Razing the Dead (24 page)

“I know, or at least the rational part of me does. But it still hurts. Funny how history comes back to haunt us, isn't it?”

Even the sad news about Eddie Garrett couldn't dampen
my spirits altogether. After talking things through with James, I felt like a huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders—one I hadn't even recognized I was carrying. For years I'd done a good job of
not
thinking about a lot of things, like what had happened with my family and my marriage, and I hadn't realized how much it was dragging me down. And it had taken a catastrophic event to make me understand it. And James.

I still wasn't entirely sure I deserved James. He was smart and good at a job he liked and nice to his extended family and honest and brave and true and all that good stuff—and he loved me. Of that I had no doubt, for how else could anyone have put up with my vacillating?

We finished up our breakfast quickly and packed up what little we had, and then strolled out onto the street, side by side. The sun was shining, there was a cool breeze, and all that was missing were a few bluebirds and butterflies and maybe a rainbow. At the corner I turned toward the Society, and James followed. “Wait, don't you work in the other direction?” I teased.

“I'm escorting you home—figuratively, at least.”

“Oh. Thank you.” We took our time covering the few blocks to the Society building, enjoying the moment. When we arrived, I said, “Will there be more fallout from . . . Eddie's death?”

“For me, possibly. I can keep you out of it.”

“I'm already in it—I just want to figure out what to say to Wakeman. I bet he thought the whole deal would be easy when Ezra agreed to the sale, and now all this happens. Oh, and I should talk to Janet, too—I don't know if she'll have heard the news. Will I see you tonight?”

“I hope so. I'll call you during the day if there are any new developments.”

“Let me know where we're going to be, okay?” If I recalled, my car was still parked across the street, with a whopping bill, no doubt. But, oh, last night had been worth it!

I let myself into the building and went upstairs to find that Eric had beaten me to the office yet again. “Hey, Eric. Can we use the conference room for our meeting with Wakeman? He may decide to bring his staff.” Or he might not bring anyone at all, if he was discouraged by the events that kept springing up like mushrooms around his beloved project.

“Already booked,” he said.

“I should have guessed. Have you by any chance seen Lissa yet?”

“She's in your office. You want coffee?”

“Sure.”

When I walked into my office, Lissa was sitting on the settee, scribbling edits on printed pages. “Did you ever go home last night?” I asked.

She looked up, dazed. “What time is it? No. I figured I'd go over this with you, then run home for a quick shower and change before our meeting at two. It is still at two, right?”

“Yes, but I have some new details and you may have to make a few changes.” Eric appeared with a mug of steaming coffee, and I waited until he'd returned to his desk before resuming, glad of the delay. “You know about my meeting with Janet Butler and Eddie Garrett yesterday. This morning James got a call that Eddie Garrett killed himself sometime during the night. He left a note confessing to the murder of George Bowen.” It still hurt me to say that. Although I know it wasn't rational, I felt responsible for pushing Eddie to such a drastic solution. The fact that the whole story was likely to have come out eventually was little comfort.

“Oh my God,” Lissa said, trying to process the new information. “Oh, wow. Do we assume Wakeman will know about this?”

“Probably somebody on one or more police forces will tell him, right?”

“Yeah, sure. He's got friends everywhere, doesn't he? So what do we put in the report?”

Based on my half hour of absorbing the news and its ramifications, I said, “I think we go with the straight history part of it—who owned the land over the centuries. I think you can put together a separate appendix about the dead soldiers and Eddie Garrett's connection to them, for Wakeman's eyes only, and let him decide what he wants to do with it. I don't think it's our place to tell the world, no matter how juicy a story it might be. Wakeman asked for a simple report on the history of the farm, and that's what we'll give him. If he wants more, let him ask.”

Lissa thought hard for a moment, her fatigue clear on her face. “I think I agree. And it makes my job easier, because the core stuff is done. You want to see another draft?”

“No, I think what you've already done is great. Make those last few changes, print me out a copy, give one to Eric to make copies for the meeting, and go home and take a nap. Well, once you add that other bit, just for Wakeman's copy.”

“Thanks, Nell. You want me at the meeting, right?”

“Of course I do. You did all the work.”

“Then I'll see you later.”

After she had left, I checked the time. It was still early, but maybe Janet would already be in her office. I'd rather she heard the news from me than from a cop or not at all.

She picked up after the first ring. “Nell?”

From the tone of her voice I could tell she knew. “You heard?”

