Razing the Dead (16 page)

“Of course. Was there anything else? Because I should leave for that meeting Mitch mentioned.”

“Did you have any questions, Lissa?”

“I think you covered it, Nell. I really would like to see the details on how the township set up the historic district—it could be a good model.”

“No problem.” Scott beamed. “I'm sure the township sent us a copy for our files. I'll fax a copy over as soon as I get back to the office.”

“Thank you, Scott,” Lissa said. “That's all I need for now.”

“So I think we've covered it,” I said firmly. “We'll definitely have something for you by the end of the week. And thank you for taking the time to talk to us.”

Scott stood up and smiled. “Nell, I really believe in this project, and I'm proud to be part of it. If you need anything else, just let me know. Lissa, it was nice to see you again.”

“Same here,” Lissa said.

“Let me walk you out.” I escorted him downstairs and to the door, then made my way slowly back to my office. His story hung together, and I knew of nothing that contradicted it—but didn't explain why the body of George Bowen had ended up in the pond. James could look into the financial aspects of it, in case Scott had been lying when he said the funders weren't troubled by finding a few old skeletons. If it turned out that Mitchell Wakeman had strangled George himself and somebody had a video of it, it might be a different scenario, but that seemed more and more unlikely to me. Wakeman was a rare bird: exactly what he appeared to be, an honest businessman, even if he was a bit rough around the edges.

When I got back to the office, Lissa was chatting with Eric. “You were pretty quiet in there,” I commented.

“I didn't think that township management was relevant to what I'm supposed to be looking for. I'd be happy to explore any earlier historic projects in Goshen. I'm sorry if I misunderstood what you wanted.”

“Don't worry about it—if Wakeman and his people keep dropping in unannounced, it's hard to plan. But if we get a meeting set up with the township officials, I'd like you there. Who knows—maybe there were historic projects they
didn't
pursue, for lack of funding or interest or whatever.”

“I'd be happy to come, thanks. You know,” she said, “I'm beginning to get really excited by this project, if it lives up to its own publicity. And of course, now it's personal—I really do want to know who the skeletons were. I'm glad Wakeman doesn't plan to mess with that part of the site.”

“Me, too—and I'm glad he knows he shouldn't. Well, you've gotten a lot to get done in a short time. Let me know what you come up with and we can go over it before you put the final draft together. Okay?”

“Sure. I'm looking forward to it.”

No sooner had the dust settled from Wakeman's departure
and that of his henchman Scott than Marty Terwilliger showed up.
So much for my getting anything done this morning.
“Hi, stranger!” I greeted her. “I haven't seen much of you lately.”

Marty dropped into a chair in front of my desk. To my eye she was looking a bit sleeker than I'd seen her before.

“I've been, uh, busy,” she said, trying to stifle a smile.

“With a certain professor?” I countered.

“Yup. I was going to tell you about it—since I guess I figure I owe you, what with James and all—but like I said, I've been busy.”

“I'm glad,” I said. Marty had been on her own for a while now, and I thought she deserved somebody in her life—other than her dead ancestors. And she needed to get out of the Society now and then, get some fresh air. “So, are you just touching base, or do you need me for something?”

“Both. Maybe. Let's start with this murder thing out your way, on that piece of land Wakeman owns.”

I'd long since given up asking how Marty knew about everything that happened in Pennsylvania and half of New Jersey; the answer was usually from one of her relatives. “What about it?”

“Wakeman asked you to look at the history of the land, right?”

“Yes,” I said slowly.

“And that's right down the road from the Paoli battle site, right?”

“Yes again. Look, is this a Terwilliger family thing?” Marty's ancestor John Terwilliger had played an important role in the Revolution in and around Philadelphia, and Marty had been sorting through his extensive family papers for years, only a small part of the Terwilliger Collection she had Rich working on.

“Sort of. Do I have to explain about General Wayne?”

I held up one hand. “No, I think I've got that covered. I've been doing a little research of my own on the battle, although Lissa's been handling the bulk of it. It seems like Wayne was not a happy camper after the battle and wanted to prove the dismal failure was not his fault. Right?”

“Close enough. It was one of the nastiest battles of the war, and Wayne was caught with his pants down in a place he knew well. He insisted on a court martial to prove he was right, and he was in fact cleared.”

“So what's all this got to do with the murder? Wait—how much do you know about that?”

