Privy to the Dead (3 page)

I considered. “Does that mean you think this thing you've got going will last? I think as a candidate he'd be great—his scholarly connections and his area of expertise would be big plusses for us. Who's planning to leave the board?”

We hashed over board prospects and plans, then walked back to the Society. Before we reached the building I asked, “Have you talked to Eliot about this?”

“Not yet. I'm just thinking about it. But you're good with it?”

“I am. Go for it,” I said firmly.

“Maybe I will.”

Back at the Society we went our separate ways. As I'd told Marty, I'd already asked Lissa to look into the history of the building. I was reasonably familiar with it, having used the boilerplate about it often when I was in development, but nobody had been looking for surprises in the basement, and maybe Lissa could shed some light on the pit. When I got back to my office, I called Lissa, who answered quickly.

“You know we're using the Wakeman money to make physical repairs to the building,” I began, “and we've been
clearing out about a century's worth of junk before the construction crew starts—you might have noticed the Dumpster outside. The workers were finishing up in the basement today and they found some kind of pit in the floor. It had a wooden lid on it, and it had been covered who knows how long by some ancient wooden filing cabinets. I've asked the construction guys to save whatever they pulled out of it, just to see if it was anything more than a trash pit.”

“I haven't seen any mention of a pit in the records so far. It's not a well?” Lissa asked.

“No water in it now, although it's possible. I don't have any idea about things like that. I know there were tunnels to the river under some of the older houses east of here, so I'm guessing the water level was below the level of the pit. But I'm wondering if it was originally outside the building, and in that case, if it might have been a privy.”

Lissa said, “Ew,” and I laughed. “Don't worry,” I said, “if that is the case, it hasn't been used for a long, long time. I think any . . . waste products are long gone. You know the Cotter book?”

“Of course!” Lissa replied eagerly. “
The Buried Past
. I'm glad to hear that you know about it, too.”

“Mr. Cotter used to be a member here—he was a delightful man. If I remember correctly, he included a section on Philadelphia privy pits and what was found in them. You can skim through it again and see if there's any helpful information there. Oh, and look for the original plans for the mansion and for this building, to see where the perimeters were, and how they line up with our current plans. No need to rush, I'm just satisfying my own curiosity. And of course I'm always
on the lookout for interesting little bits of information like this, to put in the newsletters or online. Although I'm not sure our patrons would be charmed to learn that they've been working above an antique loo—we might have to do some fancy rephrasing.”

“I hear you,” Lissa said, laughing. “Let me see what we've got. Surely there must be some plans for the building?”

“Ask our architect—he must have them, or copies of them. Start with him.”

“Will do. I'll get back to you if I find anything interesting.”

James picked me up after work and we rode home together. As we pulled into the driveway, I noticed how dark the house looked. “We need to put some lights on timers,” I told him. “Of course, that also means we have to get lamps for the inside.”

“Don't we have some already?” James said.

“About one per room, which is not enough. Do we have an alarm system?”

“Yes, but it's not connected. Besides, we have nothing to steal.”

“True, but anyone who broke in wouldn't know that, and they might get annoyed and start smashing things out of pique.”

He parked and turned off the engine. “Pique?” He raised one eyebrow.

“What, burglars don't get piqued? How about pissed off?”

“That's a more likely response for a burglar, I think. What should we do for dinner?”

“I haven't a clue. Do we have raw products in the fridge? Because I think we finished off the leftovers last night.”

“We did and we do. Or vice versa.” James went ahead of me and unlocked the back door, then graciously let me enter before him. I hung up my coat and bag, and went to the refrigerator to forage. Ah, chicken breasts and some shriveled mushrooms. I could work with that.

Less than an hour later we were settled at the table with wine and food in front of us. After a few bites of the improvised dish I had concocted, I said, “I had lunch with Marty today and I mentioned that we were furniture-challenged.”

Curiously, James did not look happy at that news, but said nothing.

“What?” I demanded. “You brought it up.”

“Upon reflection, I decided that I should warn you that furniture is a sensitive subject in the Terwilliger family,” he finally said.

“Why?” I asked, bewildered.

“You really don't know?”

“No, James, I really don't know. What am I supposed to know?”

He sighed. “It all started with General John Terwilliger . . .”

“What didn't?” I muttered. “Okay, I know he was an important figure in the Revolutionary War and the later eighteenth century, and I know he was Marty's however-many-times-great-grandfather. But where did the furniture come in?”

“That same John Terwilliger bought a grand house in Philadelphia when he married, and he furnished it in the
latest and most expensive manner. You have all the documents pertaining to the fitting out of the house at the Society.”

“Oh.” He was right: I probably should have known. “Well, I haven't read every document we have, since there are a couple million of them, at least. I'm sure they must make interesting reading, but where's the problem?”

