Razing the Dead (10 page)

“Do you think George actually dug them up?”

“Not really. He was careful, but he uncovered enough to know what he was looking at. It didn't look like a formal burial—no evidence of coffins, and no stones.”

“So it couldn't have been an old family plot?”

“Probably not. The bodies weren't neatly laid out, just kind of jumbled together. Didn't look as though that piece of land had been cultivated anytime recently. But a body is a body, so we are compelled to investigate.”

“Wow again. From a historical viewpoint, this is cool. From a PR viewpoint, if you're Mitchell Wakeman, this is a nightmare. My conversation with him was, shall we say, elliptical. If I read the signals correctly, if I do right by him, then the Society could see a nice contribution. Of course, he didn't come out and
say
anything like that. He's not stupid.” I filled James in on the rest of Wakeman's visit to my office, which lasted us most of the way to my house. As we drove through Bryn Mawr, debating what to pick up for dinner, James said, “So, let me get this straight. Wakeman wants you to take whatever historical straw we hand you and spin it into public relations gold?”

I turned to stare at him. “That may be the most muddled metaphor I have ever heard you utter. But the gist of it is correct.”

“Did the man ask you to lie?” James said, expertly pulling into a small parking space.

“No, he did not. And I made it clear that I would not, either. He only wanted me to cast this most recent discovery in the best light, speaking for the collective local historical community. And to make sure we looked like we were concerned and acting promptly, with full disclosure of whatever we find out.”

“I am honored to be in your presence—I didn't know you were an entire community.”

“Oh, shut up,” I said, swatting his arm. “I'm hungry.”

Later, after we'd consumed our take-out dinners back at my place, I tried to think about the recently discovered skeletal remains—not easy with a full stomach and a glass of wine in me. Especially since we were sort of lying nestled on my couch. “So what does this mean, James? The bodies have been there beyond living memory, but our dead man had been poking around and found them very recently?”

“That's what the dogs would say, if they could speak.”

“Let's say Bowen did find them, which seems likely. If he knew they were there, who would he tell?” I mused.

“If he told the wrong person, that could be why he's dead,” James said.

That was a troubling idea. “And who would the wrong person be?”

“Ah, that's the question. I can think of several people who might have an interest in concealing the discovery, at least temporarily. Starting with your new friend Wakeman.”

“Hardly
my
friend. Heck, I'm not sure what he is. A client?” I snuggled closer. “Do you think he's behind this? Because he did seem honestly upset, and I don't think he's a good actor.”

“What? Oh, sorry—I'm drifting. You mean, is Wakeman behind the new death? As in, he didn't want these new bodies to be found, so he had Bowen killed to keep him quiet? I can't say, not yet. He was the one who asked that the FBI be called in, which kind of argues against it. Unless he thinks we won't find anything and he'll come out looking like a hero for trying. But I don't pretend to know how a titan of industry thinks—he may be five steps ahead of us.”

“Mmm. Well, come morning I'm going to pick up Lissa at the train station and then we're going to go talk to the folks at the Chester County Historical Society, and somewhere in between I've got to throw together a convincing speech that doesn't say anything important but will sound good on television.”

“I have every faith that you can do this brilliantly. Can we go to bed now?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

James got a very early call on his cell phone, and when
he was finished he came back and kissed me behind my ear as I hid in the pillow. “Two males, in their twenties, evidence of trauma. Oh, and they have indeed been dead for a couple of centuries.”

“You do say the sweetest things,” I murmured. I rolled over. “Your forensic guys? They're in early.”

“They finished up last night, but I turned my phone off.” He smiled. “Remind me what you're doing today?”

I checked the clock. “Picking Lissa up at the Paoli station at eight”—I had texted her the night before with the right train to catch—“and then we've got an appointment at the Chester County Historical Society, before the doors open at nine thirty. I need to get up to speed on Chester County history, and I don't have time to read a book or twelve. And then we're supposed to meet with Wakeman and his band of merry men so we can look intelligent and informed for his press conference, which is timed to catch the noon news. He's good at setting up that kind of thing.”

“He seems pretty sure this project is going forward,” James said.

“He's Mitchell Wakeman. He usually gets his way, I gather. You want the shower first? I'll go make coffee.”

James and I left at the same time, headed in different directions. I arrived at the Paoli train station just as the train was unloading its passengers, and Lissa spotted me immediately. She opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Morning,” she replied. “Any word on those skeletons?”

“The FBI says that they're definitely old, at least two hundred years. What do I need to know about Chester County and its history? And whatever you've got on the land Wakeman owns specifically.”

“I'll give you what I can. What are we looking for from the historical society?”

“Mainly, I don't want to tick off the administrators there by tramping all over their territory without at least giving them fair warning. I can explain that it was Wakeman's idea to pull me in—and I have no idea why he didn't go to them first, or maybe he did and didn't think they were up to the job—but I'm sure we'll have to work with these people long after this particular project is done, and it helps to keep things collegial.”

