Dead End Street (9 page)

Marty and I followed her through a series of rooms, large and square, with wide-plank floors the color of honey, and simple paneling embellishing walls and fireplaces. I noted that there were radiators under most of the windows, so there had been some changes made over time, but those were not obtrusive. The rooms were furnished, but the furniture was a bit sparse. Still, each piece was of the correct period and was gleaming with the kind of polish that only time and care could provide. It was, without question, lovely.

We ended the tour downstairs in the dining room,
where a sumptuous tea was laid out on a mahogany table that could have seated a dozen people. Another elderly woman, clearly related to Phoebe, stood behind the spread, beaming. “I'm so glad you could come! I'm Phoebe's sister, Penelope. I'm sorry I didn't join you on the tour, but I was engaged in the kitchen, and I do have trouble with the stairs these days. Please sit down and serve yourselves.”

The teapot was indeed silver, as were the matching sugar bowl and creamer. The plates, laden with goodies—yes, including finger sandwiches and small cakes, as Marty had predicted—were, to my semi-experienced eye, English bone china; the teacups were almost thin enough to see through, with handles the size of large spaghetti. I felt as though I had stepped back into another time, and I was glad I had worn my grandmother's pearls.

We made chitchat about people we all knew, about the county and the region, about the history that surrounded us, and it was all very pleasant. Then Phoebe, who was clearly the spokesperson for the duo, carefully set down her cup in its saucer and said, “now, shall we talk business?”

Marty and I looked at each other, but I had the feeling the ball was in my court. “Phoebe, Penelope, what is it you're hoping to do with this house?”

“Keep it standing, and as close to its current, and, may I add, historical state as possible,” Phoebe said quickly. Penelope nodded her agreement.

“And what do you think your options are?”

Phoebe regarded me steadily. “Ms. Pratt, we are neither stupid nor feeble-minded, even though we are women who grew up in a very different world, and we are unquestionably old. We were raised in this house, and we treated it as a house, rather than a museum. We scuffed the floors with our Mary Janes, and, yes, we even slid down the staircase railing a time or two. We knew the place was centuries old, but that didn't mean a lot to us then.

“Neither have we been shuttered in this place all our
lives, though we never married. I attended college and graduated, and we traveled to Europe together. Penelope lived in Boston for a time, and was once engaged. Yet somehow we always ended up back here. It was not exactly a deliberate choice, but we have not been unhappy. We were blessed with enough money to live out our days, with a bit left over. We've been lucky.

“Now we know we won't last much longer, and we accept that. Patience, Nell—I
am
going to answer your question. We are well aware that this is a valuable piece of real estate. We could, no doubt, find a private purchaser for it, one who would pay a lot of money for a place of this size, with a good deal of privacy. Movie stars, titans of industry, and the like.”

I wondered if I saw a twinkle in Phoebe's eye. She seemed to be enjoying this.

“But there is no guarantee that such a buyer would keep the house as it is, or even keep it at all. He might tear it down and build what I believe they call a McMansion, or he might give it to some fringe church or sect, or turn it into a private medical clinic for substance abusers who can afford expensive treatment. We selfishly don't want that, and since it is ours to dispose of as we choose, we want to set the terms—terms that will survive even our deaths. A lot has happened in this house over two centuries. We want to honor that long history. Can you understand that?”

I nodded. “I can and do. After all, you know what I do: I manage a library and museum that seeks to preserve the past, so that later generations can enjoy it. I realize that this is not always a popular thing to do, and that many
ordinary people think we're obsolete. So I am on your side, in principle. But the reality is, few institutions want to take on something like this. Say there's a way to create an endowed house museum, a nonprofit organization that would open it to the public on some regular schedule, because there has to be a public component to it. I don't know the details of your financial situation, but I'm not sure that anyone has the money to keep it just as it is forever. Any house needs care and tending, because houses seem to want to fall to pieces.”

Phoebe smiled. “Do you live in an older home, Nell?”

“I do, one that's about a hundred years younger than this one. It's beautiful, but it's a constant battle to keep it that way. So you can't create a time warp or freeze it forever.”

“We know that. What do you see as other alternatives?”

