Privy to the Dead (10 page)

James and I spent what was left of the morning doing not much of anything. I made another pot of coffee, and we read the Sunday paper (I checked the obituaries to see if any of the Society's current or former members had passed away and if I should send condolences the next day, a morbid but not infrequent task). He went out to the car and retrieved our new old table, and we wandered around the house trying it out here and there. It looked lonely. I tried to visualize pieces of furniture that we didn't have in spaces that we had too many of. I looked at the tall, handsome windows with their opulent moldings and shuddered to think of the yardage of fine damask that would be required to adorn them in the manner they deserved. I couldn't just go pick something off the rack at the local department store. Good thing I liked lots of light—and that there were no neighbors near enough to peer through our windows. Although I made a mental note
to revisit that conclusion come winter, when the leaves had fallen.

When we discovered we had done all that and it was still only midafternoon, I asked James, “Are we workaholics?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I have no idea what to do with free time, and as far as I can tell, you don't, either. We're supposed to be spending quality time together now, but doing what?”

He took my question seriously. “You're saying you aren't happy just sitting with me and smelling the roses?”

“I guess. Sad, isn't it?”

“I do know what you mean, Nell. All right, it's a beautiful fall day, and we have about three hours of daylight left. What fits into that? A museum? An historic site? Bowling?”

I gave an involuntary snort at that last suggestion. “Do you bowl?”

“The last time I tried, I think I was twelve. Do you want to think about getting Eagles tickets for some future game?”

I'd never once considered that. “Maybe. Let's keep that on the list. Do you even like art museums?”

“In small doses. Too much art and my brain short-circuits.”

Much as I hated to admit it—I mean, I work at a museum, for heaven's sake—mine did, too. What can I say? My imagination was fired more by history than by paintings. “Theater?”

“Maybe. What about movies?”

“You like weepies or ones where things go boom?” I tossed back.

“We could alternate,” he offered.

“Which do you think I prefer?” I hated to admit a secret affection for the ones with lots of explosions, but there it was.

“I'll pass, thanks. Realistically, we should probably continue hunting for furniture at the moment. We tried the antique side yesterday—how about some nice contemporary stuff today?”

“Okay, I guess. If ever we get to the point of deciding on carpets and drapes and paint colors, are you going to run screaming or find an important case that has to be solved?”

“Wait and see.”

So we went to high-end department stores and looked at nice, large, stuffed things, and then we found a pleasant restaurant and ate an early dinner, and then we came home and watched television—just like an old settled couple. Had it really been only a month since we'd moved in?

Marty did not call. The FBI did not call. It was all very peaceful.

I do not trust peaceful anymore.

—

Monday morning began uneventfully. Detective Hrivnak hadn't put in an appearance yet. I hoped that was a good sign, and that the police had resolved Carnell Scruggs's death or decided it really was an accident. I was braced for a few weeks of chaos now that construction had begun. At least my office was as far from the banging and clanging of renovation as possible, but since the building was constructed of metal and concrete, there were bound to be reverberations.

Eric had arrived early today. “Mornin', Nell. Coffee's ready. Nice weekend?”

“Very nice, thank you.”
Except for Marty's intrusion
, I thought, but Eric didn't need to know about that. “I take it the crew is already hard at work?” Silly question—I could feel their presence through the soles of my feet.

“That they are. Your architect left you a list of where they expected to be working over the next few weeks, so you can warn the staff and the patrons. It's on your desk.”

“Good for him! I'm glad we hired someone who's worked with museums before. I'll get some coffee, then hide out in my office, unless somebody really needs me.” I dumped my bag and coat in the office and went down the hall to the coffee machine, where I helped myself to a cup. Once back in my office I sipped appreciatively and riffled through the papers Eric had left for me on my desk. Mostly business as usual: reports on grants, lists from Shelby on prospective donors, collections status updates from Latoya, a mockup of the next newsletter, which should go out sooner rather than later, now that construction had begun. I dug in with my red or blue pen, as appropriate, and the next time I looked up, Marty was standing in my doorway.

“Got a minute?” she asked.

“I think so, unless you've got a crisis, in which case I'd like to schedule that for a week from tomorrow.” Seeing her expression, I added, “Joke! I thought you'd be busy until tomorrow?”

“Yeah, well . . .” Marty flopped into a chair. “I think I've got a working plan. I'll be the first to admit that what we talked about relies on a whole string of assumptions, aided
by some decent Scotch, and if any one of those is false, the whole blinking thing falls apart. I wrote them all down, so we could take them one at a time. And decide if and when we need to bring in more help.”

“Help like Henry Phinney, you mean? Or in-house help, like Rich or Shelby?”

“Whichever. You want to hear the list?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.” Marty proceeded to read from a piece of lined paper. “Assumption number one is the biggie: the death of Carnell Scruggs is somehow connected to the brass fittings that were found in the pit in the basement.”

“Okay,” I said cautiously, “pending confirmation from the bartender that what he saw was one of those fittings. Which reminds me: I have to collect the one we have from Henry to take it to Detective Hrivnak so she can show it to the bartender.”

“Don't interrupt,” Marty said. “Assumption number two: those brass fittings came from a piece of Terwilliger furniture. Three: those fittings were part of the lap desk that belonged to General John Terwilliger. Four: that writing desk once contained something—we don't know what, but we think it wasn't the logical thing, which would be papers, but something else instead. Or maybe nothing at all, but I didn't give that a number on the list. Five: somebody dumped the box in the pit sometime in the past, but before 1907, thinking no one would ever find it, which was pretty close to true. You with me so far?” Marty fixed me with an eagle eye.

“Yes, with some reservations. Like where was the desk
between the time it left General John's possession and when it ended up in the pit? Who had it?”

