Privy to the Dead (22 page)

Finally she looked at me. “I think you can guess, you and your merry band of researchers. Harrison Frazer caught an earlier train than he expected and walked in on his wife and some summer stud going at it at the house. He got mad and shot them both, with a weapon he just happened to have handy—we may never know how he came by it or why he had it then. Maybe he had just picked it up in the city and hadn't had time to leave it at his house because he was in a hurry to get away for the weekend. Anyway, then he panicked. Did you know he was a lawyer? He might have gotten away with it in court, under the circumstances, but he didn't want to count on that. So there he was, literally holding the smoking gun, when my grandfather, his nearest neighbor, knocked on the door and says something like, ‘I thought I heard a shot.'” Marty lapsed into silence.

It made sense. “Marty, did you know any of this from your family? Or from the Frazer family?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No. I'm just spinning a tale out of what little we do know. Were Grandfather and Harrison Frazer buddies? Did they hate each other? I have no idea. I don't know how Frazer explained anything. Did Grandfather tell Harrison Frazer to go straight to the police and turn himself in? If he did, we know Frazer didn't do that. Instead he told the police that some unknown person had killed his wife and another man, and nobody even mentioned they'd been in bed together—the upper crust closed ranks on that. The police took Frazer at his word—in part because they didn't find a murder weapon. I don't
think they would have tested Frazer's hands for gunshot residue, the way they do now. They believed him.”

“But there's more, isn't there?” I prompted.

“Sure there is. Where did the gun go? That's the big question. I see a couple of alternatives. One, Frazer went over to my grandfather's house and hid the gun when he wasn't looking, in the first thing he could find—the lap desk. My father told me years ago that his father liked to carry important documents he might need when he went on vacation, and the lap desk, with a lock, might have been what he used for them. The other choice is that my grandfather helped Frazer cover it up. They made up a convincing story, and most important, my grandfather took the gun away from the house, back to Philadelphia.”

“Then why did it end up in the lap desk?”

Marty turned to face me. “How the hell should I know? Maybe he thought no one would ever look in that. Maybe one of his kids walked in and it was the first place he could find to hide it, and he forgot to take it out again. Maybe Frazer handed him the gun and said, ‘Help me,' so he carried it home with him, and
then
it went into the lap desk. Maybe the movers came too early or too fast to pick up the collection items he was giving to the Society and took it out of the house before he could retrieve the gun, which would get it into the building.”

“Why didn't he retrieve it from the lap desk, then?” I asked.

Marty gave me a humorless smile. “Maybe he couldn't find the damned desk, once the movers brought it into the building. We're still hunting for things we know are there
somewhere, but it's not easy to track them after a hundred years. You know that.”

I did indeed. “We could probably find the exact date for the arrival of his materials—if it was before the Frazer shooting, your story falls apart. But say it
was
with the Terwilliger collections at the Society—then what?”

“Nell, how are we supposed to know, this long after it all happened?” she demanded. “Maybe after the dust settled Frazer wanted to make sure it disappeared permanently. Did they do forensic stuff with bullets back then?”

“Damned if I know. I could ask James.”

“Don't bother. Someone—Frazer or Grandfather himself—pitched the desk, contents and all, into that convenient hole in the floor, and there was no point in retrieving it. They both would have known that the hole would be covered and the finish work would go on, and it would never surface. They were right for over a hundred years, but in the end they were wrong.” She sighed. “I'm being stupid. My father never said a bad word about any family member. I mean, if somebody had a drinking problem—and believe me, that happened a lot—then he'd say something like, ‘Our cousin Chauncey is indisposed again.' We all knew it was code. He wasn't a prig or even squeamish—hell, he'd fought in a war, and it wasn't a desk job. But I guess in the world he grew up in, you just didn't talk about unpleasant stuff, particularly in front of the kids. But what I can't get my head around is, why would my grandfather cover up a double murder?”

“I think you've already explained it,” I offered. “They were friends, or at least social peers, or had been until then. There was some sort of code of honor involved?”