“I did. A friend who works for the township called me. What an awful thing. I feel so guilty. And so bad for Eddie.”

“I know what you mean. Maybe no one could have accused him of killing George Bowen, but I guess he couldn't handle having everyone know about his role in his brother's death, which was bound to come out once the dead soldiers had been found. There was no putting the genie back in the bottle.”

“Poor Eddie,” Janet echoed my comment. “What are you going to tell the Wakeman people?”

“I told Lissa just now that we should stick with the simple history. I'll let him know the rest of the story, but privately. If he wants to use the information, it's up to him.”

“Fair enough. Thanks for calling, Nell. Despite everything, I enjoyed working with you.”

“Me, too. And I was serious about that idea for an exhibit. Let's talk about it later, when the dust settles. Keep in touch.” As I hung up I wondered if Wakeman would go as far as to shut down the project, but somehow I doubted it. From what I'd learned, he'd had his heart set on this for a long time.

I muddled through the next few hours. I made a few phone calls, including one I'd been putting off for a while. But my mind was somewhere else, or rather several somewheres, bouncing from yesterday's conversation with Eddie Garrett and the way his face changed when he realized I knew the story, to several memorable moments last night with James. For all that he was a government agent, he was an extraordinarily kind and patient man. I was staring into space, no doubt with a small smile on my face, when Eric, followed by Lissa, came in to announce that Mitchell Wakeman was waiting downstairs.

I brought my wandering attention back to the present. “Thank you, Eric. Will you go down and get him, and escort him up to the conference room?”

“Sure thing. Everything's set up in there.”

When Eric had left, I asked Lissa, “Are you ready?”

“I hope so. No matter how it goes, Nell, thanks for this opportunity. I think we academic types tend to forget that history is still very much with us, and we've seen that this week.”

“I know what you mean. Well, let's do this thing.”

We were waiting in the conference room when Mitchell Wakeman stalked in—alone. I wasn't sure whether this was a good or bad sign.

“You heard about Garrett?” he demanded.

“I did.”

“You know why he did it?”

“I do. Why don't we sit down and talk about it? Will Scott or anyone else from your team be joining us?”

“Nope. I wanted to get the facts first. I'll pass along whatever I think they need to know.”

He dropped into a chair. I handed him one of the copies of the reports. “We decided to break this up into two parts. The first is the history of the farm and its place in the community. The second is about those two soldiers—for your eyes only, if you choose, and there's more I can add that we didn't write down.”

“Let me read 'em first.” He took them both, then started leafing through the first report. I glanced briefly at Lissa, and then we sat in silence while Wakeman read. Thank goodness he was a fast reader, and it didn't take long. When he was finished, he put the papers down, sat back in his chair, and rubbed his hands over his face. “You said there's more?”

“Yes. We know the dead soldiers were brothers, and we suspect that they were members of the Garrett family, fighting for opposite sides, and that the family passed down the story. And that's why Eddie killed George Bowen, and then himself. He was involved in the shooting death of his brother when they were both children, and he couldn't face it all coming out again.”

“You got proof?”

“We can compare Eddie's DNA with the others, if it's necessary.”

“Who else knows?”

“Apart from Lissa and me? James Morrison, the FBI agent you called in, and Janet Butler in West Chester. No one else.”

“Will it come out?”

“Do you want it to?” I parried. “Odds are high it will reach the press eventually, since there's already been coverage about the bodies' discovery. If you want to put your own spin on it, now's the time. Do you plan to move forward with the project?”

“Hell, yes. I've got too much invested in this to walk away now. And I don't mean just money. Let me think.”

He thought. Lissa and I waited. I wasn't even sure what outcome to hope for.

Finally he sat up again and slapped both hands on the table. “First, I've got to thank you for finding all this out and then for keeping it quiet. I think you're right—it's too good a story for the press to ignore, and there's probably somebody nosy enough to keep digging, so I'll turn it over to my people and let them work out how we can use it. But I owe you—both of you here—and you'll get what's coming to you. And I guess I owe that lady in West Chester, too. Look, I'm going to put together another press conference, and I want you on the podium.”

“I won't sugarcoat it.”

“I didn't ask you to. You can't mess with history, and I wouldn't want to.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

Wakeman stood up abruptly. “I gotta get this thing rolling. Thanks for everything. We'll be in touch.” He strode out of the room, and I rushed to catch up so I could take him downstairs.

In the poky elevator, I asked him. “Why is this project so important to you?”

