Dead End Street (8 page)

James's car glided to a stop at the curb, and I hurried down the steps and climbed in, leaving my dark thoughts behind.

“How was your day, dear?” James said in a mock-ironic tone as he merged into traffic.

“Peachy-keen. Nobody shot at me.”

“That's good to hear.”

I pondered a moment as James navigated a particularly thorny intersection, then said, “Detective Hrivnak stopped by this morning.”

“Really?” James said in a carefully neutral tone. “What did she want?”

“I think obliquely she was asking for our help. She isn't buying the random-shooting theory, but I gather her superiors want to close the case. I can see both sides of that.” Although I did want to see those guys who had given me the scare of my life caught and punished somehow.

“Why does she think it wasn't random?”

“Because her gut tells her that that particular spot was
not a likely place for that kind of crime. There was no reason for those guys to go looking for someone to shoot
there
. There were plenty of other places with more potential victims, if they were looking to make a statement of some sort. Which leads her to think that maybe they were looking for one of us, and I'd like to eliminate myself from that list, because I haven't done anything to tick off any armed killers lately, and certainly not in that part of town.”

“Hmm,” James said noncommittally. “So she wants to look at Tyrone and Cherisse?”

“Yes, if she can.”

“Why did she come to you? You didn't know either one of them, right?”

“No, I didn't, although Marty met Cherisse a while back, and Latoya once dated Tyrone. Small world, isn't it? Anyway, the police can look into their personal lives better than Marty and I can, but she asked if we could check out what was so important about that particular address and whether it might have anything to do with it.”

“So Marty's involved, too?”

“Yes, and Hrivnak knows it. Marty happened to be in my office when she came calling. She talked to both of us.” I glanced in his direction, but his right ear wasn't giving anything away. “You have a problem with that?”

He sighed quietly. “You and Marty in combination have a knack for finding trouble. I'm not saying it's your fault, either one of you, but it does keep happening.”

“I know. Look, I'm not convinced we're going to find anything that's helpful, and we're going to be looking at the Society's documents, inside our nice, safe building.
But this has made me realize that I should know more about the neighborhoods outside of Center City and Society Hill. Even if they're disaster areas now, they were once important to the city.”

“I admire the principle, Nell, but I'd prefer you didn't go tramping around those neighborhoods.”

“Believe me, so would I! I'm not planning to organize guided tours for our patrons, or anything like that. Maybe a series of online articles for our website or newsletter, or a small pamphlet. Maybe we could get the city involved, and they could help distribute it. Or we could call it a public service. And you know we're going to nominate Eliot for the board slot, and he's the perfect person to help with this.”

“Nell, you are remarkably resilient,” James said. “You're actually planning to turn this shooting into a research opportunity for the Society, complete with publications.”

Was that a criticism? I turned toward him as far as my seat belt would allow and said, “What, you think I should be wallowing in a puddle of tears? Would you be happier if I fell apart?”

“No, of course not. I only hope that you feel you
can
fall apart if you need to. I'll be there to pick up the pieces.”

“Oh.” Maybe I was in denial, trying to pretend the whole thing had never happened. And maybe it was unrealistic of me to believe that I would be “all better” after only one day. Or two. Or two hundred. “Thank you.”

The rest of the ride home was quiet.

Over dinner I said, “I didn't tell you about Marty's latest proposal.”

“Not crime solving, I hope?”

“No. Apparently there's a colonial estate in Montgomery County that's up for grabs, and she wondered if the Society would be interested in taking it on.” I proceeded to explain what Marty had told me, but that didn't take long because I didn't have many details. “So I said I'd go see it with her tomorrow morning. I don't think it's a good fit for the Society, either practically or financially, but it sounds lovely and I'd be happy to see it, and either Marty or I should bring it to the board, if there's even a remote possibility that it could work out. Or a board member might know someone who might be interested.”

“You should be safe enough in Montgomery County.”