“An excellent question, and I'm getting to that. That's one of the things I wanted to check after I left your place yesterday. I told you about my grandfather's inventory?”

“The one he made before the family split up the furniture? Yes, you mentioned that.”

“Good. That box described on it pretty much has to be the lap desk. You okay with that?”

“I think so. And?”

“That means we know it was in the family at that time, and that he had it. The thing is, it doesn't appear on the inventory of his gift to the Society, which we have right here in this building. Yet we found what was left of it in pieces here at the Society.”

“So how'd it get here?” I asked.

“Don't interrupt—we'll get to that. Suffice it to say, my grandfather had it. Assumption Six: my father might have known something about it. And finally, Assumption Seven: someone now does not want any or all of this information to come out, and that's why that poor man died.” She sat back triumphantly and challenged me with a look.

“Interesting,” I said, stalling. It was a surprisingly methodical analysis, especially from someone who should have been hungover yesterday, and I couldn't disagree with any of Marty's points. But neither could I prove them, apart from Grandfather Terwilliger's inventory. The only tangible evidence we had was some brass pieces and some chunks of old mahogany, and an approximate terminal date for when they went into the pit: 1907. “You're minimizing that last and most
important point: Why would anyone care enough today to kill someone to keep all this quiet? It's been more than a hundred years since whatever it was happened. The central question is, who feels threatened by this discovery?”

“That's what we have to find out,” Marty said firmly.

“Great,” I said glumly. “What do you suggest we do next?”

“Take a look at the things we can find out about. Check out the furniture—who made it, where the brass came from, and whether there's any record of anyone other than John Terwilliger buying a lap desk from the same Philadelphia furniture maker. There could be a bill of sale.”

“Okay, that sounds good, and you're in the best position to look for that. Go on.”

She nodded. “Then we go after whatever was in the desk.”

I sat back in my chair. “Marty, how the heck are we supposed to do that? We don't know if there was anything in there, and it's not there now, nor is it in the pit. What do
you
think was in there?”

“I'm not ready to rule out papers altogether, because if it was pulp-based paper it could have disintegrated, but there might still be traces. Maybe. If it was rag paper it would have survived longer, so I'd expect you to see at least fragments.”

“Are you missing any Terwilliger papers that you know of?”

“No, but I haven't memorized the whole inventory. We can go back and look at what we've inventoried and see if there is a hole in the middle of it. I can ask Rich to do that—he knows the collection.”

“Oh, this just gets better and better.” The Society had already suffered through one disastrous theft of important documents, and I refused to contemplate the fallout if we had to admit it had happened again. Even if the theft had occurred generations ago, my staff and I would look incompetent by association. “Somebody destroys a nice antique lap desk in order to steal whatever was in it, except we don't know who stole it or what was in the box or why anybody would steal the contents between whenever your grandfather made that inventory of his and 1907. And then poor Carnell Scruggs comes along and finds the bit of hardware and carries it off in his pocket, but whatever that was, it was
not
found with his body on the street. Having personally sifted through the trash, I'm inclined to think it was
not
papers, but I haven't any idea what it might have been. So if he did take something, then somebody had to have taken it from him. Which implies that it was valuable, either for its cash value or because it meant something to someone.”

“At least we're on the same page,” Marty said, slightly less enthusiastically.

We stared at each other. “Marty, what are we doing?” I finally asked. “We've got a busted-up box and a dead man, and we're jumping through hoops to try to connect them. But so far we have no evidence of any crime.”

Marty shrugged. “We're flailing around in the dark, is what. But why did the guy fall backward in front of that car?”

“Maybe he was a klutz?” I volunteered.

“Right. Go ahead, blame the victim,” Marty muttered.

“But no one can prove he was pushed, either,” I protested. “Or if so, that it was on purpose. Maybe some drunk bumped into him and he stumbled onto the street.” I was now officially grasping at straws. “How about this? We check who was working here in the early twentieth century. I can go through the Society's old records, and it's not going to be a big number. You know, anybody who had access to the building while it was still under construction, and therefore to the pit.”

Marty considered for a few moments. “That's not a bad idea. Come at it from the other side, sort of. We know the box was there, and somebody put it there on purpose and never mentioned it.”

“Did your grandfather figure out that it was missing? Or did he give it to someone or sell it, before he made the gift to the Society?” I tried to phrase my next question delicately. “Marty, you're the only person who can look at your grandfather's history and see where he might fit. I'm not saying for a minute that he was involved, if there even was a theft or an incident of vandalism. But if there was, why did he look the other way and do nothing?”

“You're right—that's my responsibility, and I can't ask anyone else to do it. I'll deal with it. That all?”

“Who else should or shouldn't we involve? Lissa either already knows or guesses that we're looking into it. Have you talked to Rich?”

“I'll see him today—I wanted to check my personal papers before I set him to hunting.”

“Since it's collections-related, we should probably include Latoya.” I didn't relish the idea, because we had a slightly
rocky working relationship, and I didn't think she'd approve of this use of Society staff time.

“What about Hrivnak?” Marty asked slyly.

Yes, I still needed to get back to her—after I retrieved the escutcheon. Today, or I'd lose whatever points I'd scored with her. “What the heck is there to tell?” I protested. “We think somebody might have stolen something a century ago, but we don't know who or what? She'd laugh us right out of her office. James agrees about that.”

“But we do need her to confirm the point about the brasses, just to dot the
i
s and cross the
t
s, and I'm betting she will,” Marty retorted. “So you reach out to her and tell her you have something to show her. Take the lead on this so you can maintain control of the information. Tell her the bare facts: the brasses came out of the Society pit, where Scruggs was working on the day he died—that, we can pretty much prove. That's all you
know
, and it's the truth. Can she prove that one of those brasses is the thing Carnell Scruggs showed the bartender?”