Marty didn't look convinced. “Thanks for trying to make me feel better, Nell. You can take your pick of the alternatives. I do know that he loved that collection. From all I've ever heard, he cared deeply about the Society and his role there. I don't know what his relationship with the Frazers was like, beyond being neighbors and colleagues, or if he felt any need to protect them, but I'd bet he would have wanted to protect the Society. Having a sordid scandal about a prominent board member come out at that particular moment would have done real harm, tarnished the reputation of the place, maybe even cost the Society some financial support. I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have wanted that.”

That was a motive I could understand. “Marty, I've got one more piece for this puzzle that I think supports your theory—that's what I came to tell you. I had our bank pull the records for that time period, and I looked at them on my way over here. Frazer had made a substantial pledge to the building campaign early on, and he'd fulfilled that obligation. But in September 1907 he made another one of the same size. My guess is that was one of your grandfather's conditions for keeping quiet about what happened.”

Marty didn't speak immediately, but finally she said. “That fits, I think. Grandfather may have promised to say nothing, and he was a man of his word, but he made sure that Frazer paid for it. But we'll never be able to prove any of it.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, and I turned over the new facts in my mind, fitting them into the puzzle, whose picture was becoming even clearer.

I looked at Marty. I'd known her for several years, and for the last couple I'd come to see her as both a friend and a
staunch supporter of my role at the Society. But there was still a gulf between us: she was Old Money (whether or not there was any actual money anymore) and I was a middle-class outsider when it came to old Philadelphia society. In the eighteenth century my people had been farmers, while hers had been managing the Revolutionary War, at least in part. It wasn't personal—she wasn't a snob, she didn't throw her weight around, and she was a very down-to-earth person. But still, the divide was there.

I couldn't begin to interpret the social relationships that those board members shared back at the turn of the twentieth century. Would all this really have been enough to persuade Marty's grandfather to look the other way if he knew one of his colleagues was a murderer? And worse, if that colleague had asked him to help conceal the killings? Was this about money or honor, and where did they cross?

Marty began speaking again. “Obviously I never knew my grandfather—he died before I was born. But my father talked about him. He described him as a stern old man who always wore a suit. Who tried to be kind, but who really wasn't comfortable with children. My father said he lived by the old rules—he had, after all, been born in the Victorian era, and he was a gentleman, back when that term meant something. Social class mattered to him. If a friend or colleague—someone he considered a peer—was in financial trouble, bad enough to actually admit it, then he would have tried to help. I know that's not in the same league as covering up a murder. But as far as I've seen in my research, and from what my dad said, he was a man of his word, an honorable man. It must have hurt to do what he did. Assuming he did it.”

“Since we know he changed the inventory, as Rich discovered, he must have known
something
,” I said. “You didn't happen to find any documents signed by Harrison Frazer among your family papers, did you?”

“No, or not yet at least. Maybe Latoya will turn up something,” Marty shook herself. “Okay, I'm over my snit about protecting the proud name of Terwilliger. If Grandfather covered up a crime, it's too late to hurt him, or any of his descendants until you get to me, and I can live with that knowledge. I'm sure he had good intentions.”

“On the topic of descendants, I forgot to tell you: Lissa found out that Rich Girard is Harrison Frazer's great-grandson.”

“Yeah, sure, I knew that—we talked about it when I interviewed him for the internship . . .” Marty started off in a dismissive tone, until she realized what she had said. “Is that important?”

“I don't think so, now. Lissa said he's the only current or recent person attached to the Society who's connected to the board and donor list from 1907. But Rich came to me this morning and told me that he saw Scruggs pocket something when he came out of the pit. He said he told the construction foreman, Joe Logan. Plus Rich has an alibi for the night of Scruggs's death, and I'm pretty sure the police have confirmed both facts. Besides, can you see Rich laying hands on anybody?” I noticed that Marty swallowed a smile at that idea.

I heard my cell phone ringing in the depths of my purse, and when I fished it out, I saw that it was James calling. I held up one finger to Marty. “Hey,” I said when I answered. “What's up?”

“I wondered if you wanted a ride home?”

“Uh, sure, I guess, but I'm over at Marty's. Can you pick me up here?”

“Sure. Half an hour?”

“Great. See you then.”

