Razing the Dead (3 page)

Shelby picked up my drift. “You know, I haven't seen much of you, either. Something new going on?”

Marty seemed to be at a loss for words, which was unusual.

“Marty, are you blushing?” I asked with a grin.

“No!” she protested quickly. “Well, maybe.” She smiled, kind of. “I'm seeing someone.”

“Ooh, tell us!” Shelby said before I could say much the same thing. Marty had been married a time or two, but as far as I knew she hadn't been involved with anyone for a couple of years now.

“What's his name? Do we know him?” I asked.

“I'm not going to play twenty questions with you. He's a professor at Penn, specializing in urban history and economics. Widowed, grown kids. And before you ask, not related in any way, shape, or form to the Pennsylvania Terwilligers.”

“So how did you meet him?” I pressed.

“I went to a lecture he gave. He was interesting, so I hung around to ask him a question after. Things kind of went from there. And that's all I want to say right now.”

“Stay away for a couple of weeks, and the earth shifts on its axis,” I sighed dramatically. “But I'm happy for you, Marty. I hope it works out.”

“Just like you and Jimmy, huh?” Marty shot back.

And we finished the lunch with non-business-related girl talk. After, standing outside the restaurant, I said, “Marty, do you have time to come back and talk to me about this mysterious special project of Wakeman's? Shelby, you're welcome to join us. Based on what he said, I think this is about local history, which isn't exactly up your alley, but you've come up with some good stuff in the past. If you aren't too busy.”

“Hey, lady, anything that puts me in the good graces of a local power broker works for me,” Shelby said happily. “Let's do it!”

Settled once again in my office, I began, “Before we get
into it, anybody have any new thoughts on the registrar position? Latoya told me she's been getting applications but that many of the people simply aren't qualified.”

“Alice is working out well,” Marty volunteered. “She's smart. Or maybe I mean
intuitive
. I can't see her chained to a computer all the time, but she's great with descriptions and making connections.”

“I agree with both your points. Latoya and I discussed her earlier, though, and I'm not sure she's ready for it, nor would it send the right message to bump her up to the position right now. Which leaves us nowhere. Latoya hasn't found any candidates that she likes. Maybe it's just that it's summer and things are slow.”

“Or nobody wants a job that's both boring and unlucky,” Marty said. “I'll ask around again. Have you talked to Jimmy about it?”

“Why would I?”

“In case you haven't noticed, the FBI uses analysts. Maybe somebody over there wants a change of pace. Or maybe he'd remember a good candidate they didn't hire. Can't hurt to ask.”

“I suppose.” I made a mental note to mention it to James later. “Now, back to the Wakeman project. Here's the deal: Mr. Wakeman approached me directly because he's planning some sort of mega-development out in Chester County, and he doesn't want to run into any problems like Duffy's Cut.”

“What's Duffy's Cut?” Shelby asked.

“How much time have you got?”

“Hey, this is business, isn't it? Take all the time you want, boss.”

“Okay, you've both been to my house in Bryn Mawr. The train that serves the town is now the SEPTA R3, but it's always been known as the Main Line. It's what's left of the main line of the Pennsylvania Railroad, which served all the upscale communities west of the city. The ‘old money' families.”

“They took trains? I thought they all had chauffeurs,” Shelby said with a smile.

“Well, some of the gentlemen had to get to their clubs, so the train was simple,” interjected Marty.

“Anyway, the Main Line used to end in Paoli, and then it was extended to the next town over, Malvern,” I continued. “Now, the Malvern stretch was originally built for a different railroad in the nineteenth century. When the bosses needed laborers back then, they'd take immigrants straight off the ships in Philadelphia—mostly Irish and mostly those with no local connections. In 1832, dozens of them died on the Malvern railway job in a cholera epidemic, and nobody ever notified the relatives back in Ireland, and the railway all but destroyed the evidence. The bodies were buried in a ditch under the tracks and more or less forgotten. When the bodies were finally discovered in 2009, archeologists saw what they thought looked like evidence of blunt-force trauma, so the site was declared a crime scene rather than a dig. There are some nasty rumors that some of the workers may have been killed off to stop the spread of the disease.”

