“The township manager, Marvin Jackson—he’s an outside hire, but he’s been here for a while—and the head of the historical commission, Joe Dilworth. He’s local. That’s a seven-member board, and advisory only, but they do carry some weight in decision making. Other people said they might drop by—like the township engineer and the township solicitor, but they’ve already been involved in plenty of meetings, and they’re on board with the project going forward. Nobody’s raised any new issues. So my main goal today is to touch base with the manager, bring him up to speed on what impact the death might have on the plans, and talk about strategy with the historical commission. As you may know, not too many years ago the township did a thorough renovation of the old blacksmith shop not far from here, and there’s also a small historic district—I sent Lissa the details on all that before the end of the day yesterday. Both have been well handled and the community has responded positively to them. You may have noticed as you drove over here that even the corporate park you passed maintains a lot of green space and a couple of the old stone buildings. That’s the feeling Mr. Wakeman is aiming for, maybe even a little more private with the addition of some more greenery over time.”
“It sounds lovely. So you’ve been working with the township staff from the beginning?”
“I have. They’re a good bunch. And what’s more, old Ezra laid the groundwork well. He made his plans known to the township well before he passed on, so everybody had time to get used to the idea. He was a supervisor for the township for decades and was always respected, so people listened to him. It’s been a pleasure to work on this, and everything has gone really well—at least, up until George Bowen’s unfortunate death.” He looked quickly at his watch. “We should go in now.”
I followed him into the building, where a pleasant receptionist escorted us to a well-lit conference room. Three men were already there. They greeted Scott, and then he introduced me—again, as it turned out, since we all recognized each other from the press conference. Coffee was offered and accepted. While we poured from the carafe on the table, Scott handed out copies of stapled documents.
“As you can see, this is simply an update on documents you already have,” he explained. “The numbers have held remarkably steady, and we’re ready to proceed along the lines of the original schedule.”
“What about the murder?” The township manager, Marvin Jackson, said bluntly. “You going to wait until the cops have figured that out?”
“We’re hoping that won’t take long, Marv. After all, we have the best minds of the local police working on it, plus FBI assistance. You knew George, didn’t you?”
“Sure did. Good guy, did his job well. He really cared about Goshen.” The men observed an awkward moment of silence.
“How did George feel about this project?” I asked.
The township men exchanged a glance. “I think it made him sad to see one more parcel lost—we’ve already got that corporate park up the road. But he knew what it would mean for the township.”
“What exactly was his job?” I went on.
“Zoning officer. He made sure local codes were enforced. We’re not that big a township, so people who work here kind of wear different hats. George kept an eye on most building projects, even things like rebuilding a chimney or installing lawn sprinklers. Anything that needed a permit, really. He liked it—he enjoyed talking to people, and he wasn’t hard-nosed about it. If somebody was having problems getting a home repair project done, he’d cut them some slack. But he didn’t forget about it, either—he’d nudge people gently until it was finished and he could sign off on it.”
“People must have liked him.”
“Yeah, they did. Last person I would have expected to be murdered. I don’t know anybody who ever said a bad word about him.”
Scott seemed to be fidgeting, no doubt impatient to move the meeting along and get back to the city. “Joe, tell Nell about the historic district.”
Joe smiled at me, then sat back in his chair and proceeded to outline the entire forty-year history of the Goshen historic district, now a national historic district. A variety of buildings had been moved there from different parts of the township, but had been carefully integrated so they looked as though they had always been there. It had proved a mildly popular local attraction over the past decade or so.
“Upkeep comes out of the township budget, right?” I finally said, when Joe seemed to be winding down.
“Sure does.” He nodded. “We contribute some basic maintenance for the buildings, but there’s always more. You should know all about that.”
I smiled at him. “I sure do. Did the township make any effort to acquire the Garrett property?”
Marvin addressed that question. “Unless Ezra had decided to give it to us free and clear, there was no way we could have afforded it. He’d cut a deal with Wakeman before we even thought ab
out it, but he made sure there were some restrictions about what could and couldn’t be done on it. He brought it to the township as a courtesy, since he had every right to sell, but we couldn’t find anything to object to.”
