Dead End Street (11 page)

On my way to my office, I stopped by Shelby's office and flopped into a chair across from her desk.

“Hey, lady,” she greeted me. “You just getting in? You taking—what do they call it?—bankers' hours?”

“Nope, I was calling upon my fellow victim Tyrone at the hospital. He asked to see me, mostly to apologize, I think. My friend Meredith the Detective escorted me.”

“Oh, so now you're buddies with the lady cop?”

“Sort of. Her superiors want to close the case, call it a random shooting, but that doesn't feel right to her.”

“Interesting. You agree with her?”

“Maybe. I don't disagree. There's something odd about the whole thing. Why us? Why then? Why there?”

“Speaking of the ‘there,'” Shelby said, “I pulled what pitifully few files I could find about the property transfer. Nineteen seventeen, it was. At least at the time it was still
part of a row. The donor who left it to the Society in his will had bought it as an investment property, and it was kind of puny compared to his estate, the rest of which he left to his family, apart from a few other bequests. Maybe he knew it would be a pain in the butt for his heirs to get rid of so he passed it off to us.”

“Was he an axe murderer? A bootlegger?” I asked hopefully. Maybe there would be a way to spin this event somehow.

“What, you think there's a body or a cache of something valuable? Nope, he was a rather dull and ordinary citizen with some money, period. In case you're wondering, there are no descendants left to quibble about it. Sad to say, it's all ours. Have you called our lawyer yet?”

“No, I've been a bit busy. Maybe I'm afraid to ask the lawyer because I won't like what she tells me. Anyway, Marty dragged me out to the burbs yesterday to look at a colonial manor house that's going for free to the right person or organization—which basically boils down to one that will leave it exactly as is, forever.”

“Interesting. Is it a dump?”

“On the contrary, it's lovely, and in reasonably good shape. Let me ask you a hypothetical question, as a development person: How would you go about finding someone who wants it?”

“Could they live in it, like a resident caretaker?”

“Maybe. I didn't think to ask that. They might have to live in the slave quarters in the attic, though.”

“I think there are some places in Fairmount Park that operate like that. Or how about this: if a college or university
took it over, they could offer it to visiting faculty or honored guests, as long as they were careful with it. But the college would have to be somewhere near the house for that to make sense.”

“That's a thought,” I said, impressed. “Could you keep thinking about it and jot down any other ideas you have? I'm still trying to decide if it's worth taking to the board, or if it would just be a distraction.”

“That I can do. I can be creative, right?”

“Sure, as long as nothing in the building changes physically.”

“On a completely unrelated subject, how's Mr. Agent Man handling things?”

I sighed. “You mean, people on the street trying to kill me? He's being unusually attentive. I think he feels guilty that he can't protect me, even though he knows it's impossible unless he locks me in the basement. But it's kind of shaken him up. As it has me, of course.”

“I think it sounds sweet—shows you how he really feels about you. Does he have any opinions about the shooting?”

“Not that he's told me. He did say the only way he could take part in the investigation was if this turned out to be a hate crime. I can't see that happening. And yes, I appreciate that he worries about me. I'm not quite sure how to deal with that—we're both pretty independent.”

“Nell, you don't have to be so independent any more, get it? Let him beat his chest and take care of his woman. Anyway, are there no angry white supremacists in Philadelphia for him to hunt down?”

“Plenty of angry people of all colors, but I think the supremacists are outnumbered.”

“It only takes one with a gun.”

“All too true.” I stood up. “I'd better get to work—I haven't even seen Eric yet this morning. If it's still morning.”

“It is—barely. Shoo!” Shelby said, smiling.

Down the hall I greeted Eric. “Shelby says it's still morning, so good morning. Have I missed anything?”

“No, ma'am. Even the press calls have died down—must be some other crisis going on.”

“At least I'm not in the middle of it. Could you get the Society's lawyer on the phone, please?”

