Privy to the Dead (21 page)

We sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Finally I took the lead. “Okay, now what? Rich here says he saw Carnell Scruggs take something from the pit, and that he told Joe Logan.”

“And I told the police about that,” Rich added quickly.

“And he has an alibi for the time of Scruggs's death. What does this new information about the lap desk change?”

“Other than depressing me?” Marty asked. “Not much. According to Henry, there was a weapon in the lap desk. We've figured out that it may have been used to commit a crime, and my grandfather probably knew something about it. Nothing we can take to the police. Rich, you didn't tell Logan what Scruggs took away?”

Rich shook his head. “I didn't see it. I just know he hid something and acted kind of furtive after that. Which I also told the police.”

“And they probably assumed it was the brass piece,” I
said. “If there really was a gun, we don't know where it is now or who has it.”

Shelby popped her head in. “Wow, you look like somebody rained on your parade. I was going to ask Nell if she wanted to have lunch, but I'd hate to spoil the gloom. Anything you can talk about?”

“You might as well come in, Shelby. To bring you up to speed, we have just determined that Rich has an alibi for Scruggs's death, that Marty's grandfather owned the lap desk and knew it had gone missing, and that the Terwilligers and the Frazers were next-door neighbors down the shore in 1907.”

Rich stood up quickly and backed away, apparently glad to be out of the line of fire, and Shelby dropped into the chair he had vacated. “Wow,” she said, “I can't leave you alone for long, can I? What do we do with this information?”

“Got me,” I said. “Hey, if Grandpa Terwilliger and Harrison Frazer were friends once, or at least cordial colleagues, he might have cut off all social interactions with the Frazers after this murder. Right, Marty?”

“Frazer killed himself not long after, didn't he?” Shelby reminded me. “Out of grief for the loss of his wife, or so said the papers.”

“That was the public story,” I said. “Wonder what the real story was.”

“A guilty conscience? But where would Grandpa Terwilliger fit in that? Marty, you have any ideas?” Shelby asked.

Marty roused herself from her funk long enough to say, “Not yet. I'm going to have to go back and look at the more personal papers, see if there are any references to the Frazers there.”

“Do you happen to know if the Frazers had any other children, Marty? Apart from Rich's grandfather?”

She shook her head. “I can't say—before my time. Shelby, you can find out, right?”

“No problem,” Shelby said.

“So, Shelby is going to go back and dig through her files some more. I've got Eric hunting for any board notes and reports that might have gone AWOL, looking for references to Harrison Frazer. Latoya's going to check out the details of his bequest to the Society. You found a contribution to the building fund from Frazer, right, Shelby?”

“I did. Came in early, too—long before his wife's death. The family was rolling in money. What are you going to do?”

“See if the bank records have arrived. If they have, I'll check them to see if there were any odd deposits from Harrison Frazer.”

The mass exodus from my office was quick, and I was left with my thoughts. Gun: still missing, unless the police hadn't bothered to tell me about finding it. Suspects in Scruggs's death? We were back to none again, since we had eliminated Rich. I assumed the police had interviewed Joe Logan, and wondered what he had told them. Other guilty parties: Harrison Frazer, who had probably killed his wife and her lover, and Grandpa Terwilliger, who most likely had some knowledge of that. Would confirming that he had leaned on Harrison Frazer for a contribution in exchange for his silence help anything? So far, nothing seemed strong enough to take to the police.

It all came circling back to Carnell Scruggs's death and the missing and still-hypothetical gun.

I called the bank. Yes, the records had arrived, I was told. Did I want them delivered? No, I decided. I needed to get out of the building and clear my head. “Why don't I stop by and look at them there? I'm only a few minutes away.”

