Razing the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “Depends.” He pulled plates out of a cabinet. “Wine?”

  Did I plan to go back to my place later? No, I decided quickly. “Sure.”

  He handed me the plates and I took them to the small round dining table while he filled two wine glasses, then joined me. “Business before pleasure?”

  “The case, you mean? Let me go first. Today Scott Mason and I met with Marvin Jackson and Joe Dilworth and the other Goshen Township people. Have you talked to them?”

  He shrugged, chewing, then said, “Not yet, or not personally. What did you make of them?”

  I looked at him curiously. Was he fishing for something? Was there something I should have noticed? “They seemed nice enough. They said the right things about George Bowen and his death. Joe told me all about the local historic district and how it came about. What are you looking for?”

  “Just between us, Nell, Marvin Jackson’s bank accounts show that he’s stretched very thin.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Because it’s possible he’s been dipping into township funds to cover his personal debts. Wakeman’s project would help him refill the coffers before anybody had to take notice officially at the end of the fiscal year. Bowen’s discovery might have delayed things enough to make that an issue.”

  “Huh.” Funny how little we know about what goes on behind the scenes in any community, large or small. “Would that give him enough of a motive for silencing George? Even if George told him about finding the bodies right away, Marvin should have known that George would talk to someone else, like the county historical society.”

  “But did he?”

  “Not that I know of, actually. I had lunch with Janet in West Chester today, and she said George hadn’t gotten around to telling her people about it. But that’s not to say he didn’t tell someone at the township. Can you tell me anything significant about Joseph Dilworth?”

  “Dilworth’s been having an affair with George’s wife,” James said bluntly.

  I gaped at him. “How do you find out these things? And this is just scratching the surface for you guys at the FBI? You scare me.”

  “Phone records, mostly. Let’s not get into that. But it does mean that, while Dilworth might not have any reason to interfere with the historical aspects of this project, he might well have had a personal reason to want George out of the way.”

  I tried to remember what Pat Bowen had said when I’d talked to her. “Pat hates history. Or maybe it was only how much of George’s attention it consumed. Joseph isn’t a burly guy—heck, Marvin is beefier—but could he and Pat together have hauled George’s body to where it was found?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Great. So you haven’t eliminated anyone? What about Scott Mason, the eager young assistant?”

  “He has no alibis for the relevant time periods. Nor does Wakeman, officially, for that matter—he volunteered that he was home with his wife of thirty-five years and whichever of his eight kids are still living at home. I haven’t confirmed that with any of them, but I’m inclined to believe Wakeman and leave it at that.”

  “What about phone records? Did Scott and Wakeman exchange any calls at the right times?”

  “Nell, we don’t have enough evidence to request a subpoena for Wakeman’s records. I don’t supposed you ‘borrowed’ Scott’s phone to check his call list?” He hurried to add, “Just kidding.” He took a sip of wine. “Was there anything else?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, Janet did show me something interesting. Ezra Garrett left all his family papers to the county society before he died—I guess he wanted to be sure they stayed together and were well looked after—but Janet and her staff hadn’t gotten around the cataloging them yet when all this started. They have even less staff than we do, so recently Janet took a look at them herself. She found a daybook kept by Edward Garrett—that’s Ezra’s Quaker ancestor who owned the farm at the time of the Revolution.”

  James interrupted me. “What’s a daybook?”

  “Kind of a daily journal that covers administrative and financial things about running the farm. Not a personal diary, mostly business details. Anyway, there’s a short entry right after the battle, where he mentions burying two bodies where they fell. What’re the odds that those are the same two bodies that George found?”

  “I’d say it’s pretty likely. I’d hate to think there were more bodies scattered around the place—or anywhere else for that matter, but from what Ben told us about the battle, it wouldn’t surprise me. I don’t suppose that book mentioned who they were?”

  “No. It was a very terse entry. I got the impression that Edward would rather not have mentioned it at all, but maybe he thought it was important to leave some kind of record. It does seem to be the only mention of bodies we’ve found so far.”

  “Did Ezra know about them?”

  “How am I supposed to know that? From what Janet said, he just showed up one day with several boxes full of family books and papers. Who knows if anybody in his family ever read them? Janet said no one has shown any interest in them since Ezra dropped them off—that’s partially why they haven’t exactly rushed to sort through the contents. Maybe some of Edward’s offspring, if they were still involved in running the farm—they might have looked back to see how he had done things. Or—” I stopped myself and realized what had been percolating in the back of my consciousness, and what had prompted me to ask Lissa to look more closely at Edward Garrett and his family. “What if the family did know?”

  “Know what? That there were two bodies on their land?”

  “Well, maybe they kept quiet about it. Maybe Edward hid the book—he couldn’t bring himself to destroy it because it was the only evidence of those two bodies, vague though it is. How do we figure that out now?” And then another thought hit me. “James,” I said slowly, “have you done a DNA analysis on the bodies?”

  “Looking for what?”

  “Maybe Edward Garrett did know who the dead men were. And maybe one of them was related to him.”

