Razing the Dead (22 page)

“Oh God, how sad. Poor Eddie.”

“Poor Eddie may have killed a man to keep his secret,” I reminded her. “The article I saw online was pretty vague, and Eddie would've been young at the time, so the reporter was probably protecting him. But I'd guess Eddie didn't want the story of how his brother died to become common knowledge, which is in fact what is probably going to happen now that the old bodies have been discovered. News coverage has changed a lot, and I don't think they'd respect his privacy now.”

“What the heck do we do now?” Janet asked.

“I really don't know. All we've done is establish a potential motive for George's murder: Eddie wanted the bodies to stay buried, and he knew George would talk. That makes Eddie the most likely suspect. We don't know if George went to Eddie to tell him, or if Eddie just happened to cross paths with George right after he'd made his big find. But there's nothing remotely resembling proof of any of this. Still, you should be careful. If we're right, he's already killed one person.”

“But he has to realize he can't keep a lid on this now.”

“Still, just watch out. And don't tell anyone else what we suspect for the moment.”

“I'll stick close to my husband—that should make him happy. What about you?”

“I'll be in the city, so I'm not worried.” Not with my own personal FBI bodyguard. “I'll take that mug with me and give it to the FBI.” I stood up, retrieved the mug with a tissue, and retraced my steps to the break closet, where I carefully poured out the coffee, then slipped the mug into a large clean envelope I'd gotten from Janet—feeling absurdly foolish all the way—then stuffed the mug into my bag.

Janet walked me downstairs. “Well, this has been interesting. Is your job normally like this?”

I laughed. “More often than you might guess. I hope this will all be wrapped up soon. I think your cover story about a small exhibit was a good one, by the way. We should talk more about it, when all this is settled.”

“I'd like that. Thanks for everything—let me know if you need anything else.”

“I will, Janet. Take care.”

I retrieved my car and set off for Philadelphia with my bag of evidence.

I arrived in the city not long after noon. The drive gave
me time to think—always risky. I had to wonder how I kept finding myself in the middle of situations that involved murder and mayhem—and now I was dragging other people, like Janet, into them as well. It wasn't that I went looking for trouble, or that I thought I was some super sleuth, wiser than the police, the FBI, and anybody else who might be looking at a crime. What I did bring to the table was a different perspective: I knew history. I'd be a fish out of water in the investigation of a domestic killing or a street-corner drug shooting, but anything that had deep roots in the greater Philadelphia area and its history was my turf. Sure, I would have said it was unlikely that the discovery of the remains of two men who had fought and died in the Revolution—and oddly, I could name the precise day they had died—could point to the culprit in a killing that had taken place only a week or two earlier, but there it was. I'd be happy to be proved wrong. Maybe George Bowen had been killed by his wife's lover or a random stranger.

But I doubted it. In any case, my heart ached for Eddie Garrett.

Once I was back in my office, Lissa appeared promptly and handed me a sheaf of papers. “This is the draft. You want me to go away while you read it?” she asked anxiously.

“In a minute. First, come in and close the door, will you?” When she had, I said, “I met with Janet Butler and Eddie Garrett this morning in West Chester. While I was there, I got a call from James, who said that the DNA samples from the two bodies shows that they were brothers. So I think you got it right: they were the first Edward Garrett's sons and died in the aftermath of the Battle of Paoli. I've got a sample of Eddie's DNA in my purse. But I think Janet and I more or less showed our hand when we were talking to Eddie.”

Lissa seemed to take my statements in stride. “So he knows what you know?”

“Sort of. We didn't spell it out, but I think he knew what we were saying.”

“But why on earth would he kill anybody?”

“I think I can guess. I was doing some research on the Garrett family online last night, and I found an article about the death of a third Garrett brother, when he was a child. Apparently it was an accident involving a gun. Back then reporters were pretty discreet, but it seems all too likely that somehow Eddie was responsible for his brother's death, or at least believes he was. And if that's true, then finding the two bodies now must have brought it all back. He probably couldn't face having all of his own family history dragged out and examined, so he lashed out to silence George. But remember, this is still just a theory. We don't have proof.”

