Monument to the Dead (13 page)

It was hard to shift gears from trying to track a killer
and prevent additional murders, to figuring out what to make for dinner. I definitely
wasn’t in the mood for cooking, much less trying to impress James with my culinary
skills, but we had to eat. We had to keep up our strength if we wanted to stop an
elusive killer. What food went well with serial killers?

I was pretty sure wine did, so I helped myself to a glass of Chardonnay while I puttered
around, throwing together a corn and cheese casserole that involved few non-frozen
or non-canned ingredients. When I slid it into the oven, I checked my clock and was
surprised to see that it was after seven, and James was knocking on the door.

When I opened it I looked quickly at his face: he looked tired but not grim, which
I took to mean there were no new deaths to report. Our relationship was still new
enough that we weren’t sure how to greet each other: when we met at the Society, or
at a restaurant or event in Philadelphia, we were usually in business mode—that is,
scrupulously undemonstrative. Our time together outside of business was hit-or-miss,
usually an evening snatched when slots opened up in both our calendars, which was
rare.

But James looked like he needed a hug, so I gave him one. At first he was startled,
and then he relaxed into it, and we both stood there in my doorway, kind of leaning
against each other. It felt nice.

I was the one to break it off, or at least loosen the grip, so I could look at his
face.

“Hello,” he said, but at least he was smiling now.

“And the same to you. Come in. I’ve started dinner. You want something to drink? Unless,
of course, this is a business call?” I wasn’t sure if I was joking.

“I would love something to drink. And I’ve turned my phone off. If we talk business,
it’s off the record.”

“Wine?” When he nodded, I headed for the kitchen, and he followed. “Isn’t this whole
thing off the record? Unless you’ve got some news.”

“Yes. And no. Yes, we’re still off the record, and no, there’s no progress making
this an official inquiry. Heck, if I was looking at this for the first time, I’m not
sure I’d give it a green light. Especially if I didn’t have the information that you
gave me, and the insight into how your world works. At the very least, I probably
would never have found the Forrest Trust connection.”

“If that’s a compliment, I’ll take it,” I said, handing him a wineglass. He retreated
to the bigger room to take off his jacket and tie—and his gun. I wondered where he’d
been on a Saturday that would require such gear. I knew in my head that FBI agents
were supposed to be armed at all times, but it was always a shock to encounter the
hard reality of his firearm. I preferred not to think about it.

I checked my timer—still a half hour until the casserole was done. “Why don’t we sit
down?” I suggested. “I can tell you about what Marty and I did today. I’d rather do
it now than while we’re eating.”

He smiled. “Not good for the digestion?”

“Nothing awful, and mostly dull. Sit.”

He sat, falling heavily into an overstuffed chair, and I perched primly on the couch.
“You want to go first?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You go.”

I launched into a tale of Marty’s and my calls on Rodney in Delaware and Louisa in
her rehab center, and Marty’s report on the other trustees, and by the time I was
done, the timer for the casserole was sounding. James hadn’t asked any questions,
but at least he’d stayed awake through my recitation. “Looks like this is going to
spill over to dinner,” I said ruefully. “Let me get it on the table.”

He got up when I did and followed me, stopping at the door since there wasn’t room
for two of us in my kitchen. As long as he was there, I made him work for his supper:
I handed him plates and silverware and pointed him toward the table. On his second
trip, I gave him a fresh bottle of wine and a corkscrew, then followed him to the
table bearing dinner. We sat next to each other at one end of the long table (an inheritance
from a grandmother, and large enough to seat six comfortably, eight if they were very
good friends) and I dished up.

We devoted a few minutes to eating, and then James, looking more relaxed, said, “So,
your conclusion is that they’re both safe under their current circumstances? And the
others are distant enough that they aren’t in immediate danger?”

“I think so. Rodney is suspicious of everyone and has kind of walled himself in, and
Louisa has guards posted at the gates. I’m sure a thug could force his way in, but
our guy hasn’t gone that route yet. Maybe he’s just biding his time. The problem is,
the way these two have shut out everyone makes it harder to know if there have been
any attempts to get to them.”

“Interesting problem. I think you’re right. Our killer has been careful, because he
wants these deaths to look natural. But you haven’t considered the possibility that
the killer is someone they
already
know, and trust?”

I felt chastened. “No, we did not. But if that’s the case, that person hasn’t made
an overture to either of them. I gather that Louisa’s list of approved guests is pretty
short—we were lucky that Marty was on it. What about the other trustees? The people
on the cruise will be coming back sometime. Do you think we’ll have figured this out
by then?”

