Privy to the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “You mean, there’s safety in numbers? Spread the risk around? Do we go outside this circle, and how do we know who to trust?”

  “I don’t mean send an e-mail to everyone in the building saying, ‘We’re trying to solve a murder and you can help!’ but for those people who know the collections and have expertise that might be useful, it would be a lot more efficient to get them all in one room and start tossing around ideas. And then everybody will know that everybody else knows, which might actually make people safer. Unless you suspect the janitor.”

  “I see your point, I guess. So that would mean you, me, Latoya, Shelby, and Eric—they’re already involved. What about Rich and Ben?”

  “I’ve worked with Rich for a couple of years now, and his expertise with the Terwilliger stuff would be important. And Ben couldn’t have done the deed, physically.”

  I nodded my agreement. “And Eliot?”

  Marty looked startled. “Why would he be involved?”

  “Because you’re involved. Unless you’re going to tell me he won’t notice when you don’t talk about how you spent your time on any given day? Or will you distract him with your feminine wiles?”

  “Are you speaking from experience?” she shot back—avoiding the question, I noticed.

  “Maybe. James has made it clear that he wants no part of this investigation, and I respect that. Or maybe that sounds too harsh. He can’t involve himself in this investigation—those are the rules of his job, and I’m not going to ask him to bend or break those. I’ve told you that.”

  “Ah, who needs the FBI?” Marty said with disgust. “We’re probably smarter than they are.”

  I looked at the clock hanging on the wall. “I’d better get to the office before people start asking questions.”

  “Do you want me to wait five minutes before following you?”

  I took a quick look at her to make sure she was spoofing me. “People are used to seeing you coming and going at all hours, so if we come in together no one is going to care. Shall we call a meeting for all our coconspirators?”

  “I guess. What do you plan to tell them?”

  Me? How’d I get that privilege? I’d rather we did it together, but I was, after all, the president of the Society, so I should be the one to do it. “I think I’ll stick to the collections management procedures during the renovation as a cover for the e-mail, just to bring them together. It would be a natural thing for this group of people to confer with each other regularly to make sure everything is on track, now that construction has begun, so that wouldn’t be suspicious. Then after we lock them in a soundproof room and sweep it for bugs, we can tell them what we’re really looking for.”

  “Bugs?” Marty looked momentarily startled, until she figured out what I meant. “Oh, right. Hey, if the Society can’t afford surveillance electronics to protect its collections, I’m going to be mighty annoyed if someone has invested in high-tech spy gear, which is not cheap.”

  “I think it’s highly unlikely,” I said wryly. “But we should be discreet anyway.”

  We walked back to the Society and entered as though it were a normal Wednesday morning. Well, it was, wasn’t it? Just the usual construction mayhem and crime-solving. Marty and I parted ways in the lobby. I went upstairs and typed out a brief e-mail requesting the presence of those people Marty and I had listed, at a meeting in the big room under the stairs on the first floor of the building. It was unquestionably quiet and out of the way, and the walls were seriously thick, so no one was likely to overhear anything. Downstairs it was. I set the time for one o’clock.

  Not surprisingly, Eric was the first to respond. He poked his head in my door. “You want me there, too, Nell? What about the phones?”

  “Yes, I want you there. Forward the phones to voice mail—this shouldn’t take long. If anyone else asks, tell them the same thing.”

  “Will do,” Eric said and retreated, shutting the door behind him.

  Alone for at least a few minutes, I pondered what I wanted to say at this meeting. The chain of events leading from the discovery of the pit, to its contents, to the death of the cleanup worker, was clear enough and could be simply stated, although I harbored a fear that if I spoke them out loud to a group of people, the fragile links Marty and I had forged might disintegrate. Well, if the reasoning was that flimsy, it deserved to be shot down. Assuming we all passed that first test and everyone bought into the theory that Marty and I had concocted, the logic that led from the murder to the shattered box and its theoretical contents was even shakier. And how anybody could come up with a motive that connected the unexpected find in the basement to a murder last week was beyond me—which was exactly why I wanted to hold this meeting. Maybe younger, fresher eyes would see something Marty and I hadn’t—or maybe we would be laughed out of the room.

  I wolfed down a quick takeout lunch and was downstairs early, as was Marty. The others trickled in, looking a little bewildered. I plastered on a fake smile and avoided answering any questions before the entire group was assembled. When everyone had arrived—Latoya, Shelby, Lissa, Ben, Rich, and Eric—I looked at Marty, and she silently closed the substantial doors to the hallway, then took a place at the far end of the table. I waited until everyone was settled and had stopped rustling papers before I began.

  “You’re probably wondering why I gathered you here today,” I began, then stopped when confronted by uniformly blank stares. “Uh, that’s a joke? A catchphrase beaten into the ground in mysteries and on bad television shows? Think Hercule Poirot and Nero Wolfe?”

  “Nell, I don’t treat collections management as a joke,” Latoya said stiffly.

  So much for my attempt to lighten the mood. “All right, then, I’ll come right to the point. We’re not here to talk about shuffling collections around in the building, we’re here—”

  “To look at that death from last week,” Shelby finished the statement before I could. “Am I right?”