“There were, let us say, issues among various members, and when he died, the general's pieces were scattered among different branches. Some were even sold, and some people in the family are still a bit annoyed that they ever left the family, particularly when those pieces come up at auction now and then and sell for a couple million dollars.”

“Ah,” I said intelligently. “Is Marty one of the disgruntled?”

“It's not one of her hobbyhorses. Her branch managed to hang on to a few things, and if you've seen her house, you've probably seen them. How did she react when you told her we needed furniture?”

“Kind of, ‘I'll think about it.' When she asked, I said we preferred Victorian to match the house. Is that all right with you? Do you even like Victorian?” I asked. It was a question that had never exactly come up, although he was the one who had fallen in love with our undeniably Victorian house first.

“As long as horsehair isn't involved, I'm good with it. That stuff is literally a pain in the butt, plus it crackles. Frankly I don't care much, as long as I have something to sit on and light to see by. I give you a free hand. Although, since this won't in fact be free, what about that budget?”

I ducked the issue, since I had no real idea what furniture
cost, old or new. “Maybe we should go to a Freeman's auction and see what the market is like,” I suggested. “Of course, they're going to be high-end, but we can work down from there.” Freeman's was a long-established and reputable auction house in Center City, and in my position I was aware of the auction house's standing in the furniture community. I'd never attended anything there, but I knew some of their staff were members of the Society. “I'll have to check their schedule.”

We finished dinner, tidied up the kitchen together, read for a bit, and went to bed. Another normal day, with no crises. I felt like I should make a note of it on the calendar.

—

The next morning seemed normal, too. The sun was shining, the trees on our still–surprisingly large lot were turning lovely colors (note to self: Buy rake or rakes? Better yet, hire a yard service?), and work was about to begin on the much-needed upgrade at the Society. James and I carpooled into the city once again, arriving nice and early. I couldn't help feeling pleased.

Until I walked into the building. Front Desk Bob, our gatekeeper (and a former cop) was already there behind the counter, getting ready for the day. When he saw me, he said, “You have a visitor,” and nodded toward the corner by the front window. I turned to see Meredith Hrivnak, a Philadelphia police detective I'd had dealings with in the past. From her expression, I didn't think she was there to investigate her family tree. We'd first met after the death of a staff member at the Society. But if someone had died here again—heaven
forbid!—wouldn't the police have called me at home? Or rather, on my cell?

I plastered on a smile to hide my unease. “Good morning, Detective. What can I do for you today?”

“A man was hit and killed by a car outside your building last night.” The detective was not known for sugarcoating her pronouncements.

My stomach plummeted. “How awful. Who is it?”
Please, please, not one of my employees.

“Guy named Carnell Scruggs. You know him?”

I shook my head, relieved to say truthfully that I'd never heard the name before. “Of course, I'm sorry to hear about anybody's death by violence. But is that why you're here? To ask if I knew him?” I glanced at Bob, who gave a slight shrug. Apparently he didn't know anything more than I did.

“Thought you might be able to help us out. He was hit by a car traveling north on Thirteenth Street. Nice suburban lady heading home after a dinner with friends and only one glass of wine—and her blood alcohol level checks out all right. She says the guy came barreling out from between two parked cars, right next to that back alley of yours. You know, where you've got that big hulking Dumpster parked. What's that for?”

“We're renovating some parts of the building, and we've been clearing out old junk. You think this guy was pawing through the Dumpster and got startled and ran?”

“Don't know yet. I'd like you to take a look at him.”

“Am I supposed to, uh, view the body?”
Please say no
,
I willed her silently.

“Nope. I've got his picture right here.” She pulled out
her cell phone and scrolled through it until she found the picture she wanted. Then she handed it to me.

I peered at the small image. The man appeared to be Caucasian, in his thirties or forties, with dark hair, neither long nor short. Ordinary clothes—jeans, a jacket, not particularly remarkable. Nothing that stood out. The tension seeped out of my muscles: I had definitely never seen him before.

“He one of yours?” Hrivnak asked.

“No, I don't think I know him. Why do you ask? You said you have a name for him, right? Can't you find out more about him that way?”
Without me?

“Yeah, Ms. Pratt, we will be doing that. He had a driver's license on him, so we've got a name and address for him. We do know how to do our jobs.”

I ignored her sarcasm. “Do you need to check inside our building, to see if he was here?”

“Don't see why. We already looked at your back door—no sign that it had been tampered with, so he probably wasn't running away from here. Your alarm system was on, right?”

“Bob here's the one who manages it, but he's very careful about that, so I'd guess yes.”

“Then you're clear. For now. Oh, there is one thing that's a little weird.”