“Jimmy's filled me in on the bare outline. We'll come back to him. Anyway, you find a dead guy in the pond—you know, you've got to cut that out, Nell—and it turns out he had found a couple of bodies himself not far away, except those were old enough that they could have been soldiers from that battle. Jimmy's people are running the forensics on that. Right so far?”

“I guess.” I couldn't see where she was going with this, apart from her usual tendency to stick a finger in every pie she could.

Marty seemed to be enjoying herself. “You could count the Brits' casualties from that battle on one hand. They made sure everybody knew how well they'd done—although that kind of backfired on them, because the patriots got peeved that the redcoats had pulled off a sneak attack and gotten away unscathed. But anyway, if it turns out that there's a dead British soldier involved, and he was part of that battle, it would kind of change history, just a bit.”

“And George Bowen, who was a history buff, would know that,” I said, almost to myself. “Wait—why are you asking if there was a British soldier?”

“I heard about the buttons,” she replied smugly. I didn't bother to ask how. “So if that's the case, it kind of ups the ante, doesn't it? So what would George do next?”

“That's what we've been trying to figure out. Quite possibly, if I were him, I'd do a little in-depth research on the battle, and then try to find out who the dead soldiers were. If that's even possible. Sounds like the records for that battle are a little sketchy.”

“I agree. Have you talked to the Chester County Historical Society people?”

“Yes, of course I have. They knew George there, but he didn't bring this to them before he died.”

“Huh. Maybe he didn't have time. But the logical conclusion is that he must have told somebody, and that somebody must have been pretty unhappy about it, and most likely that got him killed.”

“Marty, James and I have already gotten that far. The question is, who would care enough to kill him? Who stood to gain anything? Wakeman's project doesn't sound like it's going to be affected, so I don't think it's related. Doesn't that more or less clear his people?”

Marty sagged just a little. “That's where I get stuck, too. You and Lissa come up with anything about the land?”

“Not yet, but we've barely had time to get started. Although Wakeman was here this morning, and he wants results by Friday, so I'm guessing we'll know a whole lot more by then.”

“That'll be the old stuff. Bowen was killed last week, and not by a ghost. Who're you looking at for it?”

I tried not to laugh. “Marty, that's not my job, remember? That's the local detectives', and the FBI's, at least in part.”

“Yeah, but you're the interface between the history of the place and the modern investigation. You're in a unique position. Tell me you haven't thought about it!”

“Of course I've thought about it.”

“And?” she challenged.

I tried to line my thoughts up before I spoke. “I don't think the list of suspects is very long, since it's unlikely this is a random killing. Wakeman has a stake in it—he's been planning on developing this property for a while, and I will say his plans sound pretty impressive, from what I've heard. But he said to my face that he thinks things will go forward regardless.”

“I've always heard that he's a straight shooter, and I can't see him killing anyone over this, even if it is his dream project. Next?”

“Unless George's wife, Pat, took out a large life insurance policy on him a couple of months ago, I'm inclined to think she's in the clear.” James had no doubt already checked out things like insurance policies and the family's finances. “Of course, maybe George brought home one too many pieces of muddy junk that pushed her over the edge.”

“Unless she's built like a linebacker, she couldn't have carried him and dumped him in the pond—that would have taken a man. Next?”

“Wakeman's project manager, Scott Mason, is young and eager. Maybe he saw George's discovery as a threat to the project and thought he'd do his boss a favor by covering it up and eliminating George?” Even if he was wrong, he might have believed it.

“Maybe. Keep him on the list. Who else?”

“There are the people at the township who could have a motive. I met a couple of them at that press conference the other day. It's their town, and I'm sure somebody there must have some negative feelings about Wakeman's plans.”

“Anybody want to see this project shut down?”

I shook my head. “Marty, I don't know. I haven't talked to any of them, or at least, I haven't asked them that kind of question.”

“Can you get to them?”

I was about to say no when I remembered that Scott had said he planned to meet with them. “The project manager said he'd be talking with them about past projects in the township that had historical significance. You know, see how they presented the idea to the public, how they found the funding—that kind of thing. I'm sure he'd be willing to include me if I asked. It's no doubt in public records, but it would be easier to get it directly.”

“So ask.”

I was beginning to feel pressured. “Fine, I will. Marty, why does this matter so much to you?”

“Because I want you and Jimmy to get on with your lives.”

“You think a murder investigation gets in the way of that? Heck, for us, that's business as usual. And what happened to your no-meddling policy?” This seemed to be a discussion we'd had before.

“I got tired of waiting. Are you even looking for a place?”

