Free Monument to the Dead by Sheila Connolly Page A

the lists until we found something significant. I hadn’t realized
     how interconnected Philadelphia society was and still is. Although I don’t know why
     I’m telling you—you grew up with it.”
    “And I hated the snobbery of it all. Sure, I went to the right schools and knew the
     right people, but I joined the FBI because I wanted to do something with my life,
     not just have lunch at the Union League. The rest of my family still hasn’t forgiven
     me.”
    There was a hint of bitterness in his tone. I felt for him: how peculiar to be forced
     to apologize for doing something good and useful. “Marty respects you.”
    “Marty thinks I’m still a snoopy, snot-nosed kid.”
    “Were you ever?”
    “Snoopy, yes. Snot-nosed? I hope not. Although we did have one cousin . . .”
    More piffle. In the end I had to end it. “We’re meeting again tomorrow morning. Maybe
     we’ll have something for you then. You’re still not officially involved?”
    “Nope. Like you, I’m waiting until I have more than a vague suspicion before I ask
     to be invited to the dance. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Nell.”
    “I’ll call you no matter how our meeting goes. Good night.”

    The next morning found Marty, Shelby, and me huddled in the boardroom before nine
     o’clock. Eric had beaten us in and made coffee. No matter what I said or didn’t say,
     he seemed to sense that there was something going on, but he wasn’t going to pry,
     bless him.
    I surveyed my colleagues in . . . what was it we were doing? Crime solving? FBI research?
     I settled on “board candidate analysis,” which was nice and neutral sounding and non-incriminating,
     just in case anybody asked. Thank goodness we didn’t have to account for our hourly
     productivity at the Society, as I’d heard some businesses required, because we were
     throwing a whole lot of hours at this project, which might end up with little result.
    “So, what have we got?” I asked.
    Marty and Shelby exchanged a glance; Shelby nodded at Marty to proceed.
    “Not a whole lot,” Marty said flatly. “Or maybe too much.”
    “Which means?” I prompted.
    “Based on our combined input, we have thirty-seven people who are linked to either
     two or three of the institutions in question, or by other external factors such as
     club memberships or location of vacation homes. And a lot of other variables that
     I won’t bother you with.”
    “Isn’t that good news? It’s a shorter list than yesterday’s.”
    “I suppose. But I don’t know what to do with it.” Marty really looked deflated.
    “Maybe you’re too close to all these people, Marty,” Shelby suggested. “I don’t know
     most of them, so I can be objective. Nell, I think Marty’s reluctant to look at any
     of her friends as killers, potential victims, or suicidal. I know I would be, if I
     knew any of these people.”
    I nodded. “Makes sense. No reflection on you, Marty, but maybe Shelby’s right. Maybe
     this is too personal for you.”
    Marty sat up straighter in her chair. “Well, if we don’t find out something soon,
     any one of my friends or relatives might be the next victim. I can’t just sit here
     and wait to see who the next person is to die. Maybe even me.”
    That stopped me. I hadn’t considered that she might consider herself a target. Was
     Marty Terwilliger actually afraid? “But you’re not affiliated with the Art Museum
     or the trust.”
    “Don’t be so sure. My father gave a nice Degas to the museum. And you should know
     by now that the Society and the trust overlap. They’ve given us money and collections.”
    “So you’re three for three. I see your problem.” Though I didn’t see what to do about
     it.
    There was a rapping at the door. Eric called out, “Agent Morrison is on the phone
     for you.”
    I felt a chill. Was he calling with more bad news?
    I turned back to Marty and Shelby. “I have to take this; I’ll be back in a few.” Before
     they could answer,