Razing the Dead by Sheila Connolly Page A

8
    The next morning I woke surprisingly early, given the events of the prior day, and lay in bed reviewing what was going on. I should have checked with Latoya to confirm whether Ben Hartley, our new registrar, would be starting today. I had no way of gauging whether his military computer skills would translate to cataloging antique items and documents, but data was data, wasn’t it? And James had recommended him—shoot, yesterday we’d been too distracted to talk about Ben. I reminded myself to find out a bit more about Ben’s backstory and how he and James had kept in touch.
    I couldn’t do much about Lissa’s position until I knew if there would actually be a need for it now, and under the circumstances I wasn’t about to badger Mitchell Wakeman about that. But I meant what I had said to Lissa the day before: this planned development was a big project, and unless all evidence pointed directly to Wakeman or a member of his project crew, it probably wouldn’t derail the project. Of course, that assumed the murder was solved and the killer identified sooner rather than later. Lissa had seemed surprisingly calm throughout the whole experience—after she’d thrown up. And she was observant. Of course, being able to read people wasn’t quite the same as being able to read documents, but her apparent competence was reassuring.
    Okay, moving on. James had said he was going to start the process of finding a new place for us to live—of course, that had been before he’d been assigned to the Wakeman case. Did I want to get involved in house or apartment hunting? Well, maybe first we should pin down what we were looking for. I liked living in the suburbs: I liked the privacy of a freestanding house; I liked the open space; I liked being someplace that was away from work. I liked having choices for commuting. James lived in the city, in an apartment. Would he want to stay in the city? Style-wise, my little carriage house was late Victorian, and while I hadn’t gone overboard with decorating it in a true Victorian spirit, I liked that it was older and had a history of its own. James’s apartment was definitely modern, stark, rectilinear. Where would we find a middle ground?
    Enough. I jumped out of bed and started my day.
    I arrived at the Society early, at least compared to recent days, but Eric had beaten me to the office anyway. “Mornin’, Nell. Coffee?”
    Eric and I had long since worked out a coffee agreement: whoever arrived first made the first pot. “Sure. Did I miss anything yesterday afternoon?”
    â€œWhile you were out finding bodies?”
    â€œShoot, did it make the papers already? How did they find out so fast? It was only the one body.”
    â€œSince Mr. Wakeman was involved, it did—you know he’s news. Speaking of whom, he’s already called this morning.”
    â€œDid he want me to call him back?”
    â€œNo, he left a message, and I quote: ‘Project is a go. Lissa can start ASAP.’ Make sense to you?”
    â€œIt does. That’s good news, I think. A man of few words, isn’t he? But decisive. So we will have a new, short-term intern. Can you figure out what paperwork we’ll need? Funding will come from Wakeman or some subsidiary of his, and it’s a term appointment—three months.”
    â€œWill do. Right after I get you that coffee. Oh, and Latoya said that other new hire would be starting day after tomorrow.”
    Bless Eric. I’d hired him because Shelby knew him, and he was a nice kid and needed a job, but he had far surpassed my expectations. By now I couldn’t imagine running my office without him.
    Coffee in hand, I settled myself in my office and contemplated where to begin. I should call Lissa, but I wasn’t sure if I had her phone number. Should I call Ethan at Penn to get it? I didn’t have his phone number, either, although that should be public