“That makes sense. Have you ever visited the place?” Lissa asked.

“A couple of times, but not recently. I know the president, Janet Butler, slightly from regional cultural events, but I don't recall if I've ever had a real conversation with her. How about you?”

“I've checked out what they have, but the Society's resources are more comprehensive. They have a lot of good stuff from the Civil War in their collections, but not so much for the Revolution. They also have a separate genealogy library focusing on Chester County families.”

I nodded. “That sounds useful. And you never know what you're going to find in unexpected places.”

We followed the route we had taken before, driving past the Garrett farm on our way to West Chester. No sign of crime-scene tape or police guards; it looked idyllic, as if nothing unpleasant had happened there. I continued on into West Chester, just past the center of town, and pulled into a parking garage across from the historical society just as my phone started ringing. I looked to see who it was and was surprised to see the logo for the Wakeman Property Trust. I didn't recall giving anyone there my cell number.

“Hello?” I said when I connected.

“Where are you?” Mitchell Wakeman barked.

“In West Chester. I have a meeting.”

“I need to talk with you—now.”

I checked my watch. “I can meet you at eleven. Where?”

He was silent for a moment. I inferred that my not jumping at his
now
surprised him. “At the site, down by the pond,” he finally said grudgingly. “Press conference starts at noon.” He hung up.

I turned to look at Lissa. “Okay, we've got about two hours to learn everything we need to know about Chester County.”

At the historical society we were greeted by a woman I recognized vaguely, who must have been waiting for us, since she opened the door on my first ring. She held out her hand, “Hi, Nell, I'm Janet Butler—we met at one of those Philanthropy Network events in the past year, I think. Except you hadn't been elevated to upstairs then. You've had quite a year. And this is?” She looked at Lissa.

Lissa stepped forward. “I'm Lissa Penrose. I'm an intern working on a project . . . well, I'd better let Nell tell you about it.”

Janet turned back to me. “All right. What's with all the rush-rush hush-hush? Is this about George Bowen?”

“Maybe. First, thanks for seeing us on such short notice, and under such vague circumstances. Is there somewhere we can talk? This may take a few minutes.”

“My office is free. Coffee?”

“I don't think we have time,” I said ruefully. Lissa and I followed her upstairs and to the back of the building. Janet settled herself behind her desk and pointed to the two guest chairs.

I cleared my throat. “Before I start, let me apologize up front and say that this whole approach was not my idea, and I'm in no way responsible for cutting you out of the loop. Mitchell Wakeman showed up at my office a couple of days ago and said he wanted the Society to do some research on a plot of land in Chester County, because he plans to build on it.”

“The Garrett farm? No surprise there. There've been rumors floating around for months, although no public announcement. I gather that the great Wakeman likes to keep his cards close to his vest. If he has history questions, why didn't he come to us? We've got all the records here.”

“I don't know, and I agree that he should have. But he is who he is and I couldn't exactly tell him no thanks and send him to you.”

Janet laughed. “I understand, believe me. So why are you here now?”

“Because we do need your help. I've been asked to act as figurehead for the press, but I don't know nearly enough about local history here, and I can't fake it. If you can help me out with a short course, I will be happy to share any credit that trickles down.”

“Thanks, but don't worry about it,” Janet said. “Will those other bodies turning up put a monkey wrench in his plans?”

“So you know about those?” Apparently there were no secrets in the suburbs.

“Of course. There's been a lot of traffic around the Garrett property these past few days, and I've got friends in Goshen. Although nobody's saying much about the details. What can you tell me?”

“They're not recent—more like a couple hundred years old. That comes from the FBI, not the local coroner, but don't spread it around.”

I watched expressions flit across her face. The predominant one was excitement. “Wow! An old mystery!”

I had to smile at her enthusiasm. I resumed my spiel. “So you understand why this complicates things for Wakeman. I'll be the first to admit that the man probably has enough clout to sweep it all under the rug if those bodies turn out to be inconvenient for him, but he hasn't given me any indication that he plans to do that. I think he might have suspected that something like this would happen, and he wanted to be prepared. But since for the moment we're moving forward, and he brought us into the loop, Lissa and I can also use your help to figure out who they are, or were, and why George Bowen was interested in them.”

“George? How'd he get involved in that?”

I didn't answer her question immediately. “Did you know him well?”

Janet bobbed her head. “Not on a personal level, but George was a real history buff. He'd been a member here for years, and he'd done some volunteer stuff here. I know he'd done research using our collections, too.”

That was encouraging to me: if he'd looked at research resources here recently, maybe we could figure out what those were and then follow in his footsteps and figure out how he found the bodies. “It looks like George was at the burial site in the recent past. The police sent in dogs to look for the actual crime scene where he was killed, and they found more than they were looking for.”