“God, I hope so! With or without the immense resources of the FBI.”

I looked quickly to be sure he was joking. I thought he was, but it was hard to tell.
“Nothing wrong with good, old-fashioned sleuthing,” I said brightly, standing up.
“Coffee?”

“If you want me to stay awake past nine,” he said without moving.

“I do—I have plans for you.” I ducked back into my kitchen and put the kettle on to
boil and collected our dishes. I jumped when my phone rang—I didn’t get many calls
at home. I didn’t recognize the number when I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hello, is this Miss Eleanor Pratt, please?” A male voice, not young, not old, definitely
foreign, although I couldn’t place the accent.

“Yes, it is. What can I do for you?”

“I am Fernando Rodriguez. I am working at the desk at Bellevue Center?”

The night guy at the rehab center. My senses went on high alert. “Yes?”

“I find note here about people wanting to see Miss Louisa Babcock, I should call you?”

“Oh, yes, I left that note. Thank you for calling.” To her credit, Dragon Lady hadn’t
just blown us off. “Has someone been asking for her?”

“Yes. Man come this evening at time of dinner, ask to see her. I tell him he not on
list, cannot come in. He not very happy, tried to give me money to let him in to see
her. I tell him no and he leave.”

“Did he give you his name?” I asked, hoping against hope.

“He give name. I check Mrs. Babcock visitor list, only two men on it, and he not either
one.”

I guess it had been too much to hope for. “What was his name?”

“He say Franklin Washington.”

A fake, no doubt. “Can you describe him?”

“Maybe thirty years old, six feet. Nice clothes, and he speak nice.”

I scrambled for anything else to ask about in the way of identifying features. “Did
he wear glasses? What color hair?”

“He wear glasses, baseball cap. I did not see hair.”

“Did he bring anything with him, ask you to give Louisa anything?”

“He have flowers, but I don’t take them. I cannot leave this desk.”

Oh, for a dueling scar or a limp. Still, it was progress: our potential suspect was
a young, presentable white male. “Can you let me know if you see him again? And please
tell Esther about him, so she can watch for him?”

“Of course, I do that anyway. Always file report. I tell Mrs. Louisa?”

I thought for a second. “No, I wouldn’t bother her about it. You’ve done exactly what
she asked—she’s particular about who she wants to see. But I really appreciate you
letting me know.”

“I just do my job. Good night, miss.” He hung up.

I turned to find James looking at me quizzically. “What was that about?” he asked.

“That, sir, was the night manager at Louisa’s rehab center. He tells me that somebody
tried to visit her tonight.”

“And you think that’s our guy?”

“Louisa doesn’t want visitors, certainly not people she doesn’t know. I left my card
at the desk and asked the gatekeeper to have the night attendant call me if someone
else came looking for Louisa.”

“What did he say the guy looked like?” I could see James shifting into business mode:
he sat up straighter, his muscles tightened, his eyes hardened. Hardly romantic, but . . .

“White male, about thirty, glasses, no distinguishing marks. Well dressed, well spoken.
Came armed with flowers. Gave the name Franklin Washington. Left quietly when he was
denied entry, but first tried to bribe the attendant.”

“He could fit the profile. I’ll run the name, but it’s obviously fake. Could the desk
guy tell you anything else?”

“That’s it, in a nutshell. Hey, don’t look so depressed. It’s the closest thing to
a real suspect we’ve got. And now we know to look for a male, not too old, not unusual
looking.”

“Great, that eliminates about two-thirds of the population of Philadelphia. Which
leaves us with a mere million or so people to check out.”

“Well, he’s too young to be a Forrest board member, so that’s out. Maybe he’s a son
or grandson of one of them, and that person has been pinching funds for years and
enlisted Junior to cover up the problem.”

“It’s as good a theory as any. Can you check for descendants?”

“I could if I was at work—that kind of information would be in our files. Please tell
me you don’t want to head there now.”

“Of course not. I thought we had other plans for this evening.”

I was happy to note that I’d managed to cheer him up, and now I would get to reap
the benefits.

The following morning: bright sunlight flooding through my windows, open to catch
the early summer breezes. Strong coffee brewing. A handsome man across the table.
All good.

“Can you get me that information today?” James asked.

Pop went that bubble. “You mean, about sons of trustees? Uh, it’s Sunday. The Society
is closed today.”

“You run the place. Don’t you have the keys? And the security codes?” he responded
quickly.