We settled on one o'clock, which meant I could get myself some lunch. As I gathered up my things to leave, another thought bubbled to the surface, and I wondered if the Frazer house was still standing, particularly after Hurricane Sandy. If a firearm that had been used in the killing had turned up amid the debris, would anyone have reported it? It was equally likely that if it had been concealed in the house, it had been washed out to sea, and it might reappear somewhere else entirely or not at all. But somehow I didn't really believe it had been hidden in the house. My gut was telling me that it had been in the Society building.

I marched out of my office and stopped at Eric's desk. “Eric, I'm going out to grab a bite. Then I'm going over to the bank to see what the old records can tell us.”

“Have a nice lunch, Nell.”

“Thanks, Eric.”

I couldn't tell you what I ate. I think it was a sandwich, and I managed not to drop it down the front of me or in my lap while I was lost in thought.

Reviewing what I had heard from the others about what they had found, and what I had asked them to look for now, I felt like we were actually getting closer to a solution. The net was closing, the noose was tightening . . . but I didn't like what was in that net or noose or whatever.
Stop with the metaphors, Nell!
I was looking in the bank records for something very specific, within a short time frame, so it shouldn't take long there.

The bank looked like exactly what you'd hope an nineteenth-century financial institution would look like, with a small staff and discreet electronic devices scattered around. I waited in the wood-and-marble-paneled lobby for Jacob Keefe, our account representative, to come collect me. When he arrived, he escorted me upstairs in a small elevator (also wood-paneled, with polished brass accents) to a small conference room, where several boxes were stacked. “I'd offer you coffee or tea, but I wouldn't want to present a risk to these archives,” he said apologetically.

I laughed. “Believe me, I understand. I'm just pleased that you could get them here so quickly. If I want photocopies of anything, should I ask you?”

“Of course. Will there be many copies required?”

“I hope not, but I can't be sure.”

“Then I'll leave you to your work. Please let the woman outside the door know when you've finished.” He retreated silently, leaving me alone with all the paper.

It took me several minutes to work out the coding system for the files, but in the end I zeroed in on 1907 easily enough. The Society files in that folder were a bit thicker than those of the surrounding years, most likely because of the influx of contributions for the new building, but given the limited number of donors, even those files were relatively slender. I pulled out the earliest one and started skimming.

It was heartening to see the influx of the state funding, all duly recorded and reported on. I wondered what that $150,000 from the state government would be worth in today's money. They'd built our entire building with that amount—I'd settle for a mere ten percent in modern dollars.

I read the files in chronological order, and made notes on Harrison Frazer's payments along the way—he'd pledged early but paid in installments. But in September 1907 he had made another contribution, equal in size to his original one. There was no explanation, and most people (including the Society's then-treasurer) could have presumed it was due to a surge of enthusiasm for the project, then close to completion. But I had my suspicions, even if I couldn't prove them: Had Grandfather Terwilliger known or learned about the murder weapon hidden in his beloved society—worse, in his own lap desk—and rather than expose his colleague, had he exacted a payment to the Society from Frazer? Had he demanded what amounted to hush money? It wasn't a pleasant idea, and I was sure that Marty wouldn't welcome anything that raised questions about her grandfather's integrity. The bank record wasn't exactly evidence, but it was one more brick in the . . . Shoot, I couldn't find any metaphor that fit. Fine. Taken in combination with various other facts, it was suggestive and it confirmed my suspicions.

I stuck my head out the door and asked the staff member outside if she could copy that page for me. I didn't need to read any further, because I knew that within a couple of months of that gift Frazer would be dead. His last donation to the Society was the bequest of his library and his papers.

It was now past three, and I wanted to tell Marty what I had found at the bank. I tried her phone, but she didn't pick up. But she'd said she was going to dig deeper into her family's personal papers. I was only a few blocks away from her home, so I might as well see if she was there.

Normally I would have enjoyed the walk to Marty's
townhouse. She lived in an attractive, long-settled neighborhood, and her house was lovely, filled with a mishmash of antiques and eclectic personal acquisitions that were uniquely Marty. When I reached the house I walked up the steps, and rapped the polished brass knocker. No response. I laid my head against the door, hoping to hear some sound from inside: nothing. Was she really not there, or was she ignoring me? I looked around the quiet street. There was no one in sight, not even a dog walker. I had nothing to lose.