  “Uh, yes?” What else could I say?

  “Pay up, guys,” Shelby ordered, and some bills changed hands.

  I gave her a mock glare. “You were betting on what I wanted to talk to you all about?”

  “Nope, we were betting on whether you two could stay out of this investigation. I put my money on ‘no.’ By the way, is Mr. Agent Man going to play?”

  “No, he is not,” I said. “The FBI has no jurisdiction in this matter, and the Philadelphia Police Department has not requested their assistance. This is a Philadelphia homicide, period.”

  “So it’s officially a homicide now?” Shelby said with some surprise. “The papers have been pretty quiet about it—you know, tragic death, unavoidable accident, it was dark, et cetera.”

  “Yes, according to Detective Hrivnak, who many of you have spoken with in the past, it looks like the victim was pushed in front of the car, following some kind of confrontation. But keep quiet about that, please. If the police aren’t spreading that around, I certainly won’t.”

  “Do the police know we’re on the case?”

  That was a bit harder to answer. “They have asked me some questions tangential to the death, but we have not been officially involved—with one exception, and I’ll tell you about that now.”

  I proceeded to outline the events we knew about, and the conjectures Marty and I had put together. Marty threw in a few clarifications, but by and large everyone listened respectfully until I wound down. “Any questions?” I finally said.

  I was surprised that Latoya was the first to speak. “Why are you telling us this at all? It seems to me that you and Martha could have carried on quite well without involving us.”

  I weighed my answer carefully. “Two reasons. One, you all know about different aspects of the collections, and Marty and I are convinced that this has some connection to the Society’s holdings in the early twentieth century. We can use your input and insights and u
ndeniable research skills. Two, this may be dangerous. One man has been killed. If we have stumbled onto something that can inspire murder, I’d rather you all know what you’re facing so no one bumbles into this unprepared. You’re safer this way. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

  “How much do the police know about what you’ve just told us?” Rich asked.

  “As I said, I turned over the brass pieces and the wooden fragments to the detective on Monday, and I know they verified that the bartender recognized the brass escutcheon. I did not share our theories. My plan at the moment is to tell them anything they ask, but not to volunteer information, and certainly not to suggest speculative connections. I’m not concealing anything, but the police haven’t always been welcoming to outsiders like us, whether or not we come bearing evidence. If that troubles you, feel free to take them anything you find, as long as you let me know. We’re all on the same side here.” I thought briefly about asking them to minimize any discoveries that could put the Society in a bad light, but I decided that wouldn’t be right, either.

  “So those requests you made yesterday—you think they apply to this situation?” Latoya asked.

  I nodded. “I do, and I’m sure you can see why. We need to assemble all possible information about who ran the Society, how the collections were managed, the details of the construction of this building—all between, say, 1900, when planning for the new building began, and 1910, when the building reopened to the public. To be honest, I don’t know what we’re looking for. I suggest we collect all the files we find that may be relevant, then regroup here to share our findings and brainstorm. How long do you think that will take?” I swept the room with my gaze.

  “How about tomorrow morning? Before the building opens?” Latoya said. “Nine o’clock?”

  That seemed fast to me, but nobody complained. Maybe there really wasn’t all that much to be found in the way of in-house records. “That works for me,” I said. “I know I don’t have to tell you not to talk about this to anyone else at the Society, much less with anyone outside these walls, but I want to say again, please be careful. And take good care of the files—they are unique and irreplaceable.” I didn’t see the point in mentioning the break-ins—it would only spook them. “We really don’t know what we’re up against.”

  “Amen,” Marty said. “Thanks, everyone.”

  The group trickled out, until Marty and I were left alone. “Have we done the right thing?” I asked.

  “I hope so. And I can’t think of anything else to do.”

  “Then let’s hope this works!”

  CHAPTER 19

  The peace did not last, because Marty appeared at my door a half an hour later. “I got a text from Henry saying that he needs to talk to us, fast. Is your office bugged?”

  It took me a moment to realize she was joking. At least, I thought she was. “Let’s hope not. You want to call from here?”

  “Yeah, I can put it on speaker.” She closed the door. When she was settled again, she pulled out her cell phone and made the call.

  “Hey, Aunt Marty! You got my message?” Henry’s cheerful voice came through loud and clear.

  “Obviously,” Marty replied briskly. “I’ve got you on speaker, and Nell’s here, too, but no one else. What’ve you got?”

  “I told you I was going to run some additional tests on the wood? Man, these new machines are something else. They can pick up almost anything.”

  “I assume you found something with your fancy toys?” Marty pressed.

  “If you saw the price tags, you wouldn’t call them toys—and they’re real sensitive. Anyway, yes, I found something unexpected and I thought you should know.”

  He paused again, no doubt relishing the opportunity to yank Marty’s chain. “I found gunpowder residue and gun-cleaning oil embedded in the wood.”

  Whoa. That was something I never expected. A lot of questions came bubbling into my head, but I had no idea where to start.