I filed that away for future thought. “Mr. Dilworth—Joe—you said that the Garrett land had been in the family for a long time?”
“Since Goshen was first settled,” Dilworth replied. “That’s why we were so glad that the land wouldn’t be chopped up. There’s a lot of history there.”
“I look forward to learning more about it. It sounds as though Ezra Garrett was an impressive man.”
“That he was. He’s been gone for a while now, but he’s still missed.”
“What about his sons? How did they feel about their dad selling the place?”
“Will and Eddie? Heck, there was no future in a run-down dairy farming operation, and they weren’t about to hold on to a prime piece of real estate out of sentiment, even if it has been in the family for centuries. Wakeman gave Ezra a fair price, and the kids inherited the proceeds. To be honest, I’m kinda glad Ezra handled it the way he did—at least Wakeman is keeping the parcel intact, and he’s promised to make this a classy development, not a bunch of ticky-tacky houses. Right, Scott?”
“Exactly,” Scott agreed. “Mr. Wakeman knew and liked Ezra, and they worked it out between them. We intend to follow through in that spirit.” He hesitated a moment. “Look, would it be in bad taste if we named something after George Bowen? A street, or maybe a community center? You know the people around here better than I do.”
The township men were nodding thoughtfully. “Might be a nice idea. Let us think about it, okay? Nobody has to decide this right now.”
Scott looked relieved. “Of course not. You can ask around, see what the response is.”
Marvin rubbed his hands together; he looked like he was eager to end the meeting. “Anything else we can help you with today? Ms. Pratt, you and your people are looking at the history of the place, right?”
“We are. Does anyone here know anything about those older bodies found on the land?” I asked, curious to see how they would respond.
Marvin deferred to Joseph, who seemed happy to answer. “Ms. Pratt, we’re sitting on a lot of history here. We turn up musket balls and old tools and bottles all the time. No bodies until now, but it’s not really surprising. If you know anything about the Paoli Massacre, you know it was a mess. Who knows how many other bodies might have met the same fate?”
“I’ve read a little, and I can see your point.” I didn’t mention that the timing of the discovery seemed a bit odd. “In any case, we aren’t planning a scholarly study. More likely we’ll give Mr. Wakeman something that he can use to help promote his development to prospective buyers. You know, ‘live in the midst of history,’ and so on. I hope he’ll share it with you.”
Scott bounced to his feet. “Well, gentlemen, I’ll let you review the handouts when you have time, but I think it’s safe to say there are no surprises. We hope to break ground in the fall, as planned. Please call me if you have any questions or concerns.”
I seemed to have no option but to follow Scott’s lead, but I couldn’t think of any more questions myself. “Thank you for seeing me. May I get in touch with you if I have any questions about the history of the town?” I handed each man one of my business cards.
“Sure, no problem,” Marvin said. “But Janet Butler over in West Chester probably knows as much as we do.”
I laughed. “And I’m meeting her for lunch today.”
“Thanks again, guys,” Scott said, shaking hands and all but pushing me out the door.
I followed meekly, but once in the parking lot, I asked, “Are you in a hurry?”
“What? No. But this was mainly a courtesy call—there really wasn’t much new. Did you get what you needed?”
“I think so,” I said, although I wasn’t sure what I had hoped for. I’d confirmed that everybody had liked George, but that wasn’t a surprise. Nobody seemed to want to stop the project from going forward. So why was George dead? Maybe he’d found something more than a few old buttons when he was snooping around. Maybe the bodies had been buried with a carefully wrapped diary written by George Washington, or General Wayne’s battle plan, and George Bowen’s killer had snatched it from him. “You’re headed back to the city now?”
“Yup. You said you were meeting Janet Butler at the historical society?”
“Yes.” I stopped short of telling him that Janet thought she had found something I needed to see. It could be nothing or it could be important, but Scott didn’t need to know about it. “I assume I’ll be talking with you later in the week, when the Society puts that report together for you.”
“Great, thanks, Nell. See you!”
I watched him pull away, and then I got into my car and headed in the opposite direction, toward West Chester—a route that took me by the Garrett farm yet again. It still looked green and peaceful; there were a few ducks bobbing on the small pond by the road. It seemed an unlikely place for a murder. Or two, or three.
