Free Dead End Street by Sheila Connolly

the lawyer.”
    â€œWill do. But on that note, I talked to the staff this morning about what we should do about neighborhood projects like this one.” I gave Marty the gist of what we haddiscussed earlier in the morning. “Is that just my guilt talking, or do you think it makes sense?”
    Marty smiled. “A little of each, but it’s not a bad idea. I don’t think there’s any way we can or should work with the City itself, but we can probably carve out a niche for the Society, and we all benefit. Make us look more relevant—and less like a bunch of old fogies looking up their family history.”
    â€œThat’s kind of what I was thinking,” I said. “If life hands you lemons—or in this case, bullets—make lemonade. So, Eliot? Things going well there?”
    â€œWith the Society or with me?”
    â€œTake your pick.” I knew that Marty and Eliot had been seeing each other for a while, but Marty was surprisingly closemouthed about what was going on with them, although she’d had no reservations about prying into my evolving relationship with James. It was Marty who had suggested recruiting Eliot as a board member.
    â€œProfessionally he’s a good fit, right? Professor, specializing in urban planning, respected in the community, well liked by his students, no skeletons in his closet or scandals on his résumé.”
    â€œHey, you don’t have to convince me. I like the guy, and I think he provides a much-needed balance to the traditional historians and lawyers on the board. Have you been hearing any resistance from other board members?”
    â€œNope. Of course, they might not say it to my face. You haven’t heard any rumblings?”
    â€œNo. I can’t imagine why anyone would object. Well, except for the issue of the two of you . . .”
    â€œYou’re thinking that if we put him on the board, will I be putting myself in an awkward position?”
    â€œYes. And that can be taken in more than one way. If you’re a couple, somebody might object—nepotism, or undue influence, or something like that. If you’re no longer a couple, you’re stuck with running into him regularly for as long as his term lasts.”
    â€œLet me worry about the personal side of things.”
    â€œFine. We’ll nominate him and vote at the board meeting next week.” Then I had another thought. “You know, I told you I was talking with the staff this morning, about reaching out more to neighborhood redevelopment groups, offer them what we know of the history of various neighborhoods. But it occurs to me that neighborhood activists can be rather narrowly focused on more practical matters, like housing the people displaced or finding developers who will do the work at a reasonable price. Eliot might be a great person to serve as a go-between.”
    â€œBecause he’s a minority?” Marty asked.
    Eliot was the son of an American soldier and his Korean war bride. I couldn’t honestly say that I and others at the Society hadn’t taken that into consideration when proposing him for a board seat: our board, and our membership, was definitely skewed toward middle-aged Caucasian men. But Eliot’s credentials spoke for themselves. “No, of course not. Because it’s his field of expertise. He’s respected and published. And we have untapped resources that he can use.”
    â€œLet me run the idea by him. Any word on Tyrone Blakeney’s condition?”
    I was embarrassed that I hadn’t even given that a thought this morning. “Not that I’ve heard, but I don’t expect anyone to contact me with updates. Do you know him?”
    â€œNo. I told you I’d worked with Cherisse, though—too bad about her.”
    â€œThey made a good team, based on what little I saw. Did you know that Latoya once dated Tyrone?” This didn’t count as gossiping, did it?