Razing the Dead (17 page)

I settled back at my desk and started making phone
calls. A couple of hours later, the office phone rang and Eric poked his head in the door. “A Ms. Butler on the phone for you?”

“Oh, right, from Chester County. I'll pick up.”

When Janet came on the line, she said, “Hi, Nell. Are you going to be out this way anytime soon?”

“I'm trying to plan something out there for this week, actually. Why?”

“I've been going through some stuff, and I found a few things I think you ought to see. Nothing earthshaking, but they might be relevant. But you don't need to make a special trip just for those.”

I trusted Janet's judgment on anything related to Chester County history. “I'd love to take a look at them. Let me see if I can get this other meeting scheduled and we'll firm up the date. And thanks for calling.” After I'd rung off, I reflected again how glad I was that Janet was willing to work with me rather than resenting my involvement. I resolved to make sure that Wakeman acknowledged her contribution to whatever solution we arrived at eventually.

Scott Mason returned my call after three. “Sorry it took me so long to get back to you, but that meeting ran on and on. I've got an appointment in Goshen tomorrow morning. Your message said you wanted to talk with the township people—you want to meet me at the township building at, say, ten?”

“That sounds fine. Who's the meeting with?”

“Marvin Jackson, the township manager, and Joseph Dilworth, who's on the historic commission.”

“Sounds good. I've met both of them, but only briefly. Thanks for including me. I'll see you there.” I debated a moment about involving Lissa, but decided that with a looming deadline she'd be more useful staying at the Society and pulling together the research on the Garrett farm. I could report back any important details, and she could talk with them at greater length later. If there was a later.

Then I hit the speed dial button for James's private line. He answered quickly. “What's up?”

“I'm meeting with Scott Mason at the Goshen township offices tomorrow morning to talk to Marvin Jackson and Joseph Dilworth about their past historic projects. So I should probably head home again after work tonight.” I realized I wasn't sure what message I was sending him: did I want him to join me there or not?

There was an infinitesimal hesitation before he answered. “All right. Dinner tomorrow?”

“Sounds good. I should get to the office sometime in the afternoon.” I debated briefly about mentioning Marty's lecture, and decided that would be better handled in person. “Oh, by the way—have you FBI types looked at the backgrounds for the township employees?”

“I can't talk about that, Nell.”

Another topic for tomorrow night. At least then I'd know something more about the people involved, face-to-face. “Okay. I'll call you tomorrow when I get here and you can let me know where you want to meet.”

“I will. Take care.” He hung up first. I'd driven in, and I arrived home while it was still daylight and grabbed my mail on the way in. Maybe most of the commuters were down at the shore—I wasn't going to complain. I dumped the mail on the dining table, where it joined at lot of other unsorted stuff, and went upstairs to change into something grubby and comfortable. Back downstairs I wandered aimlessly to the kitchen. Spending so much time in the city with James had wrought havoc with my grocery shopping, and I didn't feel like getting in the car and going out to find food. I petulantly told myself that if I lived alone I could eat cereal and ice cream for dinner whenever I wanted, so there. Very mature.

Instead of cereal I made myself some marginally more grown-up scrambled eggs, and sat at my table and looked through the mail while I ate. Mostly junk mail and solicitations—as a former fundraiser I sympathized with the senders, but I didn't write checks to them—but one letter caught my eye: it was from the group of psychologists who owned the “big house” for which my little building had once been the carriage house. I opened the letter with some trepidation. Was the group telling me that they had sold the front property to someone else? I wasn't sure what that would mean, but the area was kind of transitional. The grand old houses now held a shifting mix of multifamily residences and discreet commercial offices such as those of “my” psychologists. I didn't see whoever handled zoning in Bryn Mawr loosening the restrictions anytime soon, but odd things could happen.