“Well, I do, but . . .” Why was I hesitating? For one thing, I’d hoped to have both
a little quality time with James, and some time to let my subconscious work on the
pile of new information we had already assembled. For another, ever since some unpleasant
events this past spring, I was reluctant to be alone in the building. I knew it was
irrational, and I knew we had an adequate security system, and I knew that lightning
seldom strikes twice, but still . . . “Can’t it wait until Monday?” I said plaintively.

“Nell, there’s a killer out there. If you have access to information that could help
us identify him . . .”

I felt like a wimp, but I resented James putting me in such a position. “Where will
you be?”

It finally occurred to him why I was hesitating. “I can work from the Society if you’ll
give me a desk and a phone. I’ve got my laptop in the car.”

“In that case, no problem,” I said, much relieved. “You can drive.”

“No problem,” he echoed.

“By the way, remember I said I’d go to Edith’s funeral tomorrow. Will you be going?”

“Why?”

“Why should you go? How about, to honor Edith? To help your cousin Harby get through
this?”

James shook his head. “I’d be more useful at the office. Why are you going?”

“Edith was a former Society board member, and I’m supporting Marty, who’s doing the
bulk of the work setting this up. If you aren’t going to be there, I’ll report back
on who did show up.” I realized I had no idea how many people that might be. Given
Edith’s age, it could be only a handful, but given the many and varied Terwilliger
connections, it could be a hundred, most of whom I probably didn’t know. I’d have
to enlist Marty to complete the list, once she had Harby settled.

“Are you finished eating?”

My plate was empty, but I had been looking forward to a leisurely second cup of coffee.
Not happening, apparently. “Let me put some appropriate clothes on. Give me fifteen.”

“Hand me the front section of the paper, will you?” James said.

I showered very quickly, dressed in something a cut above ratty blue jeans, and we
set off for the Society. We both fell silent for the rest of the drive into the city.

The Society and its massive collections are housed in a
building more than a century old, built solidly of stone and brick, with high ceilings
and large windows. It oozes history and permanence. It’s also a heck of a scary place
to be alone in. Like any old building, it creaks and pops and shifts. There may even
be some nonhuman presences—and I don’t mean vermin—although I’ve never met anyone
or anything unexpected in the stacks. Well, maybe once.

Which was why I was happy to have James watching my back and glad he hadn’t ridiculed
my fears. I wondered if there was anything that scared him, a trained agent with a
badge and a gun. If so, I hadn’t seen it yet. Or maybe I had: he was really suffering
now, feeling that he was powerless to stop these murders from happening, due mostly
to bureaucratic red tape. I could understand why the Bureau didn’t want individual
agents haring off on their own; order and process were necessary in law enforcement
or we’d be back in the Wild West. But James was a respected agent, one who had demonstrated
good instincts and judgment in the past, and I thought his superiors might cut him
a little slack if he said he thought he had a serial killer in his sights. As it was,
my trusty duo and I were doing all the legwork, trying to put together enough credible
information to persuade the FBI to take us seriously.

At the top of the steps, I inserted my keys, pushed open the heavy metal door, and
hurried to punch in the code to disarm the alarm system. James followed, making sure
the door was shut behind us. Inside, no lights were on, and everything was silent;
all was as it should be. I led the way to the elevator. While we waited, I looked
up at Edwin, who as usual looked over my head and beyond me. James followed my glance,
then smiled. “This is the guy who started all this?”

“Yes, this is Edwin. I’m sure he never envisioned that his good intentions would result
in a string of murders.”

When the elevator arrived, I inserted the key that would allow us access to the third
floor, which was not open to the public. We stepped out into more dim quiet.

“Why don’t we set up in the development office?” I suggested, my voice sounding surprisingly
loud to my ears. “That’s where all the files are.”

“Your call,” James said.

I led him into the offices at the bend of the hall and flipped on some lights. The
room was lined along one wall with tall four-drawer filing cabinets—all full, as I
knew. They held files on individual members and prospective members, board profiles,
copies of grant guidelines and past applications, histories of the events we had held
here, going back a decade, and more. The paper files went back much further than the
electronic versions, but I decided to start with what we had about the Forrest Trust
board members in our computer database.

I sat behind our data administrator’s desk, booted up the computer, and logged in.
Then I pulled out Shelby’s list of Forrest Trust board members. Now I recognized all
the names, and could guess at their average age—easily past seventy, often past eighty.
But as Louisa had suggested, being a Forrest trustee was not particularly demanding
or difficult, so there was no reason for members to retire.