“Weird how?” I asked.

“The driver of the car—like I said, she wasn't drunk, and from the skid marks she wasn't speeding—swears the guy came out from between those cars backward.”

It took me a moment to process that. “You mean, like going backward, not facing the street?”

“Yup. What do you make of that?”

“He stumbled over something?”

“Backward? And traveled at least ten feet into the middle of the street? Try again.”

“He wanted to commit suicide but didn't want to see it coming?” Wow, I really was grasping at straws—and by now I had an idea what she was looking for.

“Two strikes—you get one more.”

“He was pushed,” I said bluntly. Of course she thought it was murder. She was a homicide detective, and she wouldn't be here unless someone had guessed it might be murder.

“Bingo. I told the ME to look for signs of a struggle.”

“Was there anyone around to see? Witnesses?” I asked.

“Nope. It was dark and the street was empty—as far as we know, that is.”

“What about street cameras?”

“Focused on the street. Couldn't see the sidewalk because of all the parked cars. You got one on your back door?”

“No—we were going to add some outside with this renovation. We managed to get some installed in critical areas inside the building, but that won't help you.”

“Were you the last person to leave?”

“I think Marty Terwilliger and I were—we were here late for a board meeting—but you can check with Bob on that, too. What can I tell my staff? They're bound to hear about this, and it doesn't seem right to just ignore the . . . accident.”

“Looks like this Mr. Scruggs died after everybody here had gone home, but we'll probably interview them anyway, even if your Bob corroborates that he locked up on schedule. Go ahead and tell 'em it was an accident.”

Before she could think of something else, I said, “Okay. Well, if that's all, I'll turn you over to Bob.” I looked
expectantly at her. She gave me a cold stare, as if she suspected I was hiding something. Together we approached Bob again, and I explained what the detective was looking for. Since he'd been on the job once, he knew what to do, so I handed her off to him and scurried toward the elevator.

When I reached my office, Eric was already there. He greeted me, then he took a closer look “You okay, Nell?”

“Better than I might be,” I said. “I just heard that there was a car accident outside the building last night. Sadly, someone died, but it's not a staff member or anyone I recognized. The police aren't sure exactly how or why it happened, though, so they might want to talk to people here about when we locked up and set the alarm, but I'm hoping it's not really our problem.”
Fingers crossed.
“I'll be in my office if anybody needs me.” I went into my office, shut the door behind me, and sat down behind my desk, and realized I was shaking, just a bit. I waited for the shaking to stop, while I struggled to avoid thinking about that poor woman driver, who could hardly be blamed if a body propelled itself into her path without warning. Then I called James.

He answered on the first ring. “Nell? What's up?”

“There was a fatal traffic accident outside the Society last night, on Thirteenth Street. Nobody I know, and he doesn't work here. I just thought you should know. I'm hoping it's just a coincidence.”

“Oh, Nell, I'm sorry. Anything I can do?”

The sympathy in his voice was sincere, and it comforted me just a bit. “I don't think so. So far we're not involved, except for proximity. He was struck near our back alley. Nothing in the building appears to have been disturbed, although I'd better check that out.” I hesitated before adding, “James,
there was something odd about the way the man died. The detective said that he went into the street backward. I'm guessing she believes it's a suspicious death.”

James didn't respond immediately. “You want to meet for lunch, or leave early?” he asked eventually.

Very cautious of him. “I think I'll stick around. I may have to field questions here. But thank you for asking. We can talk about it at home later. We may know more by the end of the day.”

“Let me know when you want to ride home together.”

“I will.”

We hung up at the same time. I sat and stared into space. It was nice having someone to tell, someone who understood and would commiserate. Someone who wouldn't go all macho on me and expect me to fall apart at the sight of a dead person. James knew all too well that this wasn't my first body. But for once this death had nothing to do with me or the Society, and it would involve straightforward police work, and while Detective Hrivnak might be lacking in a few social skills, she was a competent police officer and would get the job done. I didn't have to be involved.

He went into the street backward?
That didn't sit well with me, but I wasn't going to interfere. This was a city; strange things happened.

With a sigh, I turned to the neat stack of messages Eric had left for me the day before, but was interrupted by Eric himself, who stuck his head in my door and asked, “Anything I can do?”

“Yes, actually. Can you send out a quick e-mail to the staff? Just tell them there was a car accident outside the building last night and a man named Carnell Scruggs died,
and ask everyone to cooperate fully with the police if they come by asking questions. It may not even come to that, but I'd rather people knew what was going on.”

I hoped any police activity outside wouldn't slow down the start of the construction. And then there was that hole in the basement, which was a nice distraction. I wondered if the crew had finished cleaning it out yesterday, and if so, what they had found.