The letter was a preliminary offer to buy my little property. It seemed that the practice was prospering and they wanted more space, and had decided that my ex–carriage house would make an excellent site for group sessions. The price they preemptively offered made me blink and look again: it was more than twice what I had paid for the place a decade ago, admittedly before a lot of fixing up, and it was more than fair by current market standards.

Was this a sign from above? Had James somehow exerted pressure on the group to buy me out? I smiled at that paranoid thought. My first impulse was to call him and tell him about the very nice offer, but after a moment of consideration I decided to sit on it overnight and see how I felt about it in the morning. I could talk to James about it at dinner tomorrow. At the rate that list of topics was growing, it was going to be a very long dinner.

The next morning I slept in, since I didn't need to be in Goshen until ten and it was a relatively short drive away; I'd even scheduled lunch with Janet. But I found I was restless. After I'd washed up my few breakfast dishes, I kind of drifted around my small home, looking at it with a new eye. A decade ago I'd transformed it from a badly renovated rental unit to a comfortable home—for one. I'd been happy here, though—or had I just been kidding myself? What did it mean, that I'd built myself a home with room for only one person?

Finally, I couldn't stand fidgeting any longer and decided to leave early. I could sit in my car in the parking lot and make notes of the questions I wanted to ask, if I arrived with time to spare. Since I was driving against traffic headed toward Philadelphia, I took Route 30 to Paoli and then turned onto the Paoli Pike, following it to the Goshen township building, a sturdy, modern brick structure. Scott Mason was already waiting, ever the eager beaver.

“Good morning,” I called out as I got out of my car. The air still felt pleasantly cool, although it promised to be hot later. “Are you an early bird, or do you live near here?”

“Hi, Nell. I live in the city, but I thought I'd allow myself plenty of time for traffic. I forgot it would all be going the other direction, so here I am. You have any questions before we go in and meet with the guys?”

“Tell me about who we're seeing?”

“The township manager, Marvin Jackson—he's an outside hire, but he's been here for a while—and the head of the historical commission, Joe Dilworth. He's local. That's a seven-member board, and advisory only, but they do carry some weight in decision making. Other people said they might drop by—like the township engineer and the township solicitor, but they've already been involved in plenty of meetings, and they're on board with the project going forward. Nobody's raised any new issues. So my main goal today is to touch base with the manager, bring him up to speed on what impact the death might have on the plans, and talk about strategy with the historical commission. As you may know, not too many years ago the township did a thorough renovation of the old blacksmith shop not far from here, and there's also a small historic district—I sent Lissa the details on all that before the end of the day yesterday. Both have been well handled and the community has responded positively to them. You may have noticed as you drove over here that even the corporate park you passed maintains a lot of green space and a couple of the old stone buildings. That's the feeling Mr. Wakeman is aiming for, maybe even a little more private with the addition of some more greenery over time.”

“It sounds lovely. So you've been working with the township staff from the beginning?”

“I have. They're a good bunch. And what's more, old Ezra laid the groundwork well. He made his plans known to the township well before he passed on, so everybody had time to get used to the idea. He was a supervisor for the township for decades and was always respected, so people listened to him. It's been a pleasure to work on this, and everything has gone really well—at least, up until George Bowen's unfortunate death.” He looked quickly at his watch. “We should go in now.”

I followed him into the building, where a pleasant receptionist escorted us to a well-lit conference room. Three men were already there. They greeted Scott, and then he introduced me—again, as it turned out, since we all recognized each other from the press conference. Coffee was offered and accepted. While we poured from the carafe on the table, Scott handed out copies of stapled documents.

“As you can see, this is simply an update on documents you already have,” he explained. “The numbers have held remarkably steady, and we're ready to proceed along the lines of the original schedule.”

“What about the murder?” The township manager, Marvin Jackson, said bluntly. “You going to wait until the cops have figured that out?”

“We're hoping that won't take long, Marv. After all, we have the best minds of the local police working on it, plus FBI assistance. You knew George, didn't you?”