It occurred to me, belatedly, that I could actually look at the terms of the original
trust. I’d never paid much attention to Edwin Forrest, apart from saying hi to the
mighty statue in the hallway, but maybe there was something in his will or the trust
documents that might be useful. I ran a search online and came up with a link to a
massive biography of the actor written not long after his death that included as appendices
both the will and the legal document by which the city had established the Edwin Forrest
Home under the terms of the will. Each document was blessedly short, and on first
glance, clear and simple. In his will, Edwin had made a few small bequests, and the
rest of his estate, which was substantial, went into trust for an institution to be
named the Edwin Forrest Home. He had then outlined in detail what the purpose and
makeup of the institution should be. There was one key clause, at least for our purposes:

The said corporation shall be managed by a board of managers, ten in number, who shall . . .
be chosen by the said trustees, and shall include themselves so long as any of them
shall be living; and also the Mayor of the city of Philadelphia for the time being;
and as vacancies shall occur, the existing managers shall from time to time fill them,
so that, if practicable, only one vacancy shall ever exist at a time.

I read on, charmed by Edwin’s lofty hopes for his actors’ home: he spoke of preserving
the happiness of the inmates (an odd choice of term, by modern standards); offering
lectures on all manner of subjects; promoting the love of liberty and country. He
outlined plans to celebrate Shakespeare’s birthday each year. As far as I knew, the
trust had lived up to his wishes, until the world had spun too far to make his dreams
relevant.

The city’s charter, dated a year after Edwin’s death, copied his terms almost verbatim.
The only real departure from the original plan was choosing to place his Home in his
former residence, Springbrook, which he had sold but which happened to become available
at an opportune time.

So I had confirmed one piece of hard evidence: there should be ten trustees at any
one time, plus the mayor. It seemed likely that the mayor played a purely symbolic
role and had little involvement with management. According to the agreement, if the
number of trustees fell too low, the mayor could request that the Orphans’ Court appoint
replacements. I made a mental note to see if that process had been initiated, but
if the trust was to be dissolved, it seemed kind of moot. And I really didn’t think
the mayor had anything to fear from our unknown killer. Should I be warning judges
for the Orphans’ Court? Ridiculous!

With a sigh, I turned away from Victorian eloquence—or did I mean grandiloquence?—to
look at our records for the trustees past and present. The digital files were not
detailed enough for my current purposes, as I had suspected, but Shelby had pulled
information from a range of sources. The paper files more often included press clippings
and records of personal conversations, which yielded more information about offspring.
While I was at it, I checked for best estimates of what the trustees had contributed
to the trust, and the answer was nothing in terms of dollars, merely a little of their
time. No kids or grandkids could complain that the Forrest Trust was draining their
inheritance.

In short, I came up with nothing new. I had eliminated some possibilities, but we
were no closer to pointing a finger at anyone than we had been when we started.

But maybe I needed to dig deeper or go back further. I understood that there had been
challenges to the will, most of them resolved quickly, and without financial settlement.
Then, of course, there was his wife, with whom, as Shelby had said, Edwin had held
vituperative and prolonged divorce proceedings that probably had left them both reeling,
with their individual reputations in tatters. No doubt Edwin had made sure that her
claims were long settled when he drew up the will.

Was there someone else who might have had an interest? A century was a long time to
hold a grudge, but at the Society we dealt in long periods. Maybe it was worth checking.
As Shelby had also noted, only one claimant, a very distant cousin, had been given
any sort of settlement; all other supplicants—and the bulk of those had been before
1900—had gone away empty-handed.

I went back to the will once again. At the very end, Edwin had added a pair of codicils.
He had given cash gifts to a few friends, and also to someone identified as “my beloved
friend Miss Elizabeth, sometimes called Lillie Welsh, the eldest daughter of John
R. Welsh, broker, of Philadelphia.” I had to wonder who Lillie Welsh was, and why
she had inherited the bequest. In the second codicil, Edwin changed the cash legacy
he’d originally left to his friend James Oakes (any relation to Louisa, I wondered?
Would it matter?) to an annuity that would end with James’s death. Then he shifted
that cash to Miss Elizabeth, making her total gift worth ten thousand dollars—a hefty
sum now, and a fortune when the will was drafted. Now I was even more curious about
Lillie. I wondered what a little genealogical snooping would turn up. As far as I
knew, Edwin had had no children—at least, no
legitimate
children with his actress wife, Catherine. But from what I’d read about him, I could
easily picture him as a randy devil, and he had traveled far and wide, no doubt with
plenty of opportunities to “sow his seed.” Was Miss Lillie one such result? Was there
any way to find out?

