Privy to the Dead by Sheila Connolly Page A

then left at the corner, heading for Chestnut Street. I didn’t get as many opportunities to walk in the city as I would like, and things changed quickly. Plus, as an amateur historian I carried around in my head images of buildings that were long gone—according to old photographs and maps, the parking lot there had once been a school, and the pet food store on the next block had once sold tack for horses.
    As we walked I started mentally counting how long it took to reach Chestnut Street. Not long. Marty and I found a nondescript restaurant and settled at a table. I wondered if she had an agenda—Marty usually did—or if she simply wanted to have lunch with me again. After we ordered, I decided to take the lead. “Do you think I’m making too much of this killing? Should I be doing my best to ignore it and pretend it’s just an ordinary crime in the neighborhood?”
    Marty raised one eyebrow at me. “You just gave yourself away when you said
pretend
. You know, your instincts are usually right. What does James think?”
    â€œHe says he’s staying out of this. Not his jurisdiction. He will provide an opinion only if asked by me, and then only officially, and he will not perform any special favors.”
    â€œYou sound peeved about that.”
    â€œPeeved? No, not really. I don’t have any right to be, because he’s right. I can’t ask for help and drag him in every time I have a problem, even if it’s a potentially criminal one. We have to keep some boundaries.”
    â€œMaybe,” Marty said. She did not sound convinced.
    Our sandwiches appeared and we dug in. Sorting through trash was apparently harder work than I had thought, and I was hungry. While I ate, I thought about Marty’s
maybe
response. Was I being too cautious? My only significant prior relationship was decades behind me now, and yet I had been surprised to find how much I didn’t want to repeat past mistakes with James.
    When at least half of our sandwiches were gone, I responded, “You think I’m setting up walls between James and me? Or he is?”
    â€œNot walls, necessarily. Maybe fences. Picket fences, with slats so the wind blows through. Ah, forget metaphors. Look, I know you’re both feeling your way into this, and I think you’re doing fine, both of you. But I also know it’s tricky when your professional lives overlap in unexpected ways.”
    It struck me that Marty seemed to be trying to say something without coming out and saying it. “What’s this really about?” I asked.
    Marty picked at the tomato on her plate. Finally she said, “I’m saying it might be happening again—you and the police butting heads over some kind of crime, withJames hovering in the background, whether or not he wants to be.”
    My senses went on high alert. “What? How?”
    Marty didn’t meet my eyes. “You think this Carnell Scruggs picked up something from the privy trash and took it with him, and you think you’ve found something that fits the description—a second one. The police think it may be murder. So that links the Society to it. You’re its president, and Jimmy is your whatever. Like I said, it’s happening again.”
    â€œAnd I’m going to keep him out of it,” I said.
    â€œGood luck with that. Anyway, now I’m taking you to see my furniture expert pal because I may know something about that brass piece you found today, so you can take it to your detective.”
    I was surprised, yet not surprised. “Hold on—are you going to tell me what it is you know or think you know?”
    Marty shook her head. “No, not yet, because I’m not sure.”
    That hesitation was very unlike Marty. “I’ve never known you to hold back when you have an opinion. What’s different about this?”
    â€œIf what I suspect is right, it’s complicated. It goes far beyond that