“Are you asking me to participate in an investigation?” Janet looked at me. “Does this involve anything risky?”

“I don't think so, but I've learned never to say never. I am involved in this investigation, if only in a peripheral way, and in part because I was there—as was Lissa—when George Bowen's body was found. So by some sort of transitive property, you would be, too. You now know as much about the situation as anybody else around here, including the police. You've got to admit you have a better idea of the local history than they do. You might be able to help sort out the identity of the skeletons, and what their discovery might mean. Tell me, was George a treasure hunter, hoping to find artifacts and make a big score on eBay?”

Janet shook her head. “Nothing like that. He just liked history. He liked living in the middle of where it happened. It was his hobby, after his kids moved out—that much he told me. Making money had nothing to do with it—which I think kind of annoyed his wife. In fact, she already brought over a couple of boxes of his artifacts. She wanted them out of the house.”

“Could we see them?” I asked. In spite of the time pressure we were under, I was curious.

“I don't see why not. You know the drill—handle carefully, white gloves, etc. But from my first glance, I didn't see much that was very special. You want to see them now?”

Lissa spoke for the first time in quite a while. “Would you mind if I looked at your library and archives for a bit? We've got to leave soon, but it would really help if I could get an idea of what you have here.”

“Sure, no problem. Nell will vouch for you, right? You won't be hiding valuable documents under your shirt?”

“Of course I'll vouch for her,” I answered for Lissa. “But you should know that Lissa's technically working for Mitchell Wakeman.”

Janet struck a dramatic pose. “Be gone, foul fiend of Satan!” Lissa looked startled, but Janet grinned. “Just kidding. Still, I don't want to see Wakeman plundering any historic sites under my watch.”

A woman after my own heart. “Believe me, neither do I,” I said firmly. “So it's okay if Lissa looks around?”

“Sure—Lissa, I'll take you down to the library, and then, Nell, I'll take you to where we stashed George's artifacts.”

“Thank you. Let me know if there's anything I can do to thank you.”

“I'll think of something,” Janet said cheerfully, standing up. “Come on.”

She pointed out the library as we passed it, and Lissa disappeared into it eagerly. I followed Janet down a hall and through a couple of doors, until we came to a crammed workroom. No one else was there, but there were several banker's boxes lined up on a rough table in the middle of the room. Janet pointed toward them. “That's what Pat, George's wife, brought. She said there might be more back at the house. Do you know what you're looking for?”

“Not really. This may be telling tales out of class, but it looks like George was not only at the site where the bodies were found, but he was also poking around—the earth was disturbed, enough that he would have known the bodies were there. He didn't do any harm to them, if you're worried.”

“Oh my,” Janet breathed. “He must have been thrilled.”

“So he didn't come straight here and tell you?”

“No, this is news to me.”

“Can you think of who he would have told? His wife?”

“Maybe, but I doubt that she'd have cared one way or the other.”

“Was he a whistle-blower type? I mean, would he have gone to some authority or other and tried to stop Wakeman's building project until the site had been fully investigated?”

“Again, maybe. Probably. Like all of us here at the society, he took our local heritage seriously.”

My phone buzzed: Wakeman. I checked the time: I wasn't due to meet him for at least a half an hour. Why was he calling?

“What's keeping you?” he said without any niceties.

This was starting to get on my nerves. “I told you, I'll be there at eleven,” I said, managing not to add something like
Keep your shirt on
.

“Make it fast.” He hung up again. What a charmer.

Janet and I were both startled when there was a pounding on a metal door at the back of the room, which I guessed led to the staff parking lot. We exchanged glances, and she went over to open it. Janet had barely pulled it open when a haggard-looking older woman shoved her way in, wrestling with a pair of stacked banker's boxes. After a brief glance at me, she addressed Janet.

“This is the last of them. I don't want them in the house. I don't want to see them again, ever. I've got people calling, and the kids are flying in, and there's a funeral to arrange, and I can't deal with any more of this. Do whatever you want with the stuff.” She dumped the boxes on the table next to the others, and then, as if she had run out of steam, she dropped heavily into a folding chair. I realized there were tears running down her face. Obviously, this must be Mrs. George Bowen.

Janet took over immediately. “I'm so sorry, Pat. Of course we'll take care of it all—you have other things you need to worry about. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Maybe you should just sit here a minute and catch your breath.”

The woman just shook her head, but she made no move to get up. The tears kept trickling down her face.

I was torn. The woman was clearly grieving, and she faced a hellacious next few days. At the same time, I really wanted to ask if her late husband had said anything to her about a big discovery, and if not, who he might have told. But I didn't know the woman, and she didn't know me. I hadn't even known her husband.