“Your ride, I assume?” Marty asked as I put my phone away.

“Yup. The bloom is still on the rose.”

“Does he know about all this?” Marty waved vaguely at the stacks of Terwilliger private papers.

I considered. “Only bits and pieces, and I may never share the whole story. In any case, it's not his problem, it's ours.”

Marty didn't look surprised but countered, “It's James's family, too.”

“Yes, but he doesn't feel quite the same way as you do.
Most
people don't feel that way about their families. Heck, most people can't trace their families any further back than their grandparents.”

“I know,” she said glumly. “That's why it's hard to explain to anyone else. Like the police.”

I was startled when my phone rang again. Had James changed his mind? I looked at it and realized it was a Society number. When I answered it, it turned out to be a rather breathless Eric.

“Nell, I'm so glad I found you!” he said in a rush.

“Calm down, Eric. Is something wrong?”

“Well, not exactly. Or I don't think so. That Detective Hrivnak called, looking for you, and I couldn't tell her where you were. I wasn't sure if you wanted me to give her your cell number, so I said I'd track you down if I could. Where are you?”

“I'm at Marty's. Am I supposed to call the detective back?”

“Yes. She didn't sound happy. You need her number?”

“No, I've already got it. Thanks, Eric. If I don't make it back today, I'll see you Monday.”

“Call if you need bail money,” Eric joked, then hung up quickly.

I tried to collect my thoughts before I made my next call. Maybe Detective Hrivnak had found the killer and this whole thing would go away. Unlikely, I thought. I knew a lot of things she didn't know about what might have led up to Scruggs's death, but I doubted she would have paid much attention if I had tried to share them with her. I realized Marty was staring at me. “What?” I demanded.

“You planning to call the detective any time soon?”

“Of course. I'm just trying to figure out what's going on, or what I can say, or shouldn't say, or—you know what I mean.”

“Just call the woman, will you?” Marty snapped.

I did and was put through to her quickly. “I've got something that might interest you,” Detective Hrivnak began.

It was unlike her to be coy. “What would that be?”

“A weapon. An
old
weapon.”

Alarm bells started ringing in my head. It could be anything—or it could be Harrison Frazer's missing gun. Should I play dumb? I decided against it; I wanted this whole mess to be over. “Let me guess: it's a 1905 Colt pistol.”

My statement was met by a long moment of silence. “Bingo. We need to talk. Can you come over here?”

“Can I bring Marty Terwilliger?”

“If you have to.”

“See you in fifteen minutes.” I hung up. I could be abrupt, too.

Marty and I stared at each other wordlessly, but I was pretty sure we were thinking the same thing. Our silent
communication was interrupted by a knocking at the door, and Marty leaped out of her chair. “That should be Jimmy—I'll let him in.” She went down the hall toward the front door, and returned a moment later with James, while I was still puzzling over what Detective Hrivnak thought we should talk about. James looked at me quizzically.

“Change of plan,” I told him. “We're going to police headquarters. Now. Can you give us a ride?”

James's demeanor changed in an instant, and he morphed into serious FBI agent. “Why?”

“Because Detective Hrivnak asked. Almost nicely, for her.”

“I'm coming with you,” James said.

“So am I,” Marty added.

I wasn't about to object. “Then let's get going.”

We were standing in the lobby of the Roundhouse in less than fifteen minutes. Detective Hrivnak came down to collect me, took in my escort without comment, and said only, “Follow me.”

We did, up the elevator, down a hallway, down another hallway, until she opened a door to a small conference room and said, “In here.”

We went in and sat around the bare table. In the center of the table there was a cardboard box that I knew was the kind used for evidence; inside the box was a firearm that I recognized as a 1905 Colt semiautomatic pistol.

“Have you seen this before?” the detective began.

“No, but I know what it is. Where did you get it?”

“That's the odd part. We pick up a lot of weapons in this city—old, new, working or not. Nothing unusual there. This one was brought to us by a guy named Joseph Logan.
He says he's been working on your building over on Locust. You know him?”

“Yes, we've met. He's the foreman of the construction crew that's working on our renovation there.” This was beginning to feel like a game of Ping-Pong, but I was reluctant to volunteer any information. “Where did he get it?”