  James sat back in his chair. “I never thought of that. It’s not standard operating procedure for an FBI investigation, but I can get a quick-and-dirty DNA test done, for a price. I suppose Wakeman would foot the bill. But who am I comparing it to?”

  “Ezra’s two sons, William and Eddie, still live in Chester County. I’m sure you could persuade one of them to provide a DNA sample.”

  “Wait a minute—you’re suggesting that one or both of the dead men are related to the Garrett family? That’s a heck of a big jump.”

  “I know that. But it might explain why that first Edward never said anything about the bodies.”

  James thought for a moment, staring into space. “I’ll look into getting the DNA work done. But even in the unlikely case that it was a Garrett who killed the soldier, how do you get from there to killing George Bowen now?”

  “Maybe if you keep a secret that long, it becomes a force of its own. Maybe somebody didn’t want it to go public.”

  “Maybe. I’d still be more comfortable with finding someone with a financial motive, like Jackson, or a personal motive, like Joseph Dilworth and Pat Bowen.”

  “Well, it would certainly be easier to make a case.”

  We’d finished eating without my even noticing. “So,” James began, “I’ve got some more listings for us to check out.” He looked at me expectantly.

  “I, uh,” I fumbled, then raised my chin, determined to feign enthusiasm if I needed to. “Okay, show me.”

  He permitted himself a small smile, and it hurt—I’d made him happy, and it had taken so little. He stood up to fetch a slim stack of printouts, and snagged the bottle of wine on the way back, refilling both our glasses before sitting down. He took the chair next to me, rather than sit across the table. “I kind of like this one,” he said, shuffling the stack and handing me a p
age.

  I barely glanced at it. “Mmm, nice. Where is it?”

  As we went through the stack, I made polite noises. But it’s hard to fool a trained FBI agent. After a while James backed up his chair and looked at me. “What’s wrong, Nell?”

  “Nothing. Well, not nothing, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “You don’t want to move in together.”

  “I do. Really. But . . .” There was nothing to come after the but. Either I did or I didn’t, and if I didn’t know by now, when would I? I took another sip of wine, stalling. “James, you know I love you. I want to be with you. I hate not knowing from day to day if I’ll see you, or where we’ll be. But something is holding me back, and I don’t even know what it is. And I can’t seem to get past it.” He started to speak, and I raised a hand. “It’s not that I’m afraid it won’t work out. I know the statistics. I know we’re both reasonable, intelligent people, and we should be able to talk about this. I know we’re not young, and if this is going to happen we don’t have the luxury of drifting along for years. We’ve even had a sort of trial run these last few weeks, under challenging conditions, and we came through it with flying colors. So I don’t understand why I can’t seem to move forward.” His gaze had never left my face, and I wanted to cry. How could I be doing this to him?

  Then his expression changed, just a bit. “Nell, I have an idea. No, don’t say anything—I’ve got a few details to work out. But will you hold tomorrow night for me? Or, no, better make it Thursday, in case something comes up.”

  “You mean, like finding another corpse or two?” I pulled together a wavering smile. “Thursday sounds good for me.”

  “All right, then. Are you staying, tonight?”

  “I’ve had a few glasses of wine—I shouldn’t drive. So, yes.”

  He gave me a quizzical look, no doubt questioning my lukewarm response. We really did need to work this out—just as soon as I figured out what my problem was.

  CHAPTER 24

  The next morning, I woke up early and studied still-sleeping James. He still looked a bit thinner since he’d been attacked, but he claimed there were no aftereffects from the concussion, no more headaches or dizziness. The long scar on his arm was fading slowly, but it would always be with him. He didn’t remember those awful minutes when I was trying to stop the bleeding and wondering if I could—and wondering if he was going to die under my hands. Cheerful thoughts for an early morning, Nell! He’d survived, I’d survived, and the whole thing had shoved our relationship to this new level—where it had stalled. Now he was back at work and ready to resume a normal life, and here I was dragging my feet. Clearly I was an idiot, as my friends kept telling me.

  I slid carefully out of bed and went to the kitchen—more like a kitchenette—to make coffee. What was on my calendar for today? No board meeting looming yet, and the next major social event at the Society was still a few months away. Shelby had the planning for that well in hand, and it promised to be fun: we were celebrating the life of the great nineteenth-century actor Edwin Forrest, whose larger-than-life personality lent itself to over-the-top festivities. New registrar Ben seemed to be getting a handle on his job, and despite, or maybe because of, the limitations to his mobility, he appeared to be a calm, stable presence—exactly what we needed. I was looking forward to seeing how he interacted with Latoya once he got his bearings.

  Lissa, with a little help from me, would be cobbling together a report on the history of the Garrett site in Goshen to present to Wakeman by Friday, a deadline barreling toward us way too fast. I believed that if we made him happy, it could mean good things for the Society, maybe in the form of money, or maybe as some in-kind contributions for the building, like an updated HVAC system, or even a new roof. That would be a trifle to the Wakeman Property Trust, but it would mean a lot to us. If we disappointed him . . . no, I wasn’t going to think about that. The Society had one of the best collections of historical material in the country, particularly on Pennsylvania history, and with Janet’s help we could fill in whatever gaps there were. And I had enough experience with fine-tuning pitches to present a streamlined and concise story that would appeal to the public and the press alike. All good.