“Sure will.”

I'd barely had time to take off my coat and sit down when Eric called out, “Ms. Gould is on the line!”

“Thanks, Eric,” I replied, then picked up. “Hi, Courtney?” Courtney Gould was a bright young thing at a venerable old law firm in Center City, one that we'd been using for generations. But she knew her stuff, and I was pretty sure she'd act more quickly than her predecessor would have—he'd finally retired at eighty-seven.

“Nell, are you all right?” Courtney said quickly. “I saw the newscast. You must have been terrified. What on earth were you doing in that neighborhood?”

“Looking at a piece of property that we thought we'd gotten rid of a long time ago. Apparently somebody messed up the paperwork in 1917 or shortly after that. Can you look into it and see what our liabilities and our options are? Like, do we still own it, or can we wash our hands of it?”

“Sure, no problem. Just give me the details and I'll get to work on it. Sooner rather than later, I assume?”

“Well, now that it's public knowledge, I think we need to resolve it quickly.”

“I take it the City is involved?” Courtney asked.

“How did you guess? And now, of course, they're short-handed, since they've lost Cherisse Chapman. Do what you can and get back to me, will you? I'll e-mail you the particulars. And before you ask, we have nothing in our records that will help—we've checked. I hope you have more there. As far as we can tell, the Society acknowledged the bequest with a nice thank-you note to the family, but there's nothing about its sale in our records.”

“Of course. And I'm glad you're all right. You want the firm to send you flowers?”

“I'd rather have chocolates, but that's not really necessary. Thanks for the thought.”

“I'll get back to you ASAP,” Courtney said and hung up. I amused myself for a moment trying to imagine what the law firm could have put on the card with the flowers.
So glad you're not dead
?

So now back to work, if I could remember what I'd been working on only three days earlier. Board packet: done and out the door. “Eric?” I called out again.

He poked his head in the door. “Need something? Coffee?”

“Actually, coffee sounds good—I haven't had my morning ration. But I wanted to check if there's been any feedback from board members about the info packet you sent.”

“Not a peep. I'll get that coffee.” Eric disappeared down the hall.

I wasn't surprised. Normally our board didn't look at the information we sent them—which could be substantial—until the afternoon before the meeting, and then they skimmed it. It didn't worry me: nothing we had sent out this time around was controversial, including Eliot's nomination for the board, and I'd heard no objections about that.

But that reminded me . . . if I wanted to move forward on this neighborhood history project (still an
if
), I should talk to Eliot and pick his scholarly brain. I should have some sort of proposal in hand in time for the board meeting, even if I didn't end up moving forward with it. When Eric returned, bearing a cup of hot coffee, I said, “Thank you! Can you get me Eliot Miller on the line?”

“The professor? Sure.”

“Oh, and is there anything else on my schedule for today?”

“Nope. I think people are giving you plenty of space, after what happened. You are okay, aren't you?”

“Better than expected, but thank you for worrying, Eric.”

Eric had Eliot for me in thirty seconds, so I picked up. “Eliot, I'm glad I caught you! I have no idea what your course schedule is.”

“Nell, how are you? I have nothing scheduled before midafternoon. Marty has been keeping me updated on events, but I didn't want to intrude. Is this call about Society business?”

“Yes and no. It's not about your board nomination, but it
is
about what happened this week. Marty must have told you that we still seem to own that wretched piece of property in North Philadelphia?”

“She did. You haven't learned otherwise?”

“No, and I guess I don't expect to. I've asked our attorney to check into where things went wrong and what we should do about it. But I have to say, meeting Tyrone Blakeney and Cherisse Chapman, and seeing the area, was a real eye-opener for me.”

“I take it you've stayed out of that part of town before now?” Eliot asked.

“Yes, although based only on rumor and what I've read. Unfortunately that part of town lives up—or should I say down?—to its reputation. But now I wonder if we've been shirking our responsibility to the city's history by cherry-picking the best parts and ignoring the rest.”