“He
says
”—her emphasis on that word was troubling—“he found it outside the Society building a couple of days ago. You might remember that we searched that area pretty well after Carnell Scruggs was found dead. Mr. Scruggs worked for Mr. Logan, right?”

“Yes. You talked with Mr. Logan at the time, right?”

“We did. He said he'd paid Scruggs what he was owed at the end of the day, and told him he didn't need him again.”

The detective paused, as if waiting for me to spew forth a confession of . . . what? I stayed mute.

Hrivnak continued, unperturbed. “Now, Rich Girard, who works for you, told us that he saw Scruggs take something with him when he left. He says he told Joe Logan about what he saw, and Logan said he'd take care of it. But Logan says he didn't see Scruggs after he left your building. Nothing from your Society was found on or near Scruggs at that time, although the bartender identified the whatsis later.”

“The escutcheon,” I said. “And you figured that must have been what Scruggs took away with him?” When Hrivnak nodded, I said cautiously, “Do you have a question?”

Detective Hrivnak chose her next words carefully. “Do you think this weapon was removed by Scruggs from the Society at that time, on the day he died?”

I glanced at Marty, who sat like she was carved in stone. I avoided looking at James, who made no move to interrupt.
I took a deep breath. “We believe it was. But it's kind of a long story.”

Hrivnak sat back and folded her arms across her chest. “I've got time.”

“Marty and I think this all started in 1907, when the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society building was being finished.” And I launched into the whole story that my staff and Marty and I had pieced together, with a few comments from Marty. James sat silent, listening, watching. Detective Hrivnak, to her credit, did not interrupt and let Marty and me spin our tale until we came to the present day—and the death of Carnell Scruggs.

Finally the detective said, “So this gun on the table here was probably used to kill two people in New Jersey in 1907, and one or another Terwilliger knew about it and hid it, and Scruggs just happened to find it last week and take it, and a couple of hours later he's dead next to your building. What'm I missing?”

“I don't know,” I said. Detective Hrivnak looked skeptical. “Seriously, my staff and I have spent over a week putting this information together, based mainly on what's in our files, and we think we can track the gun from that killing at the shore to the day it was found last week, but once it left the building, we don't know anything.” And I was afraid to guess.

“So this Logan guy just happened to find it? Pretty convenient, don't you think?”

“I can't say. He has access to the building and the area behind it, because of his job. Where did he say he'd found it?”

“In a corner of the alley behind your building.”

“Is it possible it ended up there when the car hit Mr. Scruggs?” I asked.

“Maybe. Can't prove it either way.”

“Were there prints on it?”

“Scruggs left prints. Other than that, smudges. It was a cold night—somebody coulda been wearing gloves.”

I felt an obscure sense of relief: our shaky reasoning about the path of the gun to Scruggs had been proved right. Which brought us no closer to solving the his murder. What did I know about Joe Logan? Not a lot. He'd been recommended by the architect; he'd worked on museum jobs before. He had every right to be where he said he found the gun. “When did he say he found it?”

“Yesterday. He brought it in this morning. It was kinda dirty, but it didn't look like it had been sitting out for a week or more.”

Might as well face this head-on. “You doubt his story?” I asked.

She studied my face, and I wondered what she was thinking. Would I have any reason to protect Joe Logan? No, I'd barely met the man. Now, if she'd accused Rich or Bob or even Scott the architect, I might have felt some responsibility, but in this case I didn't have any knowledge to share with her. I didn't know Joe personally, and I didn't want to guess what he might have done.

Finally she answered, “Let's just say I'm keeping an open mind. You have anything else to add?”

Marty spoke for the first time. “We told you, that gun might have been used in a murder in New Jersey in 1907. Is there any way to find out if the police kept the bullets back then, and see if they're a match?”

“You kidding? You want the Philadelphia Police Department to waste time and money on something like that?”

Marty held up her hands in defeat. “I was just asking. Forget about it.”

Detective Hrivnak stood up; apparently our meeting was over. “Thanks for coming in. I'm not sure what to do with what you told me, but if I have any more questions, I'll be in touch.”