  The coffee was ready when James emerged from the bedroom freshly showered. I handed him a cup and, said, “Want an English muffin?”

  “Sure.” He sat down at the table and watched me exercise my expert toaster skills.

  When I’d set a plate in front of him and brought mine over to the table, I said, “What’s next on your plate with the Wakeman—or should I say Bowen?—investigation?”

  James sighed and sipped his coffee. “I really don’t know. We’re waiting for the final forensic details on the old bodies. The local police have interviewed everyone with a connection to George Bowen and they’ve sent on the reports to us. But in reading through them, it’s clear that their prior knowledge of the people and the situation interferes with their objectivity to some extent. And maybe they haven’t asked the right questions. But the FBI can’t muscle in and redo everything.”

  That made sense to me. “Wakeman’s not getting in your way?”

  “Nope. He’s getting the investigation he asked for. You have any suggestions?”

  “You’re asking me?” I thought for a moment. “James, we’ve worked together on a few cases now, and I think what I bring to the table is a different perspective. I know more about the people involved, and you deal with the facts. And I can ask questions that you can’t, because I’m not official. Does that sound about right?”

  “It does,” he said. “And don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

  “Thank you. To get back to the point, I think it still comes back to those two Revolutionary War bodies. We do agree that that’s what they are?” When James nodded, I went on, “George Bowen found them, whether or not he was looking specifically for them. George told somebody about them, although we still aren’t sure who. That person had what he—or she—thought was a motive to silence George. Does that sum it up?”

  “It does. That’s why I’m glad you’re on this with me. And as you were saying, it may be that some of us don’t appreciate that something that happened over two hundred years ago can matter so much to someone today.”

  “But you can work your forensic magic on the old bodies,” I pointed out.

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Are you going to talk to anyone in Goshen today?”

  “Maybe. I’d like a word with Jackson, and maybe Pat Bowen. What about you?”

  “What am I doing? Going to work. Lissa’s only got two days to put together that preliminary report for Wakeman, and I need to vet it first.”

  “How’s she working out?”

  “Very well. She’s smart and she knows quite a bit about local history. Too bad the Society can’t hire her, but it’s not in the budget. Maybe I can talk Wakeman into endowing a position for a project historian, assuming he’s pleased with what we give him. And then she can keep seeing Ben.”

  James smiled. “I’m not taking that bait. You aren’t going to interfere, are you?”

  “Why would I do that? My only concern is that Ben is now my employee, so I have some responsibility for him. Latoya and I haven’t really had time to assess his professional capabilities. I was just wondering, in case I should say something to Lissa.”

  “They’re both adults—let them work things out.” He stood up and carried his dishes to the sink. “I’d better get going. Don’t forget, we’ve got a date tomorrow night,” he said.

  “Oh, right. I might have to make another run out to Chester County, either today or tomorrow, so I’ll check in with you later. And I’ll have to see how much progress Lissa has made on that report for Wakeman.”

  “Tomorrow.” His tone didn’t permit any argument. He gave me a serious kiss and headed out the door.

  It didn’t
take me long to dress; the scant closet space didn’t allow me to keep much at James’s place, so I had few choices for work clothing. Then I drove into Center City and parked across from the Society. The day promised to be a warm one, but as usual the interior of my building was cool and serene. “Hi, Bob,” I greeted our gatekeeper.

  “Mornin’, Nell. Busy day yesterday, and looks like it might be busy again today.”

  “All those summer genealogists, right? But that’s what keeps us in business.” I headed for the elevator and my office.

  Eric had already arrived. “I’ll get your coffee, Nell,” he said as soon as he saw me, and went down the hall to the break room. He returned a minute later. “There you go.”

  “Thank you, Eric. I promise I’ll start getting in earlier soon, so we can share coffee duty. How’re things going? What with all this running back and forth to Goshen, I feel kind of left out of the loop. Any crises? Excitements?”

  “Things’ve been pretty smooth this week. How’s it going with your bodies?”

  “The new one or the old ones? I think they’re connected, but I still don’t know how. We haven’t heard from Mr. Wakeman yet today, have we?” I knew Wakeman had my cell phone number and wouldn’t have hesitated to use it if he’d really wanted to reach me.

  “No, ma’am. A couple of calls from his project manager.”

  “Scott?”

  “That’s the one. I don’t think it was urgent.”

  “As long as Mr. Wakeman can find me, I think we’re okay. Have you seen Lissa this morning?”

  “Sure have. She came in real early.”

  Even as Eric spoke, Lissa appeared in the doorway behind him. “Hey, Nell. I’ve got some stuff I want to show you. Oh, hi, Eric.”

  “Hey, Lissa. You want some coffee?”

  “Already helped myself, thanks. You make good coffee, Eric.”

  “Thank you! Then I’ll let you all get down to business.” Eric retreated gracefully to his desk.

  When he was gone, I gestured toward a chair. “Sit down. You look excited—you’ve found something?”