“Understandably, if so—that's what your visitors want. What is it you'd like from me?”

“I have this very vague idea that the Society could do something about the city's fallen neighborhoods, based on the documents and items in our collections. Okay, call it white guilt if you want, but I feel we should make an effort. And I could use your expertise to fill in the gaps in my own education. Can we get together?”

“Sure. Lunch?”

“What, today?” I sputtered. “Well, sure, I guess.”

“Anybody else you want to include?”

“Like Marty, you mean? I'd rather we do this one-on-one. If the idea doesn't pan out, then I haven't wasted
anybody else's time. If we decide it's viable, then of course she'll be included. Is that okay? She's not the jealous-harpy type, is she? She knows I'm taken.”

Eliot laughed heartily. “I wouldn't call her that. Where would you like to meet?”

“Someplace with booths, so we can talk. You have any ideas?”

He mentioned a place that lay halfway between the Society and his office at Penn, and we agreed on one o'clock. I sipped my coffee and tried to figure out what questions I should ask the expert.

*   *   *

We arrived at the restaurant at the same time, and Eliot guided me to a comfortable booth at the back. I'd met him several times before, usually with Marty, and he had impressed me with his quick intelligence—and his sense of humor, which in the case of academics didn't always go hand in hand with expertise. I could see why Marty was smitten with him. Still, with a couple of failed marriages behind her, she was proceeding cautiously.

“You're looking well,” Eliot began once we were seated, “especially considering the circumstances.”

“Thank you, I think. My ducking reflexes are working very well.”

Once we had perused the menus and ordered, Eliot began, “You said on the phone that you wanted to talk about a neighborhoods project? After an encounter like yours, most people would run the other direction and never look back.”

“I feel some of that, but visiting that part of North Philadelphia was a revelation to me. It's so easy to stay in my nice safe part of the city and forget that the other parts even exist. But if I'm going to be a responsible historian, and the custodian of the Society, I can't—or shouldn't—do that. You know the Society and you know the city and its history, so you're the best person I can ask: What can we do?”

“I'm glad you came to me, Nell. Where do you want me to start?”

“Would you mind explaining just what your area of expertise is, and how it fits in the academic universe? I've read your résumé, of course, and it's in the board packet, but you'll have to translate some parts of it for me. It's been a long time since I studied anything academic.”

“Of course. Penn offers an interdisciplinary program within the College of Arts and Sciences, at both the undergraduate and graduate level. That means we can draw on faculty members across the university, and also reach out to others in the city. The subjects in which we offer classes range from urban industry to race relations to poverty and public policy, and also include such things as architecture and class, music and art. We encourage independent study projects involving a wide spectrum of subjects.”

“Wow. In a way I'm jealous—I wish I'd known about such things when I was in college. I was an English major, which doesn't help a whole lot in my current position.”

“I'm sure the grammar in the documents you send out is impeccable,” Eliot said, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Thanks a lot. So, given what Penn offers, what do you think the Society can do that would fill a niche?”

“Are you planning an exhibit?” he asked.

“No, we don't do that anymore. I was thinking of a booklet, or a series of small studies of the different neighborhoods, showing how they've evolved and changed over time, that could be combined as a single booklet at some future date. That we can support with our own collections.”

Eliot nodded. “That sounds appropriate, and manageable with your resources and staffing. My department might be able to arrange an internship, if you need the help.”

“And of course we already have Lissa, although we've been keeping her busy anyway. She's been a great asset.”

“I'm glad to hear that. Lissa is a very hard worker, and she knows her material well. But do allow her time to finish her degree work.”

“Of course—I don't want to hold her back. So, to return to this concept, is it appropriate to start with North Philadelphia? I'm asking not only because of my own experience there, but because it's so close to all the nicer parts of the city, the ones that tourists visit, but it feels like it could be on another planet.”