“That poor man,” Lissa said softly. “No wonder it was such a sloppy murder. And he must have moved the body to draw attention away from that burial, but he didn't count on the police bringing dogs in.”

“Criminals are not always smart people, and Eddie may have panicked, believed that silencing George would be enough to keep all of it quiet. George could have come to him first with his discovery, out of courtesy, since it had been his family's farm. Maybe he hoped Eddie would know something more. Poor George.”

“Wow,” Lissa said. “I never thought historical research could be so dramatic. What do I do with the report?”

“Hang on a moment.” I went around my desk and opened the door, then asked Eric, “Have Wakeman's people called?”

“Sure have,” Eric replied. “About four times. You're on for two o'clock tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Eric.” I went back into the office, shutting the door carefully behind me. “We have until two tomorrow to sort things out. I'll read what you've put together, and then I'll see James tonight, and I'll let you know in the morning if I think we need to make any changes. But we may not have enough information to include the full story of the two dead soldiers. Maybe you could include a brief discussion of that in your final draft, and we can decide tomorrow whether to present it to Wakeman. Sound OK?”

“That's fine. I'll get out of your hair now.”

After she'd left I read through what she'd given me. It was good, and I had few suggestions for changes. As it was currently structured, we could either skirt around the Revolutionary War graves entirely, or we had the option of making them a prominent talking point. That decision was up to Wakeman and his crew, though I had a feeling the timing would depend on whether any arrest was imminent.

I threw myself back into the ordinary business of running the Society for the rest of the day. It was a good distraction. Signing begging letters was seldom a life-or-death issue. It was close to six when I went downstairs to the lobby to find James already there, deep in conversation with Front Desk Bob. I tended to forget that Bob was a retired police officer, which is what gave his quiet presence such authority when it came to arguing with cranky patrons. That made him a colleague of James's, sort of.

“Am I the last one to leave?” I asked Bob.

“Just about. I'll do a check after you go, and lock up.”

“Thanks, Bob. Good night.”

Out on the front steps, I looked up at James. “Where to?”

“We walk.”

“We're going out for dinner?”

“Yes.” He didn't elaborate. I didn't press.

We strolled amiably for a few blocks. A public sidewalk was not the place to discuss a murder investigation—or anything else of substance, for that matter—so we made chitchat in a desultory fashion. It was warm and humid, but occasionally we caught a breeze from the Delaware River.

After several blocks we stopped in front of a restaurant I had walked by countless times but had never been in. “This is where we're going?” I asked.

“It is. Have you been here?”

“No, but it smells wonderful.” Behind a high iron fence I could see tables scattered around a courtyard surrounded by nineteenth—or even eighteenth?—century buildings. Tea lights flickered on the tables, illuminating the small vases filled with fresh flowers. It looked lovely—and I was reminded that I'd never eaten lunch.

We went through the gate, and James had a quiet word with the maître d', who nodded and escorted us to a table in a corner with an ivy-covered brick wall behind us. He held my chair for me, and I glared at him when he made a move toward my napkin; I was perfectly capable of unfolding a napkin for my lap, thank you. “Something to drink, perhaps?” he said.

James looked at me. “Wine?”

“Fine.”

James conferred with the maître d', who nodded and retreated quickly toward the kitchen.

When he was gone, I said, “Don't let me forget that I have a DNA sample for you in my bag.”

James cocked an eyebrow at me for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Here I try to create a lovely romantic evening, and this is what you say?”

He had a point, and I backtracked quickly. “I apologize. This is delightful, and I was hoping to get business out of the way so I could enjoy it.”
Good save, Nell.

“All right, I will remind you later. And before you ask, I have no new information on that case to offer. Do you?”

“No, not since I talked to you this morning. Although I think we spooked Eddie Garrett.”

“What was your impression of him?”

“Sad. Taciturn. Bitter. Physically strong, since he's done farmwork his whole life. Do I think he's a killer? I'm not sure.”

The maître d' reappeared with a bottle of wine in an ice bucket, and he and James went through the ritual of opening and tasting. Ultimately the waiter was allowed to pour us two glasses, then he distributed menus. Poring over the menus took another two minutes and some consultation, but finally we conveyed our orders and were left in peace.