Wakeman sighed. “I've built a lot of things around here. I'm proud of them, and I've made a lot of money. This one, though—it's not about the money, it's about what's the best way to live in the world today. I wanted to make a model for the future. And then the past popped up in the middle of it. Maybe there's a lesson in that. But the idea is still good. It'll work.”

“I hope it does.” I let him out of the elevator and watched him head toward the front door, and then the elevator doors closed and I pressed the button for the third floor again.

Upstairs, Lissa was still hovering anxiously outside my office. “Everything okay?” she asked.

“You know, I think it is. When I first met the man, I hoped he was basically a decent guy, and I haven't seen anything to change my mind. Don't worry. If he doesn't come up with a check soon, I'll make it right with you and then I can hound him so you won't have to. But it occurs to me that the Society could probably use you for other assignments like this, as a contractor. You know, the genealogy of building sites or houses or the like? On a project-by-project basis. If Wakeman puts in a good word for you, more people might be interested.”

“That sounds great, Nell! And I could fit it in around my graduate course work. Thanks a lot!”

“Hey, we all win—you did a great job on this, with too little time and a few unexpected distractions. Now take the rest of the day off and have some fun.”

“I'll do that.” She left my office with a smile on her face, but I noticed that instead of heading toward the elevator she went down the hall toward Ben's cubicle. Interesting.

Eric came in and handed me a few message slips. “Agent Morrison called while you were in your meeting. He said I didn't need to interrupt you, but he'll stop by at five and pick you up.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Nope. Just to meet him outside—he'll be driving.”

I was on the sidewalk outside the Society waiting for
James when he pulled up. He opened the door for me. “Get in.”

“You do remember I have a car parked across the street?” I said, climbing in anyway.

“We'll deal with that later. Buckle up.”

“Where are we going?” I said as I complied.

“You'll see.”

The man was full of surprises these days. I wondered if Marty had had a hand in this one, too, or if she'd just given him instructions on how to woo reluctant me. I wasn't going to complain. Besides, James looked like he was enjoying himself.

I was mildly curious when he took the Schuylkill Expressway heading west, which meant we were actually going north. I made a point of studying his profile as we passed the Fairmount Water Works on the other side of the river. That was the site where James had been injured, and it was going to be a while before I could look on that view without feeling a pang. The traffic was surprisingly light, given that it was a sunny Friday, one of the last of the summer, although generally most of the traffic escaping the city was heading east for the shore.

After a few miles, he asked, “How was your meeting with Wakeman?”

“Surprising. He came alone—no entourage. I think he was expecting bad news and wanted time to digest it before he shared it.”

“So he wasn't surprised by what you told him?”

“Not entirely. He read through our report, and he took it well, though—kind of sad, and quiet. I guess I expected more bluster. He thanked us, and he said we'd get something for our efforts, although he didn't say what, and I didn't ask. By the way, I think I'm going to try to keep Lissa on at the Society as a researcher for hire. She did a good job, and her specialty is local history, so maybe we can create a new niche for her—building historian or something like that. Do you think Ben will be happy about that?”

“Ask him. Or Lissa. I told you, I don't mess with other people's romantic lives.”

“Ha! So you're saying they might have one.”

“No, I'm not. But if they do, I wouldn't mess with it.”

“Obviously you're much too busy managing your own romantic life, right?”

We talked happy nonsense for a few more miles as we wended our way around the western edge of the city. Then he veered off on Wissahickon Avenue, still traveling west, away from the city. I knew the area, but not well. James seemed to know exactly where he was going. The farther we went, the greener the streets became, and the larger the houses, with more space between. Chestnut Hill, I guessed, a beautiful—and pricey—neighborhood.

A few more turns, and then he pulled into a driveway that led up a hill. There was a house sitting on a rise in the middle of a surprisingly large expanse of lawn. He stopped in front of a set of steps and parked.

“Are we meeting someone here?” I asked.

“We're meeting a house. Come on.”

He climbed out of the car and came around to my side and politely opened my door. I closed it behind me and looked up at the house. Late Victorian, I guessed, fieldstone, its trim painted a rich, dark red. Three stories with a mansard roof and a porch running across the front, with what looked like original gingerbread woodwork. I looked at James, who was watching me with a peculiar expression that seemed to combine excitement and apprehension.

“Are we going in?”

“Yes.” He let me precede him up the steps, and then pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He held the door open for me to enter.