“That's awful!” Shelby exclaimed.

“Exactly. When the mass burials were uncovered, it became a big issue, of course, with various factions blaming others retroactively, and then the current railroad wouldn't let the historians finish the dig, which only made things worse. I read all about it at the time—it's kind of in my backyard, it's local history, and it's a compelling story. Anyway, Wakeman's property is only a couple of miles away, and he doesn't want to run into any surprises like that or set off another firestorm among local historians. Malvern and the local towns are already pretty sensitized to the issue, so he wants to be sure that everything is clean and aboveboard. That's why he came to us—he wants somebody to do a thorough history of the site he's optioned, to make sure there aren't any bodies there, literally or figuratively. Worst case, if there are, he wants to be ready to manage the situation.”

“Wouldn't hurt our reputation much, either,” Marty said. “Did he tell you exactly where the site was?”

“He said it was a dairy farm. He bought it before the old owner died, but he's only taken possession of it recently. He also said it's near a rail line, but there's some talk of extending that, and I think that would figure into his development plans.”

“What's he want to build?” Shelby asked.

“He called it a mixed-use development that combines housing, commercial space, recreational stuff—a whole package. I was impressed, if it's true. I mean, I've seen enough ugly suburban sprawl, so if he can do it efficiently, with a solid plan and with the local communities on board, I'd have to applaud. If it all checks out, I'd like to help him. The only problem is, we don't have anyone available to do the work right now at the Society. We're already short-staffed. Either of you have any ideas about where we can find somebody qualified for a short-term appointment?”

Everybody was silent for a couple of minutes, apparently thinking hard. Then Marty said, “Did he mention money?”

“He said he'd pay the salary of a researcher, if we needed to hire one. We didn't get into anything about supporting the institution, if that's what you're asking, but he kind of hinted. So, Marty, you know everybody and everything that matters about eastern Pennsylvania. What's your take on this project? Is it something we should be part of?”

Marty contemplated the ceiling. “I've known Mitch Wakeman and his wife for years, but sort of socially, and we're not close. He lives way out in the burbs, with said wife and a bunch of his kids. I've never heard anything negative about him, and as far as I know he is a good planner, and doesn't jump into a project unless he's pretty sure he has the funding lined up, so he's left no half-built messes behind. As for the project itself . . . I think I know the parcel he's talking about. Plenty of room, but he is going to have to look at access roads, water supply, wastewater, all that stuff. I don't think any of them is a deal-breaker, if he's got enough money to put into it. The train upgrade might be harder because there are a bunch of different agencies involved, but I'm not sure it's essential to the project.”

Marty leaned back in her chair. “He's going to need local approvals from the township out there. I don't know what Wakeman's relationship with that bunch is like, although I think it's a good bet that he knows them already. And I'm sure he's thought about all of this. The Society's role is a very small part. Still, it's nice of him to think of us.”

“Great, so you're in favor of going ahead? Do we need board approval?”

“I'll talk to them, but I don't think anyone will have a problem—well, unless one or two of them have butted heads with Wakeman in the past, which has been known to happen, because he can be kind of, well, abrupt. Let's hope not, anyway. It won't cost the Society anything if we can find a warm body with a brain to take it on, and it'll make us look good. Assuming, of course, that we don't find something like another Duffy's Cut that puts the kibosh on the project or drags it out for years.”

“And what would do that?”

“Let's not borrow trouble,” Shelby said. “First you need to find a researcher. What's his timeline? Or maybe I mean, when did you tell Wakeman you'd get back to him?”

“Uh, I don't think I said. But ASAP, at least with a yea or a nay.”

“Maybe Ethan knows a grad student . . .” Marty said, her expression softening.

Shelby and I exchanged a look. “Ethan being the man of the moment?” I asked. “Does the man have a last name?”

“Uh, yeah. Miller,” Marty said, then shut up again.

“A grad student might be a good choice, if he knows anything about local history,” Shelby commented.