CHAPTER 22
I arrived at the Chester County Historical Society a few minutes early, but Janet was free, and came down from her office to meet me. She looked excited.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice, Nell. I know you must be busy.”
“I’m happy to be here, especially since this Wakeman thing has leapfrogged to the top of my priority list—not by my own choosing, may I add.”
Janet’s eyes twinkled. “The man can be a bit, uh, peremptory, can’t he?”
I laughed. “That’s putting it kindly! Did you want to show me what you’ve found, or should we get something to eat first?”
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m always hungry. Is there someplace nearby we could walk to?”
“Sure—right around the corner. Follow me.”
I didn’t need much encouragement. It was a lovely day, and I liked West Chester—it felt about the right size, and it had a real center, not just shops flanking a too-busy local highway. High trees arched over the street, keeping the downtown cool. We strolled without hurrying, arriving at a corner brewpub on the nearest corner in a few minutes. Once seated inside, we each ordered the brew of the day and sandwiches, and settled in to talk.
“I am so glad you brought me in on this,” Janet began. “This is really exciting, especially since I think I can help.”
“I’m glad to hear it. And I’ll do my best to make sure your participation is recognized somewhere, and not just in a footnote. After all, you’re putting a lot of time into this. Do you have any staff who can help?”
Janet waved her hand dismissively. “Sure there’s staff, but I knew George, and I find this whole thing with the old bodies fascinating. Why should I hand the research off and miss all the fun?”
We talked about professional matters through our sandwiches, and I noted that we shared a lot of the same problems, setting aside the difference in the respective sizes of our institutions. The sandwiches were generously sized and tasty, and the local brew was good. If I hadn’t had to go into the city later, I might have been tempted to play hooky and get to know West Chester a little better. But now was not the time.
“Let me pick up the tab,” I volunteered. “I’m pretty sure I can pass it on to the Wakeman Trust, or whoever he decides is paying the bills.”
“I’m not going to argue with you.”
With the bill settled, Janet and I emerged from the restaurant and walked the few blocks back to her society. “You know,” I began tentatively, “I feel like I’m here on false pretenses. I’m not really a historian—I started out as an English major and then ended up as a fundraiser. I’m president of the Society kind of by default. So I’m willing to bet you know a whole lot more about the history of this area than I do.”
“I suppos
e I do,” Janet replied. “I’ve lived here most of my life. I started out as a docent at the society, leading tours, which kind of shifted into researching the collections, and things kind of happened from there. As I’m sure you know quite well.”
“I do. It’s been a strange trip, and nothing that I’d planned.”
“Are you enjoying it?”
“I am. I won’t say it’s always a pleasure to be an administrator, but I do believe in the institution and what we’re doing, and if I can keep it moving forward in this increasingly digital world, I’ll be satisfied.” I’d like it even better if I could concentrate on the job and stop finding crimes under my nose, I reflected silently.
“There’s still nothing like the real thing,” Janet said firmly. “I love being able to handle the original documents.”
“Amen to that!” We’d reached her building, and she held open the door for me to enter. “So, what’ve you got to show me?”
“Follow me.” Instead of leading me to her office, we went back to the shabby working area at the rear of the building, where several archival boxes sat on the long table, along with a few pairs of white cotton gloves lying beside them.
I looked at Janet and waited for her to explain.
“Have a seat,” she said, waving at one of the folding chairs next to the table. I sat, and she took another chair opposite and pulled on a pair of the gloves. “When Ezra Garrett reached ninety years old—still in full possession of his faculties, let me add—he decided to go through all the family documents. That must have been about the same time he started talking to the Wakeman people. Since the Garretts had been living on the farm for over two hundred years, and since they seem to have had a gene for hoarding, if there is such a thing, you can imagine the scope of what Ezra and the family had assembled over the years. Well, maybe that’s not overstating it: his ancestors hadn’t gone in much for papers. They were farmers from the beginning, and Ezra and his son Eddie were the last of them, once William washed his hands of the place. Let’s say that what was preserved was very succinct, but valuable to any social historian. And to anyone interested in the history of Chester County, like me.”
Razing the Dead Page 18