“One more thing,” I said before she could leave. “Who does that weapon belong to now?”

“What, you want it back?”

“Well, it was found in our building. If you can't identify an owner, does that mean it's ours?”

Hrivnak snorted. “I'll look into that. Let me take you to the elevator.”

We followed her mutely down the hall, descended, went outside to where James had parked his car. “Martha, can I drive you home?” James asked.

Marty sighed. “Might as well. I'm tired—it's been a long week. And I've still got some thinking to do. I guess that's the problem when you look into your family history: you never know what you're going to find. And it's not all pretty.” She was silent for the rest of the trip to her house.

When we'd dropped her off and she'd gone inside, I turned to James. “What do we do now?”

“As far as I can see—unofficially, of course—you don't have to do anything. You don't know anything more than you told the detective, do you?”

“No, I do not. Which is not the same as saying I don't have suspicions.”

“Joe Logan,” James said bluntly. “You don't believe his story?”

“I don't know,” I said slowly. “Scruggs's death still could have been a random mugging—somebody attacked Scruggs on the street, maybe followed him from the bar, where he was a little too free with his payday cash, and mugged him, and in the process shoved him into the street. Which doesn't explain why the escutcheon was gone, or how the gun ended up so far from the street. Wouldn't a mugger have taken the gun?”

“If he knew about it. Maybe he couldn't find it in the dark, and when Scruggs got hit by that car, the mugger panicked and ran. That will probably be the official story.”

“And that means the case is closed, right?”

“Yes. You have a problem with that?”

“I guess not. We need to get back to our business as usual. We've already spent too much time on this.”

“So we can go home now?”

“Yes. Please.”

The ride home passed quickly, despite the Friday traffic, but it was dark by the time we arrived home. James pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine, but then I grabbed his arm and pointed. “Look.”

He followed my finger toward the front steps, where a man was sitting. The man stood up as soon as he knew we had seen him, and even in the dark I thought I recognized Joe Logan. Maybe the story wasn't over yet. “That's Joe Logan.”

James the agent was back again. “Let me get out first and see what he wants.” He opened the door on his side and climbed out—and I noticed he kept one hand close to where I knew his gun was. I wasn't worried that Joe meant
us any harm, but it was nice to have James run interference for me. I watched as the two men faced each other but didn't see any hostility, so I got out of the car.

Joe looked relieved to see me. “Sorry to bother you folks at home, Nell, but I really need to talk with you, and I didn't want to do it at the Society. I won't take long.”

I glanced at James, and he gave me a barely perceptible nod. “That's all right, Joe. Come on in and you can tell me what's bothering you. Oh, have you met James Morrison?”

“Special Agent Morrison,” James said, although his tone was mild. I wondered if Joe paled, but it was hard to tell in the dim light.

I entered first and went ahead turning on lights. “You guys want something to drink? Coffee?” Susie Homemaker, that was me, about to chat with a possible murderer accompanied by my FBI agent lover. How had my life come to this?

Both men declined. I hung up my coat, then said brightly, “Let's sit in the parlor,” although we had barely enough seats for the three of us. When we were settled, I said, “What's this about, Joe?”

“I assume you know about that gun I turned in to the police?” he began.

“Yes. We just came from there. Did you tell them the whole story?”

“Not exactly. Do you mind if I tell it my own way? It's hard enough without interruptions. I'll answer any of your questions after.”

“Go on,” I prompted.

He nodded, looking relieved. “You already know that I hired Scruggs for short-term jobs. I had known the guy
slightly for a few years, and I felt sorry for him, so I tried to throw some work his way. He'd always been honest and worked hard. Last week his part of the job at the Society was done, so I paid him for his work for the day, and he left. Then this other guy who works for you came to me and said he might have seen Scruggs pocket something and thought I should know.

“I knew where Carnell hung out after work—he lived over past Spruce, but he had a favorite bar on Chestnut—so I went looking for him. I didn't plan to accuse him, just ask if maybe he'd taken something accidentally. I found him where I expected to and we talked. Turned out he
had
picked up something he found—he thought it didn't matter if he took it along, because it seemed like trash to him.”