“This is not my area of expertise, but you could give it to an institution or to the county or the township, along with enough money to keep it going. They, too, will have to open it to the public in order to justify owning it and managing it and paying for its upkeep. Municipalities have to answer to their voters when it comes to budgets. And making it a public building will create wear and tear on it, particularly the interior.”

“And your Society will not take on that responsibility?”

Hadn't Marty told her? Or was Phoebe just verifying that information? “We can't, I'm sorry to say. We're already stretched thin financially, as are many of our cultural colleagues. Take the Barnes Foundation, for example, because it's a similar case. Albert Barnes created a wonderful art collection in the nineteen twenties, and he
wanted it preserved exactly as he had arranged it, in his home. He left the house and plenty of money to the foundation. His will allowed very limited access to the collection. Well, a few years ago that will was broken in a rather acrimonious and public lawsuit, and the collection was moved to Philadelphia, near other museums, so that vastly more people could enjoy the collection. And the fact that people
want
to see the art means that they will pay to see it, so the new arrangement generates income to sustain the building and its contents. I'm sure the man is turning over in his grave, but many more people have the opportunity to enjoy the art.”

“But that would not apply in this case,” Phoebe said. “What are you suggesting?”

“You're right—we can't just pick up your house and drop it in the middle of Fairmount Park, and its location is part of its historic identity. I cited that example because it shows that Barnes's vision for the future became obsolete, and a way was found to perpetuate it, in a somewhat different form. As for your house”—I looked briefly at Marty again, but she showed no inclination to jump in—“I have no idea what to suggest to you, because I only heard about this yesterday, and it's been kind of a difficult week so far.”

“So I understand,” Phoebe said, not unkindly. “But if I interpret events correctly, you were willing to venture out of, shall we say, your comfort zone because there are those who believe that even the lowliest row house is part of the city's past and is worth remembering.”

Touché
. I smiled at the sisters. “You're right. Look, I'm
on your side, really. I would love to help you find a way to work this out, to everyone's benefit. It's a big plus that money doesn't have to be the driving force in this decision. But right now I don't know where to start.”

“That is perfectly understandable, my dear,” Phoebe said. “We will be happy to give you some time to reflect, and to investigate the options. Just don't take
too
long.”

I had the feeling we were being politely dismissed, but that didn't trouble me. Phoebe had given me a lot to think about.

Marty stood up first. “Phoebe, Penelope, thank you so much for giving us the tour, and for explaining so clearly what you want to do. I thought Nell needed to meet you and hear your thoughts, and I still believe she and the Society can help. And I can help her. Let us kick this around with each other, and with some of our colleagues, and see what we can come up with. We can't promise you anything, but we'll try.”

“We can't ask for more than that, Martha dear. Can we, Penelope?”

“No, no, not more. We want to hear what you think. I'm sure you'll work hard for us.” Penelope beamed at both of us, nodding all the while.

“Well, then,” Phoebe said, “we should let you begin your drive back to the city. Thank you for taking the time to hear us out. Nell, it has been a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine. I'll be in touch, I promise.”

At the door we shook hands, or rather, Phoebe shook my hand, and Penelope pressed it gently, softly. She never stopped smiling. They closed the door behind us as we
made our way to Marty's car. We sat down in it, but before Marty started the engine, she asked, “Well?”

“Well what?” I retorted. “They're delightful, like they've stepped out of another time. The house is beautiful. And I haven't the slightest idea what to do.”

“Exactly,” Marty said. “At least there are two of us in the same boat now.” She started the car and pointed it down the long driveway. “But I have faith that we can figure something out.”

I was glad she did, because I didn't. “You know, you were awfully quiet in there. Very unlike you,” I told her as she headed back toward the city.

“I've heard the story, and I know the house. I wanted you to have their full attention.”

“Those ladies are really something, aren't they? Phoebe in particular.”

“They are. As you no doubt observed, Phoebe is the dominant sister—she's a couple of years older than Penelope. Penelope has been a follower all her life, but she's very sweet.”

“You aren't by any chance related to them?” I had to ask: Marty seemed to be related to half the people in Pennsylvania and a few more in New Jersey.

“Not that I know of, but I think my grandfather had a fling with their mother, sometime around 1920.”

“And you know this how?”

“Family stories. Some you tell at parties, some behind closed doors. Doesn't matter anyway now. So, I and the rest of my family don't want to step in, and you're telling me you, meaning the Society, can't.”