“I don't know about that, James. Isn't it hunting season?” I said, suppressing a smile.

“For deer, I believe. Are you worried about being mistaken for a deer?”

“While sipping tea in the parlor? Not really. But after yesterday I'm not going to take anything for granted.”

We spent a quiet evening, with no shots fired. I noticed that James stayed just a bit closer to me than usual, which I thought was sweet. He might be a big, strong FBI agent, but he was worried about me. I was surprised at how good it felt to have somebody who would worry about me.

*   *   *

The next morning we drove into the city together, and James dropped me off at the Society. “You're spoiling me, you know,” I told him as I collected my things before getting out of the car.

“I want to. If you want me to be rational, I could say that I go this way anyway, so it's merely practical to drop you off. But you may have noticed that I don't feel exactly rational at the moment.”

“I do appreciate it, you know. You don't see any armed thugs loitering on the street, waiting for me?”

He actually scanned the scene in front of us. “No. But you know it's easy to conceal a weapon. Have fun with Marty, and don't commit to anything.”

“Hey, don't tell me how to do my job!” I gave him a thorough kiss and climbed out of the passenger door, then hurried up the stairs. It was cold, I told myself, ignoring the fact that I felt all too exposed on the street, where almost anyone might be hiding a weapon.

Upstairs in my office, there were no surprises waiting—no Detective Hrivnak, no phone messages. I made myself a cup of coffee, then settled behind my desk and sorted through what I needed to do. Marty would arrive in an hour or less, and I should find out what I could about what I was going to be looking at, so I wouldn't embarrass myself. Realistically, as I had told Marty, there was no way the Society could take on a building, no matter how beautiful and historical it was. We didn't have the staff to manage it, nor the money to hire people to do it for us. It might have been more appropriate if it were in the city, but instead it was way out in the suburbs. I would be more than willing to direct some of the Society's staff time and cultural capital (if there was such a thing) to finding the right institution to take it, but the Society was not that institution. Still, Marty was merely doing what she had promised the sisters,
and I was always happy to see a piece of history that I had missed. And there were plenty of those.

At ten of ten, Marty called from her car and said she was idling at the curb in front of the building. “You ready to go?”

“I am. No change in plans?”

“Nope. If they offer lunch, say yes, but it may be cucumber sandwiches and petit fours.”

“I won't complain. Be right down!”

On the way out I told Eric where I was going and that I wasn't sure when I'd be back. I checked to see that I had my cell phone, and that it was set to vibrate. “You can call me if anything urgent comes up.”

“What would you call
urgent
right now?” Eric asked.

“Well, maybe if Detective Hrivnak calls. James has my number, and Marty will be with me. I guess that's about all. Thanks, Eric.”

I made my way downstairs and out to Marty's car.

“Everything good?” Marty asked as she pulled away from the curb.

“Just fine. Do I look like I don't think so?”

“No, you look normal. Maybe that's the problem—you get shot at, you should look . . . different.”

“Well, I'm sorry I look too good. I promise you I'm quivering inside.”

“I'm surprised Jimmy isn't glued to your side, as a self-appointed bodyguard.”

Since Marty and James had grown up together, she knew him well. “I think he'd like to be, but he respects my independence. I'll let him comfort me later.”

“I bet,” Marty said with what looked like a smirk.

I ignored her innuendo. “Did you talk to Eliot?”

“I did. He's definitely on board with being on board, if you know what I mean.”

“Good. He knows the vote is next week, right?”

“Yes. But we don't see any problems, do we?”

“Not that I know of. I'm looking forward to getting to know him better. Did you have a chance to talk about the neighborhoods project?”

“We talked about it a little, but let's save that for the ride home. I should fill you in on what we're going to see now.”

“You know, you never told me why the Oliver sisters approached you about this. Anything I should know?”

“It's complicated.”

“Marty, with you it's always complicated. Why'd they pick you as their, what, agent? Ambassador?”

