Privy to the Dead (23 page)

“The escutcheon,” I said.

“If that's what you call that brass thing,” Jose said. “I told him I wasn't sure what it was or if it was worth anything, but he'd been wrong to take it. You know he was kind of subpar mentally? He wasn't angry. He apologized, and he gave it back to me. I thought we'd settled things. I bought him a drink, and we left maybe half an hour later. He started walking toward home, and I tagged along because I'd left my car parked near the Society.

“So we're walking along Locust Street and I see he's got something else tucked in his waistband, something bigger. So I asked, ‘What's that?' And he gets all defensive about it. Says, ‘Nothing.' But he's acting odd, so I ask him again. And he tells me it's his, and finally he pulls out this gun he was hiding. Now, I'd worked with Carnell for a while, and he's not a violent man, and he had no reason to have a gun.
So I look closer and realize it's kind of dirty, and not new. So I ask, ‘Where'd you get that?' And he wouldn't tell me—he tried to walk away. And by then I was really suspicious, so I asked, ‘Did you take that from the job today?' And he tries to lie, but finally he said, ‘What if I did? Somebody threw it away. I found it. So now it's mine.' And I told him, ‘You have to give it back,' and I held out my hand for it.”

Joe stopped and swallowed hard. “And he started backing away, shaking his head, and then he was in the street and this car came along . . . and you know what happened then.”

“Joe, why did you leave?” I asked gently. “Maybe you could have helped him.”

He shook his head. “That car hit him head-on, and he must've flown about twenty feet through the air. I can still hear that
thud
.”

Was it illegal to leave the scene of the accident? I had no clue, but I had a feeling it was. “And the gun?”

“When Carnell was hit, he was holding it in his hand. It went flying right over my head, but I saw where it landed and picked it up.”

“Did you call nine-one-one?”

“I could see the woman in the car had her phone in her hand, and I think there was someone else coming from Locust Street. Nobody noticed me, so . . . I kind of left. I'm sorry. I should have stayed. But I swear, I never touched the guy!” Logan protested. “It was his own fault! He just backed straight into the street without looking.”

“Why'd you turn the gun in?” James asked quietly.

“I didn't want the damn thing. It was what got Carnell killed.”

“But you just dropped it at headquarters and left, didn't you?” James added.

Joe looked away. “I told the cops that I'd found it, and that was true. I kind of changed
when
I found it, is all.” Then he looked at us squarely. “Look, I could have dumped it in the river, or left it in a Dumpster somewhere, couldn't I? I'm not a bad person. I've never been in trouble with the police. I was trying to get back something that Carnell stole, that wasn't his. I never meant to hurt him.” He struggled with himself for a moment before asking, “You going to turn me in?”

I looked at James, who finally spoke. “I would urge you to go to the police yourself and tell them what you've just told us. If they have no evidence against you, they'll probably be lenient. But if they find out you're covering something up, it'll only get worse.”

Joe sighed. “I guess that's what I expected you'd say. I know it's the right thing to do.” Joe stood up. “Thanks for listening to me, and I'm sorry for any trouble I've caused. I'll be on my way now.”

James escorted him to the door, and I thought I heard the murmur of voices from them before I heard the door shut. When James came back to the parlor I said, “Is today over yet?” I felt exhausted.

“Close enough. I'm guessing you need food and drink, not necessarily in that order. Follow me to the kitchen.”

I followed.

In the kitchen, James doffed his jacket—and his
gun—and set about making sandwiches. I was content to watch, and he had food on the table in no more than five minutes. As he worked, James said, “You did a good job with this.”

“High praise indeed,” I countered, spreading more mayo on my sandwich. “Aren't you glad you stayed out of it? Although your imposing if silent presence was invaluable.”

He shook his head. “You put the information together in ways I never could. In all honesty, I will admit that the atavistic—or do I mean Neanderthal?—part of me wanted to jump in and protect you, but you didn't need it. Professionally, I had no place in this investigation.”

I put my hand on his. “Thank you. For letting me do this my way. And for listening. And for so many other things.” I paused. “Do you think Logan is guilty of anything? And will he go back and talk to the police?'

“Maybe. There's little evidence of anything. Of course, it's easy for us to say that he should have gone straight to the police and told them the whole story, but even the police know that people can panic and do stupid things. I told him I'd back him up if there was trouble, but I do think he's basically honest. He's a good guy who got caught in a bad situation.”

“You are a kind and decent man,” I told him—and meant it. “Isn't it ironic that a whole bunch of us waded through over a hundred years of documents only to find out in the end that this was a simple theft that had nothing to do with anybody's history? And along the way we may have solved a pair of 1907 murders?”

“Sometimes the simplest solution is the right one. Now eat.”

I ate. James was right: I felt better after eating. “You want to go upstairs and investigate that Neanderthal side of yours a bit more?”

“What about the dishes?” he protested in mock dismay.

“Tomorrow's Saturday, and the dishes aren't going anywhere.”

—

As predicted, the dishes were still sitting there the next morning when we ambled downstairs in our weekend grubbies, and James made coffee while I washed up. We were just ready to sit down with some breakfast when we heard what sounded like a piece of heavy equipment lurching its way up our driveway. I peered out the kitchen window and saw a large truck parking in the driveway next to the house. “Are you expecting anyone or anything?” I asked James.

“No.” He joined me at the window in time to see Marty climbing out of the passenger side of the cab. “Uh-oh.”

I went around to the front door to intercept her. “Good morning, Marry. You're out early. What's this all about?” I waved vaguely at the truck.

“I have a little surprise for you two. Come on.” She led me to the back of the truck, and when the driver climbed out I recognized Henry Phinney.

“Yo, Nell,” he greeted me with a grin. and then unlocked the back doors of the track and swung them wide. The
interior was stuffed to the ceiling with bulky items wrapped in quilted moving blankets.

By now James had wandered out to join me. “Good morning, Martha. What's going on?”

Marty looked smug. “You two need furniture to fill this Victorian barn. I've got furniture. Well, no, not me—but the Terwilliger family sure does. And before you protest, this is all stuff no one is using and doesn't want—call it the family rejects collection. Henry and I have been gathering it up for days now. You can take your pick.”

“Wow.” I couldn't think of anything else to say.

James could. He cocked an eyebrow at Marty. “No strings?”

“Nope. Well, somebody in the family might be miffed it you started a bonfire with it, and family gets the right of first refusal if you want to get rid of it. Otherwise, do with it what you will.”

James eyed the bulging contents of the truck with a critical eye. “That's a lot of stuff to move.”

Marty waved his objection away. “I've even taken care of that. I hired a couple of local football players to do the heavy lifting. They should be here by ten. With all of us, I think we can manage.”

James and I exchanged a look, and I think his mouth twitched. “Marty, this is amazing,” I said. “Can I offer you coffee? Or breakfast?”

“Sure. Henry, come on in—you can drool over the original woodwork in the house.”

“Happy to. You still got knob-and-tube here?”

“Uh—you tell me,” I said happily. I felt like a kid at
Christmas, wondering what might be lurking under all that padding in the truck.

“Thank you, Marty,” I told her as we walked toward the house. “You okay?”

“Sadder but wiser, I guess,” she said. “At least we know what happened last week—and in 1907. And I'm glad of that, even if I don't like it much. So let's go fill up your
house!”

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