“I'll ask,” Marty muttered. “So, what're you going to tell Jimmy about the whole moving-in-together thing?”

Nice deflection, Marty
, I thought. “I, uh, don't know. We'll have to talk about it.” My cell phone rang in my bag. I fished it out: James. Marty and Shelby wouldn't mind my answering. I punched the button to connect. “Hey there. Were your ears burning?”

“What? Oh, I get it. Say hi to Marty.”

“And Shelby,” I added. “So, what's up?”

“You free for dinner tonight?”

“Out? Are we celebrating?”

“Close enough. I'll meet you at the Society at six, okay?”

“Fine. See you then.” We both hung up. I looked up to see Marty and Shelby watching me with closely matched smiles.

“Ah, true love,” Shelby cooed.

“You two are the very soul of romance,” Marty added.

I refused to take the bait. “Come off it, guys. This is my place of business. He and I will get mushy over dinner tonight, and no, you can't tag along.”

“Wouldn't anyway—I have plans,” Marty said, looking smug.

“So, we're about done here. Marty, you're going to ask Ethan if he knows of any eager researchers who want to take on a short-term project like this. Shelby, maybe you can do a little digging about Wakeman and see if there's anything we need to know—and check out his record on charitable donations while you're at it. Oh, and I'll ask James if there are any leftover FBI analysts who might fit the registrar position. Anything else?”

Shelby stood up and saluted. “No, ma'am. That about covers it. I'll let you know if I find anything interesting.”

After she'd left, I turned back to Marty. “This thing with Ethan serious?”

“Maybe. Look, I'll lay off you and James if you don't ask any questions about Ethan. If there's anything you need to know, I'll tell you.”

“Deal.”

Having sent Shelby and Marty off with their marching orders, I whiled away the rest of the afternoon with paperwork and correspondence and all the other stuff that keeps an institution going. At five, Eric popped his head in.

“You need anything else, Nell?” he asked.

“No, I'm good. Look, Eric, thanks for covering for me over the past few weeks. I know I haven't been around much, but I hope things will get back to normal now.”

“I was happy to help out. And I'm glad Agent Morrison is back on his feet. It must have been hard on you.”

“It was, but we're past that now. Thanks for asking. I'll see you in the morning.”

Eric left, and the rest of the administrative staff on the third floor trickled out until I was the last one. I'd mentioned getting back to normal, but what
was
normal? I'd been in charge of the place for over a year now, and every time I thought things had settled down, another crisis erupted. Sometimes I wondered how we managed to keep the doors open and staff employed, but we had. Sometimes I wondered how I had managed to survive all of it—and a few times it had been a close thing—and come out of it with renewed enthusiasm for what I was doing. The Society and the history that it held were worth fighting for . . . although I really would prefer it if people stopped fighting and just enjoyed the bounty of the place.

I was lost in thought when James called to say that he was downstairs waiting for me. I gathered up my bag, turned out the lights, and went down to meet him.

I almost didn't recognize him. The haircut made a big difference—he'd gotten kind of shaggy over the past month, but a major scalp laceration did not lend itself to regular trims. And I'd forgotten how good he looked in a suit. Had anything else changed? Maybe a little. His face seemed thinner, and there were a few more lines at the corners of his eyes, but they just added dignity. I felt almost tongue-tied. “Hey,” I said brilliantly.

“Hey yourself,” he said, smiling.

“Damn, you look good.”

“Thanks. I can't button the jacket—I need some serious gym time. But it's summer, so nobody should notice. You ready to go?”

“Are we walking?” I asked, and James graciously escorted me down the stone steps of the Society.

“I thought we'd go to Vetri—that's close.”

“Nice! If I'd known, I would have dressed for it.”

“You look lovely.”

I bit off a remark along the lines of “What, this old thing?” I was trying to learn to accept compliments, and James's were always sincere. “Thank you. So this really is a celebration?”

“I hope so. I've been cleared to go back to work. You're back on the job full-time. And we made it through, you and I.”

“That we did,” I said, taking the arm James offered, establishing our status as a couple for all the world to see.