“Sure did. Good guy, did his job well. He really cared about Goshen.” The men observed an awkward moment of silence.

“How did George feel about this project?” I asked.

The township men exchanged a glance. “I think it made him sad to see one more parcel lost—we've already got that corporate park up the road. But he knew what it would mean for the township.”

“What exactly was his job?” I went on.

“Zoning officer. He made sure local codes were enforced. We're not that big a township, so people who work here kind of wear different hats. George kept an eye on most building projects, even things like rebuilding a chimney or installing lawn sprinklers. Anything that needed a permit, really. He liked it—he enjoyed talking to people, and he wasn't hard-nosed about it. If somebody was having problems getting a home repair project done, he'd cut them some slack. But he didn't forget about it, either—he'd nudge people gently until it was finished and he could sign off on it.”

“People must have liked him.”

“Yeah, they did. Last person I would have expected to be murdered. I don't know anybody who ever said a bad word about him.”

Scott seemed to be fidgeting, no doubt impatient to move the meeting along and get back to the city. “Joe, tell Nell about the historic district.”

Joe smiled at me, then sat back in his chair and proceeded to outline the entire forty-year history of the Goshen historic district, now a national historic district. A variety of buildings had been moved there from different parts of the township, but had been carefully integrated so they looked as though they had always been there. It had proved a mildly popular local attraction over the past decade or so.

“Upkeep comes out of the township budget, right?” I finally said, when Joe seemed to be winding down.

“Sure does.” He nodded. “We contribute some basic maintenance for the buildings, but there's always more. You should know all about that.”

I smiled at him. “I sure do. Did the township make any effort to acquire the Garrett property?”

Marvin addressed that question. “Unless Ezra had decided to give it to us free and clear, there was no way we could have afforded it. He'd cut a deal with Wakeman before we even thought about it, but he made sure there were some restrictions about what could and couldn't be done on it. He brought it to the township as a courtesy, since he had every right to sell, but we couldn't find anything to object to.”

I filed that away for future thought. “Mr. Dilworth—Joe—you said that the Garrett land had been in the family for a long time?”

“Since Goshen was first settled,” Dilworth replied. “That's why we were so glad that the land wouldn't be chopped up. There's a lot of history there.”

“I look forward to learning more about it. It sounds as though Ezra Garrett was an impressive man.”

“That he was. He's been gone for a while now, but he's still missed.”

“What about his sons? How did they feel about their dad selling the place?”

“Will and Eddie? Heck, there was no future in a run-down dairy farming operation, and they weren't about to hold on to a prime piece of real estate out of sentiment, even if it has been in the family for centuries. Wakeman gave Ezra a fair price, and the kids inherited the proceeds. To be honest, I'm kinda glad Ezra handled it the way he did—at least Wakeman is keeping the parcel intact, and he's promised to make this a classy development, not a bunch of ticky-tacky houses. Right, Scott?”

“Exactly,” Scott agreed. “Mr. Wakeman knew and liked Ezra, and they worked it out between them. We intend to follow through in that spirit.” He hesitated a moment. “Look, would it be in bad taste if we named something after George Bowen? A street, or maybe a community center? You know the people around here better than I do.”

The township men were nodding thoughtfully. “Might be a nice idea. Let us think about it, okay? Nobody has to decide this right now.”

Scott looked relieved. “Of course not. You can ask around, see what the response is.”

Marvin rubbed his hands together; he looked like he was eager to end the meeting. “Anything else we can help you with today? Ms. Pratt, you and your people are looking at the history of the place, right?”

“We are. Does anyone here know anything about those older bodies found on the land?” I asked, curious to see how they would respond.

Marvin deferred to Joseph, who seemed happy to answer. “Ms. Pratt, we're sitting on a lot of history here. We turn up musket balls and old tools and bottles all the time. No bodies until now, but it's not really surprising. If you know anything about the Paoli Massacre, you know it was a mess. Who knows how many other bodies might have met the same fate?”