  Fortunately Marty did. “You’re saying there was a gun or guns kept in that box at some point?” She sounded as surprised as I felt.

  “I can go you one better: it was smokeless powder, which was invented in 1884, so the weapon has to have been made after that. It’s a really interesting history—” Henry began with enthusiasm.

  Marty cut him off. “What kind of weapon are we looking for?” she demanded.

  “Aunt Martha, that’s a bit hard to say based on the analysis I’ve done, with very little physical evidence. You’re going to have to do some homework. I can probably dig up a list of weapons available in that time period that used that kind of powder, and since we know roughly what size the box was, we can eliminate the larger weapons, but after that you’re on your own. Not my area of expertise. Look for a handgun that dates from between 1884 and 1907.”

  “Got it. Thanks, Henry—you’ve given us something to think about. I’ll call you if I have more questions.”

  “Any time, Auntie M.” He hung up.

  Marty turned to stare at me. “Well.”

  “Yes. Didn’t see that one coming, did we?”

  “No way. So there was at least one weapon kept in there at some point, but we did not find any weapons in the pit. The police did not find any weapons upon Carnell Scruggs’s body. Why do I sound like a Doctor Seuss character?” Marty asked.

  “Because you’re in shock. We’re both stunned. You’re right. We’ve been focused on the brass pieces and the possibility of some documents or other valuables in the box, but a firearm puts this in a whole new light—a firearm that we can assign to a fairly precise period. I mean, firearms have significant street value, for ready cash. We don’t know if Carnell had any criminal history, but we could find out. Would he know what to do with a gun?”

  “He’d sell it, probably. A clean gun—one with no criminal trail—would have some real value on the street around here, and Carnell would probably have known that. Would the thing still work after sitting in that pit for a century?” Marty asked.

  “Maybe, but I wouldn’t want to pull the trigger without taking a hard look at it. Heck, we don’t even know if it was in the pit at all—just because the box once held a gun, doesn’t mean the gun was in there at the time the desk got tossed. Maybe the gun was stolen out of the box in 1907 and the thief trashed the box to hide that fact. Did your grandfather have any history with firearms?”

  “You mean, apart from the pistols that General John Terwilliger used in his infamous duel in 1778?”

  I stared at Marty for a moment, until my brain worked out that a weapon dating from 1778 could hardly fit the description of what we now thought we were looking for. “I assume your family still has those?”

  Marty nodded. “One of my cousins does, but he doesn’t talk about it. It’s not like he handed them around for the kids to play with at Thanksgiving. I think they’re in a safe-deposit box. But they’re too early to have anything to do with this The short answer is yes, my grandfather did have a few weapons around. He made sure we kids didn’t know where he kept them, although I can’t imagine that he’d keep them in the lap desk. What do we do now?”

  I thought, and then I looked at my watch. “First we go talk to the construction crew.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.” I crossed my fingers that they’d still be on-site.

  They were. I called Bob at the desk, and he told me they were working on the fourth floor today. I thanked him and headed for the stairs, Marty right behind me, then I went straight to Joe Logan. “Can we talk with you a moment?”

  He said quickly, “Sure. You got a problem? Because we can’t help the noise . . .”

  “No, it’s not that, Joe. I want to ask a favor. You know that pit in the basement?”

  “Sure, what about it?”

  “I know your guys cleared it out and gave me what you found, but is it still open?”r />
  “Yeah. We haven’t decided if we need to fill it in now, or how, and then with Carnell’s, uh, accident . . .” He left the rest of his thought unspoken. “Why?”

  “I want to look for something very small, that they might have missed. I know it’s a tight fit, but this is important, or I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Hey, you’re the boss.” He scanned the group of men in the room, but to my unskilled eye they all looked too big to fit into the hole and be able to maneuver once they were inside it. “Carnell was our smallest guy—I don’t know if there’s anyone else . . .”

  “I’ll do it,” Marty said.

  We both turned to stare at her. The foreman said, “Ma’am, you wouldn’t be covered by our insurance. If you can wait until tomorrow . . .”

  “I’ll sign whatever waiver you want, but I want this done today. Now.”

  “You’ll mess up your clothes,” the foreman protested feebly.

  “My problem, not yours. Can we do this?” Marty demanded.

  He looked at me in mute appeal, and I nodded. “Okay,” Logan said. He looked over at his crew. “Hey, guys?” he called out. “Fifteen-minute break.” Then he turned back to Marty. “Let’s go.”

  We all took the elevator down to the basement and headed for the back room where the pit was. I was surprised at how clean everything looked now, swept and ready for whatever came next. The pit was covered by a couple of sturdy planks, but they were easily removed.

  “You got a ladder or a rope or something?” Marty asked.

  “Carnell went down by ladder, and then we pulled it up so he could move around,” Logan explained. “Let me go get it.”

  Marty waited until he’d gone off hunting for the right ladder before turning to me. “Okay, what am I looking for?”

  “One or more cartridges from the gun. It’s a long shot—sorry for the pun—but if there was a gun in the desk, there might also have been some bullets in the box, and they’d be hard to see in the dirt at the bottom. Carnell could easily have missed them.”