I indulged my curiosity and looked up the 1870 census for Philadelphia. Yes, there
was John Welsh, on Olive Street, with his wife, Elizabeth; eldest daughter, Elizabeth
(twenty-nine at the time); a few more children; and two domestics. And there was Edwin
at his home, with one sister and three domestics. Edwin had been worth a hefty $150,000
that year, or so said the census. I made a quick Internet detour, just out of curiosity,
and found that the $150,000 Edwin declared would amount to well over $2 million in
current dollars—not too shabby for an actor then.

I resisted the impulse to dig any further into the mysterious Elizabeth Welsh. It
would be a nice diversion, but there were more pressing issues to chase down.

“You know, you’re sighing a lot,” James called out. He’d settled himself in Shelby’s
office, where he had a clear view of me at the desk as well as down the hall. “No
luck?”

I stood up and stretched. “Not a lot. I’ve been looking at Edwin’s will and how the
trust was set up, but it all seems clear enough. The trust is currently in violation
of its own terms, now that so many of the trustees are dead, but I’m not sure what
the implications of that are. It would probably mean a court battle to sort it out,
by which time the remaining trustees would also be dead. I wonder what the internal
process for disbursing funds is.”

James came out as far as the doorway and leaned on the jamb. “Are you asking if someone
has been skimming funds, hoping no one will notice?”

“Or making sure by picking off the trustees, one by one? It’s possible. We’d need
a forensic accountant to figure that out. What I need to do is talk to the attorney
who’s been handling the trust, and Rodney told me that he’s the one who oversees the
accountant, so I can kill two birds with one stone. I’ll see if I can set that up
tomorrow.”

“Is that a good idea?” James said. “If he is involved, you’d tip him off.”

“Maybe, but since the firm handles the Society’s legal affairs, too, and we are custodians
of parts of the Forrest collection, I have a perfectly legitimate reason to be asking
about what’s happening with the trust.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t seem satisfied.

I didn’t pursue it. “Oh, and it seems the mayor of Philadelphia is an ex officio member
of the board.”

“And why does that matter?” James asked.

“Because the mayor has the authority to force the trust to shut down, under the terms
of the original trust.”

“Oh, great. Maybe he’s eyeing the money for his next campaign.”

“Somehow I doubt it would flow directly to his coffers. But maybe someone in his administration
is looking to curry favor and thinks this would impress him? By the way, the trustees
were not required to add any money to the trust, merely oversee it. So no motive for
grabby grandkids. Skimming funds is a better bet.”

Marty appeared in the hall doorway, and I jumped at the sound of her voice. “Any progress?”

“Marty, what are you doing here?” I demanded. “And how . . . oh, never mind.” I had
long since learned that Marty Terwilliger regarded the Society as her own personal
kingdom, and that she had inherited her father’s and grandfather’s keys to almost
any door in the place and knew all the alarm codes.

She eyed me curiously. “A little jumpy, eh? I don’t blame you. But that’s neither
here nor there. I came in a while ago to work on the Terwilliger collection, of course.
What about you two?”

“I filled James in on what we learned yesterday, and we were wondering if there were
any offspring of the board members who might have a personal interest either in seeing
the trust dissolved or in seeing it go on as before without too much poking around
in the books. The short answer is no, unless granddad was siphoning off money.”

“As far as I know, most of the board members were comfortably off,” Marty said, “so
they wouldn’t have any need for funds. Of course, things can change fast. I suppose
you have to consider it.”

“I’m not sure I buy into it, either, but I thought it would be a good idea to check.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Marty, we’re running out of places to look. Unless someone
shows up at the funeral and lurks furtively around the edges.” I turned to James.
“The remaining trustees seem to be clean. Their offspring have no vested interest
in what happens with the trust. I can’t see the mayor hiring hit men to wipe out the
trustees just so he could get his hands on a very small pot of money with a bunch
of legal strings attached. Maybe the law firm will lose a little income if they’re
no longer managing those funds, but they’re rock solid and they won’t miss it. What’re
the odds that it’s a random stranger who thought that this would be a good group to
mow down, just for the hell of it?”

“Considering that most of the world doesn’t know this trust exists,” James said, “that’s
unlikely. How about from your end? Any museum managers who are itching to get their
hands on Edwin’s memorabilia?”

“Like you said, I think most of the world doesn’t know it exists. And it would cost
a pretty penny just to move the statue, which would eat into the trust proceeds.”

He smiled. “I have it: you have a mad crush on Edwin, and you want to keep the statue
here for yourself.”