“I had a school friend who lived out that way, and she introduced me to the sisters because she thought I'd be interested in the house—this was years ago. She told them about my role at the Society, and I guess we spent some time talking about what the Society does. Before you ask, they've never been members or donors. So when they decided to sell, they got in touch with me. I think they don't trust real estate agents, who are busy counting up the dollar signs. And their lawyer, in Center City, was a friend of my father's.”

All the interconnections were typical for Marty. Heaven help me if I ever had to draw a diagram to explain her links to anything.

“Please remember, Marty, I haven't made any promises. You know the Society as well as or better than I do, and you know what our limitations are.”

“Of course I do. But maybe together we can come up with some ideas for the place. It really is gorgeous, and mostly untouched.”

“All right, fill me in.” I settled back in my seat to listen.

Marty launched into a brisk summary of the house we were headed to see. “Traditional high-end colonial set in the midst of over fifty acres of land. Built in 1769, and it includes a carriage house and barn. Built for the son of a wealthy local family when he got married—and it was a real power marriage, to the daughter of one of the most prominent men in the Commonwealth. They did lots of entertaining—Ben Franklin stayed there now and then, before the Revolution. Typical layout, and most of the woodwork is original. Great staircase. As the story goes, they kept slaves in the attic, a long,
long
time ago. What else you want to know?”

“Have the ladies had any conversation with local officials?”

“I don't think so—not genteel enough for them, and they didn't want to get the lawyer involved, at least not yet. We might be able to walk them through the process to gift it to the town, but that's the last resort. Look, nothing has to be decided today. We're just chatting. Did I mention they want to give the furniture with it?”

“Yes, you did, yesterday. I will reserve judgment, but I won't make any promises to them. You said yesterday they were mentally alert?”

“Yup, sharp as tacks. You'll see.”

After another half hour of driving, we pulled into a long driveway and arrived in front of a handsome colonial house. I made a quick visual inventory: central doorway with traditional portico on columns, flanked by two windows on either side. A carriage house with three bays, closed off by arched doors, lay behind the house on the right. The ground-floor windows had to be six feet high—no expense spared when the place was built. Two central brick chimneys indicated the fireplaces that had heated the rooms. From a quick perusal, I couldn't see any obvious signs of neglect or damage: the paint, while not new, was still sound, the roof had all its shingles, and the foundation stones were still well pointed. It was, simply, a beautiful example of the architecture of its time. But that didn't mean the Society could do anything with it.

Marty parked, and I followed her to the front door (whose hardware also appeared to be original). She rapped the large brass knocker firmly, and it took little time before we could hear the tap-tap of shoes—with heels, if I guessed correctly. The door was opened by a woman only a couple of inches shorter than I was, wearing a nice shirtwaist dress and, as I had deduced, low-heeled pumps. A string of pearls circled her neck, and her white hair was swept neatly up in a soft chignon. I hoped I would look anywhere near as good when I was approaching ninety.

She extended a hand, and I took it; her grip was strong. “I'm Phoebe Oliver, and you must be Nell Pratt. Thank you for coming all this way to see us. We don't get many visitors these days, I'm afraid—Penelope and I have outlived most
of our peers, sadly. Please come in. Good to see you again, Martha.”

“I'm always happy to see you, Phoebe.” Marty and Phoebe exchanged a brief hug, and I wondered how well they knew each other.

“Would you like a cup of tea after your journey, Ms. Pratt, or would you prefer to see the house first?”

“Please, call me Nell. Frankly I'm itching to see the house. It's imposing, and your family appears to have taken good care of it.”

“We can't take all the credit. I'm not sure how much Martha has told you, but our ancestor had it snatched from him a very long time ago because he chose the wrong side during the Revolution. It was our great-grandfather who managed to buy it back, shortly after his return from the Civil War, before too much had been changed. But you're right—it had been lovingly maintained in the interval, and there was little to do in the way of repairs. I will be happy to show you.”