“Yes, and you know why. We're holding our own now, but we can't even think about expanding.”

“I get it. Just making sure we're on the same page. So now we beat the bushes to come up with another idea. Let's find some time to go over our donor and membership lists and figure out who we can approach.”

“We?”

“Yes, we,” Marty said sharply. “I know people, but you as president of the Society have some public clout. We may need both to get this done.”

I mulled that over for a couple of miles. Then I said, “You know, what Phoebe said, kind of comparing what I was doing in Philadelphia and what they want to do with their estate, got me thinking. I didn't see it before, because a city slum and a suburban manor house seem on the surface to have little in common, but they are both part of local history. The Society works to preserve Pennsylvania history. So in a sense we have an obligation to both, unequal though they are. But the problem as I see it is, with limited resources, how do we pick and choose? We have to set priorities. And we have to think about which projects will be best for the Society in the long run. I'm sure there are people on the board who would say we should go for the estate, because that's the way a lot of older members see our mandate. Trying to stick our noses into City neighborhood development, past and present, quickly becomes political and is definitely controversial. But is it any less our responsibility?”

Marty kept her eyes on the road. “Good questions, Nell, and I don't have any quick answers. I've been involved with
the Society one way or another most of my life. Even I have seen a lot of changes, and I'm not going to argue that we should preserve it just the way it is. We have the collections, and they're great. But history doesn't stop at any particular time—it just keeps going. The city is like a living thing, and it keeps changing, shifting. We can choose to hunker down and tend to our collections, or we can make an effort to shape the course of public understanding of what history actually is.”

“Wow, Marty. I've never heard you say anything like that. Certainly not at board meetings.”

“Hey, just because I devote most of my time to the Terwilliger collection doesn't mean I'm blind or clueless. I'm involved in other stuff in the city and beyond, and it's not all pretty. I think we have an opportunity to here to at least open up a discussion, and maybe to do some good. We don't have to make a decision today, but I think we have to stake out a public position pretty soon, especially after what happened to you. You have the public's attention for about two seconds; what're you going to do with it?”

This was turning out to be quite a week. Only two days earlier life had been peaceful and normal; since then I'd been shot at in a slum, been all but handed the keys of a colonial mansion, and was now faced with redefining the historic mission of the Society. I wanted to take a nap.

“Can I sleep on it? Please? I need to think about all of this. I agree that it's time to open this discussion, but can it wait until tomorrow?”

“I guess.” Marty sighed dramatically. I checked to make sure she was smiling.

She dropped me back at the Society building, saying she was headed home. I trudged up the steps, waved at Bob, and made a beeline for my office. “Any messages, Eric?” I asked when I arrived at his desk.

“Plenty,” he said, handing me a stack a half inch thick. “Mostly press, though. I said you were out of the office, which was true, and that you would get back to them, which I didn't assume was true.”

“Thank you, Eric. In fact, I may want to talk to some of them, but I need to figure out which ones. I'll deal with that in the morning.” Maybe the news cycle would have moved on by then, and my decision would be made for me.

The phone on Eric's desk rang again, and a moment later he stuck his head in. “It's that detective. You want to take it?”

“Yes, I guess. I'll pick up.” I waited until Eric had shut the door to my office, then picked up the phone. “Detective Hrivnak, what can I do for you today?”

“Tyrone Blakeney wants to talk with you.”

“Really? Why?”

“He didn't say. He said it was okay if I was there, too.”

“When?”

“He's still in the hospital and he's in rocky shape but stable. I woulda gone over today, but the doctors say he's gotta rest some more—a couple of bullets came pretty close to some important parts of him. How about tomorrow morning? Want to meet me there, say, nine?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess that would work. In the lobby? Oh, which hospital?”

“Jefferson. See you then.”

I sat back, confused. Why would Tyrone want to talk with me? With or without the police? But I couldn't think of any reason to turn down the request, and I was trying to keep the detective happy. So it looked like I should be there. At least it was near the Society.

I picked up the phone and hit James's number. When he answered, I said quickly, “Tyrone Blakeney wants to talk to me at the hospital tomorrow morning at nine. I can drive myself if that's a problem for you.”

“No problem. Did he say why?”