Monument to the Dead by Sheila Connolly

today.”
    “Oh, Nell. Should we be worried? Because of . . . you know?”
    Was I ready to jump to the conclusion that Marty had been murdered by the shadowy
     figure we were chasing? No, not yet. But I’d feel a lot better if I knew where she
     was. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ll make the rounds of the building and see
     if I can spot her. You keep trying her phones. If we haven’t tracked her down by lunch,
     I can take a run over to her house and see if she’s there. She might simply have decided
     she doesn’t want to talk to anyone, if she’s heard about Edith.” And if she wasn’t
     at home, or at least, didn’t answer the door, should I call James? No, it was premature
     to think about doing that. Marty would pop up, as she so often did. I was sure of
     it. Almost.
    Through the morning I did my best to keep myself busy, but I didn’t do a very good
     job of it. Midway through the morning I went out to Eric’s desk and told him, “If
     Marty Terwilliger should happen to call, or if you see her in the building, can you
     tell her that I need to talk to her?”
    “Of course. Shelby told me the same thing. Is something wrong?”
    Poor boy. He was quick to pick up on my concern, but he didn’t deserve to have my
     worries on his head. But I couldn’t lie to him, either. “I hope not, Eric.”
    I went back into my office without giving him any more details. I sat at my desk and
     stared at nothing, my mind going in circles. Four deaths in the cultural community.
     All looked natural on first glance, like suicide if anyone looked more closely. All
     people who had led blameless lives—surely they each weren’t harboring a deep, dark
     secret; or worse, sharing a single secret? No, I assumed they were what they appeared
     to be: good citizens with philanthropic interests who gave their money and time to
     deserving cultural institutions. Who would want to kill people like that?
    But it was happening.
    By eleven thirty, I couldn’t sit still any longer. I strode out of my office and told
     Eric, “I’m going to take an early lunch. I should be back in an hour.”
    When I walked toward the elevator, I ran into Shelby in the hallway. “I’m coming with
     you,” she announced.
    “Where am I going?”
    “Marty’s house, I assume.”
    “If she’s there and looking for a little privacy, she’ll be mad at us. But thanks,
     Shelby. I could use the company.”
    Together we left the building and turned left toward Rittenhouse Square and the Schuylkill
     River. I’d been to Marty’s town house before. It was a nice brick building on a quiet
     side street, in a good neighborhood. The house was filled with an eclectic mix of
     antiques, mostly inherited, and modern touches that Marty had added, and somehow they
     all worked together. Not that Marty made any apologies for the unlikely mix. Her attitude
     was take it or leave it, and she really didn’t care what anyone else thought.
    It took about ten minutes to reach her town house, and I think we were both dragging
     our feet for the last block. If Marty answered the door, we could go ahead and share
     whatever new information we had garnered over the last twelve hours, including about
     the new death. If she didn’t answer . . . well, we’d take that hurdle when we came
     to it.
    In front of Marty’s place, I walked up the few steps leading to the front door and
     rang the doorbell. I could hear it faintly inside, so I knew it was working, but I
     didn’t hear any footsteps. Maybe Marty wasn’t wearing shoes. I rang again, and waited,
     Shelby hovering on the step below me. Nothing. I grasped the polished brass knocker
     and rapped firmly a few times. Silence. Marty was either not there, or not answering
     for some reason.
    “Now what, Nell?” Shelby said.
    Like I knew. I called James. He answered. At least
someone
was where he was supposed to be. Since this was business, I cut to the chase. “James,
     have you heard from Marty