Dead End Street by Sheila Connolly

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?”
    â€œI am. No change in plans?”
    â€œNope. If they offer lunch, say yes, but it may be cucumber sandwiches and petit fours.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWhat would you call
urgent
right now?” Eric asked.
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œEverything good?” Marty asked as she pulled away from the curb.
    â€œJust fine. Do I look like I don’t think so?”
    â€œNo, you look normal. Maybe that’s the problem—you get shot at, you should look . . . different.”
    â€œWell, I’m sorry I look too good. I promise you I’m quivering inside.”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œI bet,” Marty said with what looked like a smirk.
    I ignored her innuendo. “Did you talk to Eliot?”
    â€œI did. He’s definitely on board with being on board, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œGood. He knows the vote is next week, right?”
    â€œYes. But we don’t see any problems, do we?”
    â€œNot 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?”
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œYou know, you never told me why the Oliver sisters approached you about this. Anything I should know?”
    â€œIt’s complicated.”
    â€œMarty, with you it’s always complicated. Why’d they pick you as their, what, agent? Ambassador?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œPlease 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.”
    â€œOf course I do. But maybe together we can come up with some ideas for the place. It really is gorgeous, and mostly untouched.”
    â€œAll 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