I pounded my fist on her solid paneled door. “Martha Terwilliger!” I shouted. “You'd better open the door! I'm going to stand here and keep pounding until you do!” To emphasize my point, I pounded some more, hard enough that the ground-floor windows rattled, which was some kind of achievement with a brick building. “Open up!” I yelled. I was making so much noise I half expected a police car to pull up to the curb, and I wondered how the heck I would explain myself.

But I didn't have to. I heard the sound of footsteps inside, accompanied by what I took to be muttered curses, and finally Marty pulled open the door.

“Did it ever occur to you that I didn't want to see anybody?” she demanded.

“Of course it did. But you should know that if I make a fool of myself like this, I have a good reason. You going to slam the door in my face?”

Without answering, Marty turned away and walked down the hall—but at least she'd left the door open. I entered, then closed it behind me and followed her down the long hall. In the living room beyond, she had dropped into a well-worn chair and was avoiding my eyes.

I sat in a second overstuffed chair opposite her. “I'm not going away, so you'd better talk to me. I've just come from the bank. Harrison Frazer made a whopping big contribution to the Society a month after the killings at his summer house.”

Marty didn't look surprised. “It figures. What you're not saying is that it means that my grandfather kept his mouth shut about whatever he knew about the Frazer shooting in return for money for the building.”

“That'd be my guess. Does that mean the murder weapon was in the lap desk at some point?” And had Marty's grandfather known? When?

Instead of answering my question, Marty changed course. “Philadelphia society was different back then,” she said, almost to herself. “Class made a real difference—not that it doesn't now, but in a very different way. In the early 1900s, the ‘right' people all went to the same schools, belonged to the same clubs, supported the same worthy causes. It was expected—it came with the status. You want something to drink? Tea, coffee, something stronger?”

“Whatever's easiest,” I said, afraid to break the mood.

“Coffee, then.” She went to her kitchen, where I could still see her, and kept talking as she filled a kettle with water, spooned coffee, and so on. “Do you see what that means?”

“That your grandfather and Harrison Frazer played by a different set of rules from most of the rest of the world?”

“Sort of. Their loyalty was to their own kind. Matters were settled between gentlemen, without the intervention of the police, unless it was absolutely necessary. And most of the judges back then were from their class anyway, so maybe justice was a bit skewed. The men would probably have
argued that what they did was for the greater good, and of course they knew best what that was.” Marty returned with two mugs of coffee.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I guess so you'll understand how those founders of the Society thought in those days. Gives you a better sense of them than a bunch of names and a list of contributions.”

I could see what she was trying to say. “Okay. What you're getting at is what might have happened when one of those men, Frazer Harrison, did something unthinkable, like killing two people, one of them his wife, in cold blood?”

“Yup.” Marty didn't add anything.

So I was going to have to pull the story out of her? “The two men knew each other. They summered next door to each other. Are both the houses still there?”

Marty was laying back in her chair, staring at the ceiling—and not looking at me. “Sure are. I used to spend a couple of weeks each summer at the Terwilliger place—all the cousins took turns. It's not right on the beach, but sits on as big a rise as there is out there, so there are still sea views. Lost a couple of porches during Sandy, but unlike the houses closer to the water, which are pretty much trashed, the rest of ours is holding together just fine. One of my cousins owns it right now.” Her eyes were unfocused; she was lost in happy memories.

“And the Frazer house?” I prodded her back to the point.

“Yeah, it's there, too. I think it's a B&B now. It had like eight bedrooms, not counting the servants' quarters in the attic.”

“So presumably it's been remodeled, probably more than
once,” I said mainly to myself. I was pretty sure it didn't matter: the gun hadn't stayed in the house long. Time to cut to the chase. “Marty, what do you think happened?”