“Yes,” I said, hating the defensive note in my voice. “We looked at a few places yesterday, but nothing's been right. Can't we get through this investigation first? With Wakeman pushing, it shouldn't be long.”

Marty made a rude noise. “And then there'll be another investigation or something else in the way. Jimmy's a very patient guy, but you've got to move forward, Nell. He's not going to wait forever for you to figure things out.”

“I know. I get it. Can we take this conversation in some other direction, please?”

She gave me one more searching look, then reverted to her favorite subject, the Terwilliger Collection and the status of its cataloging. It was nearly noon by the time she stood up, and said, “I'm going to go check on Rich in the processing room and see what's he's accomplished while I've been . . . busy. See you later.” And she was gone, as abruptly as she'd arrived. Apparently her relationship with Ethan hadn't mellowed her all that much, or maybe she was saving all her directness for me.

“Eric?” I called out.

“Yes, ma'am?” he responded quickly.

“Do I have any meetings scheduled for the rest of the week?”

“Nope, all clear.”

“Then I'm going to try to set up a meeting in Goshen, so I'd be out of the office whenever I get it scheduled. I'll let you know.” I picked up Scott Mason's card from my blotter and punched in his number. It went to voice mail, but I left a message saying I'd like to be included in any meeting he held with the Goshen township officials. Then I dug back into the pile of paperwork that seemed to multiply on my desk when I wasn't looking.

I had just pulled out my file on the Wakeman project and was searching for the phone numbers I needed when Shelby stuck her head in my door. “You busy?” she asked.

“Always.” I smiled to soften the comment. “You need something?”

“I need lunch, and I feel like I haven't had a conversation with you for about a month. Wanna go get something to eat?”

“It couldn't have been that long,” I protested, flipping through my daily calendar. No, not a month, only a week. And I was hungry. Dealing with Mitchell Wakeman was hard work. “Sure, as long as we don't take too long. Where?”

“The sandwich place down the street is fine. It's not the food, it's the company, right?”

I gathered up my bag and led the way out of the building. As we walked the block or so to the restaurant, I said, “You know, you're right—I haven't seen much of you for a couple of weeks. It's this Wakeman project thing—you've heard the rumblings about that?” There was nothing secret about it anymore.

“Of course, but you can fill me in.”

“Well, the result has been that I've been spending a lot of time out in Chester County rather than here at my office. I hope that won't last much longer.”

“What's the man like?”

“I'll tell you over lunch.” We entered the restaurant, ordered sandwiches, and settled in. As we ate I told her about Wakeman and Goshen and the recent murder (George) and the earlier, more mysterious deaths (soldiers?) and how the FBI had come to be involved, and suburban housing in general, and the state of the union, and . . . The next time I looked at my watch, an hour had passed. I couldn't remember if Shelby had said more than ten words. “I'm sorry, I've been babbling on. Everything okay with you?”

“No problems. Fundraising is always slow in summer, since all the people with money are out of town. I'll be busier by September. How's the house hunting going?”

I looked at her quizzically. “Did Marty put you up to asking? You're tag-teaming me now?”

“What? No, of course not! I haven't seen much of Marty, either—usually she pops in at least once a day. It's been a lonely few weeks. But from where I sit, it looks like you've been dragging your heels with Mr. Agent Man. He wants you to move in together. You don't want to?”

“No, it's not that.” Was it? “But we've both been busy, and we haven't decided what we're looking for, and we've seen a couple of places but they just weren't right—”

Shelby cut me off. “Listen to yourself! I've never heard such a lame string of excuses. The man's a catch and he's in love with you. What's your problem?”

I faced her squarely. “Shelby, I don't know. He's a terrific guy. We're good together. But I'm stuck. I mean, I've spent years building a nice life for myself, but it never included somebody else. It's kind of hard to turn my head around overnight.”

“It's not overnight, lady—you've been seeing each other for months. It's a wonder he hasn't kicked you to the curb by now.”

I sighed. “I know. What do you think I should do?”

“Bite the bullet. Buy a house. You can't get an insurance policy for Happily Ever After, but you've got to try. If it doesn't work, you'll be back to where you are now, only a couple of years older and with a few more wrinkles. And no James.”

It was not a pretty picture. “I get it. And I appreciate your honesty. Don't hesitate to beat me up anytime you want to.”

Shelby stuck out her tongue at me.

“I'd better get back—I've got calls to make. And I'll get the check, since you provided the free psychotherapy.”

“Anytime.”