I stepped inside and stopped in my tracks.
Oh my.
My first impression was that the interior was largely untouched: no idiotic remuddling or well-intentioned “improvements.” The second was that it had been lovingly maintained. All the woodwork was gleaming with varnish but looked as though it had never been painted. The ornate door and window moldings had to be nearly a foot wide.

I stepped tentatively forward. Living room—no, parlor—on the right, running the full depth of the house, with a glorious bay window at the back and an original fireplace with an elaborate overmantel and tiled surround that had me salivating. I hated to tear myself away from it, but I knew there was more to see. I crossed the hall to a narrow dining room, and behind that was a fully remodeled modern kitchen with a huge refrigerator and tiers of cabinets. Back stairs led upward, and beyond the kitchen I could see a wall of windows suggesting a sunroom.

I turned to James, who had followed me like an eager puppy. “Okay, what are we doing here?”

“Do you like it?”

“I think it's spectacular.”

“Five bedrooms, three baths, over half an acre of land, and parking for three cars,” he recited. “Oh, and it's three blocks from the train line.”

“James, what are you saying? You're seriously considering this place? For us?”

“Yes for us, but only if you like it.”

I couldn't imagine living in such a splendid place, but I knew I wanted to. “Can we possibly afford it?”

James named a figure that made me gulp. “What's that come out to in real-world terms? Like how much we would pay a month?” I wasn't good at calculating mortgage payments in my head. The answer he gave meant it would be tight, but between us it was doable . . . particularly if we could pay a good chunk up front. Like the kind of money the psychiatrists were offering for my carriage house.

“Okay,” I said.

He stared at me. “You mean, yes, you like it? Yes, let's do it?”

Poor man, he was almost quivering with eagerness. “There's something I've been meaning to tell you.” I fished around in my bag and pulled out the offer letter—I'd brought it with me that morning. I pulled the letter out of its envelope and handed it to James.

He scanned it quickly, then looked at me. “They're serious?”

“They are. I told them yes this morning.”

“We're buying this house?” he said, just to be sure.

“Yes. We are.”

He let out a long sigh. “Good, because I made an offer for it this morning.”

“Smart man.”

I caught a glimpse of the happy, boyish James—the one the Bureau had never met—when he grabbed me up then and swung me around, right in the kitchen.

“Now that I've already agreed, you might as well show me the rest of the house now.”

“That's right, I can't believe you said yes before you even looked upstairs.”

“You had me at the fireplace,” I said cheerfully. “Let's go on up. And can we take the back stairs? I've always loved back stairs—they're like one step above a secret passage.”

After we looked around from the attic to the basement and back again, we circled the spacious yet private yard. I said, “I thought you said you weren't going to mow lawns. There's a lot of lawn out here.”

“With what we'll be paying monthly, we can afford to hire someone. You're sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure. Oh, wait—did Marty have anything to do with finding this place?”

“She did not. She hasn't seen it. I found this one all by myself, thanks to all that online research.”

“You are brilliant. When are we going to tell her?”

“I'm guessing in about an hour—we made plans to meet for dinner. She's bringing Ethan along.”

“Have you met him?”

“Nope, not yet. You?”

“No. She's been very secretive about him. I'm glad she's got someone, though. She wasn't just feeling competitive, was she, now that she's got us settled?”

“Hey, Marty does what Marty wants to do.”

Since we had time to spare, I had to go back and study the fireplace again. It looked even better the second time around. Then I drifted back to the ornate window overlooking the lawn. James came up behind me and folded his arms around me.

“Happy?” he said into my hair.

“Very. You are an extraordinary man, and I love you. When can we move in?”

“I think the paperwork may take a month. We can stay at your place until then. Or we might have to stay at a hotel . . . I think I know a nice one.”

We beat Marty and the mysterious Ethan Miller to the restaurant and ordered a bottle of champagne, because I was certainly ready to celebrate. And we could surprise Marty, which was a rare occurrence.

But in the end, Marty surprised us first. She grinned at us as she made introductions. “Ethan, this is my cousin Jimmy, and my friend and colleague and sometimes partner in crime Nell Pratt.”

We shook all around. Then Ethan said, “Marty didn't tell you, did she? My mother was a Korean war bride, and my father was a GI Mayflower descendant—the best of two worlds, I always thought.”

I decided I liked Ethan. Before we could all sit down again, I had to tell Marty. “We bought a house!”

“Without consulting me?” Marty said in mock dismay. “Where is it?”

And we opened the champagne and described our new home in glowing terms, I realized that I was as happy as I could ever remember being.

And we were going to need a lot more furniture to fill all those rooms.