I distracted myself with carefully buttering a roll (warm from the oven, and the butter was unsalted), because I had no idea what to say. I had the strong feeling that he'd set up this lovely dinner with a purpose in mind. I knew there were things I
didn't
want to say, but I also knew that at some point I had to say them. I loved James—that much I knew. But I still wasn't sure how much I wanted to change my life for him. I knew he wanted more, and a part of me did, too. So what was my problem? I looked up to find him watching me, and his expression broke my heart; it was so vulnerable, so uncertain. I wanted to fall back on a challenging
What?
but I knew what.

“I'm sorry,” I said softly. “I'm not being fair to you. About us, I mean.”

“So you're not apologizing for inserting yourself in the middle of yet another criminal investigation?” His mouth twitched, so I knew he wasn't serious.

“I don't go looking for them, and you know it. But I'll concede that they're a distraction.”

“That they are.”

A waitperson appeared and silently slid our appetizers before us. They looked too pretty to eat, but that didn't stop me.

Between bites I said, “You aren't going to go all macho on me and tell me to tend to my knitting and stay out of police and FBI business, are you?”

“Heaven forbid. I know it wouldn't work anyway. And I acknowledge that you do bring a unique perspective to certain cases.”

“Thank you. I'm glad you feel that way. I'm also glad I can help—I couldn't just sit by when I thought I knew something that might make a difference.”

“And I wouldn't ask you to. But know that I worry about you, about your safety.”

“And you don't think I worry about yours? Your job is a heck of a lot more dangerous than mine.”

“Most of the time, anyway,” he agreed.

The appetizer plates were whisked away, to be replaced by our entrees. I took one look at my plate, and said, “Can we table this discussion until we've finished eating? This looks incredible, and I'd hate to waste it.”

“I agree. And there's no hurry.”

We ate. No, we more than ate: We savored. Reveled. Wallowed. Gorged. I ran out of verbs. How had I never known about this little gem of a restaurant, mere blocks from where I'd worked for years?

“How did you ever find this place?” I asked James, all but licking the plate to capture the last few smears of an exquisite sauce.

“Marty.”

“Marty doesn't do food.”

“But she knows about it.”

“Marty apparently knows about everything in a two-hundred-mile radius. But I'll thank her for this. Did Marty know we were coming here?”

“Yes.”

I pondered that for a moment. Maybe Marty was trying to nudge—or given Marty's lack of subtlety, shove—our relationship forward. I opened my mouth to speak, and the server appeared again. “Dessert?”

I looked at James, and he looked at the server. “Espresso. Two.”

The server collected our plates and disappeared. I love dessert; I always order dessert. James knew that. But tonight I
didn't
want dessert—and James knew that, too. I looked around the charming courtyard, filled with happy couples enjoying the food and one another's company. The sun had sunk low, although it was still light, and there were shadows in the corners. I felt tears pricking my eyes.

I turned to face James squarely. “Are you ending things with me?”

He looked shocked. “What? No! Of course not. Why the hell would you think that?” His vehemence attracted a few curious looks from people at nearby tables.

“Because this would be the perfect setting. You know I wouldn't make a scene. You've softened me up with good food and fine wine. Now you're supposed to say something like ‘Nell, I don't think this is going to work.'”

“How could you think such a thing? Nell, I love you. Maybe we've hit a couple of speed bumps, but nothing serious. I brought you here because I thought you'd like it. And . . .”

“I do like it, very much. What's the
and
?”

“This restaurant is attached to the hotel there. I took a room for the night.”

That I had not expected. “Why?”

“Because I thought we needed neutral ground—not your place, not my place—if we're going to make some serious decisions. We have things to talk about, yes, but it's not about ending this, it's about moving forward.”

“Oh. Well, then. Good idea.” James was one smart man.

The server appeared with our espressos. We finished off the last of the wine in the bottle, then drank our coffee silently. But it was not an ominous silence.

No bill appeared, so James must have arranged to have it added to the hotel bill. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“I am.” And I followed him into the building.