The Desk from Hoboken: A Genealogy Mystery, #1

Chapter One

C ome on, girl! It’ll be fun. It was mid March and I stood in my bathing suit on the edge of our pool in Wyncote, Pennsylvania. Our corgi, Sophie, watched from ten feet away, ears flat against her head. Her look suggested she wasn’t joining me. She didn’t like water, never mind fifty-eight-degree water. It would be shocking.

Every year, my husband, Sam, and I vied for the title of First-In-The-Pool. Today, I was determined to swim and win regardless of the pool temperature.

It’s now or never! I leaped in, submerged, and then in a split second, shot straight up out of the frigid water. It’s cold! It’s cold! It’s cold!

Sophie circled the pool, barking as I splashed my way to the steps and climbed out.

Phew! What a wake up call, Sophie! I toweled my hair while she licked my wet legs.

You win! Sam shouted from the back door, saluting me with his steaming coffee mug.

I’ll be in as soon as I dry off.

He grinned, disappearing back inside.

Five minutes later, I grabbed the hot mug as the last fragrant squirts of Cinnabon coffee gurgled from the Keurig. Something had changed in me overnight. It could have been the promise of spring, with the leaves budding, but I had a hunch it had something to do with the phone call from late yesterday afternoon. A potential client needed a genealogist.

Whatever it was, I felt alive again. Smiling, I joined Sam in the breakfast nook.

You look happy. Finally beat me to the first dip. How was it?

Bloody cold. I sipped my coffee in silence. The strong brew made my lips tingle. Or maybe it was simply rekindled optimism.

I, RaeJean O’Leary Hunter, a notorious workaholic, hadn’t entered my home office since the mental fog set in six months ago. Life’s current had pulled me under. Today, I’d resurfaced, gasping for a breath of fresh air.

Sam gazed at me over the rim of his mug. Thinking about returning to work?

Actually, I am. I received a voicemail late yesterday about a case that could be a good segue back to work. Easy, I think. My stomach fluttered at the prospect, but I knew I had to take the plunge, not unlike diving into the frigid pool in order to feel like a winner again. I smiled to myself.

Sam grinned. That’s great. Maybe we should resume the office remodel.

I’d like that. We’d purchased the house as is and had been remodeling for a while. Actually, it was more of a restoration, but we’d suspended our work when I got pregnant. If I took the case, I’d need a workspace other than our library.

Great. I’ll call the contractor. He kissed me and disappeared into his office.

After rinsing my cup, I scrambled upstairs with the intent of checking on my neglected office and preparing it for the work crew. I rushed past the door to the room where I’d wallowed for months. After two steps, I froze. A lingering compulsion sabotaged my plan. Instead, I stepped back and entered the unlit nursery.

Scooping up the stuffed bunny that Sam had bought the day we’d learned I was pregnant, I sat in the Boston rocker, reliving the months after our loss. The tiny bunny sprawled across my lap as I agonized over the only thing I tended to worry about since that time, the secret I’d kept from Sam.

Determined to move on, I sucked in a breath and glanced down at Sophie. Big girls don’t cry.

It worked. Today, I didn’t shed a tear.

I stood, tossing the toy onto the chair. Let’s go. I followed the dog as she padded out the door.

After yesterday’s call, there was a chance I’d landed a routine case that would finally stimulate me. As a forensic genealogist, I’d mined online DNA databases and mapped family clusters to locate the relatives of fugitives as potential candidates for FBI agents to interview. I’d become proficient and could undoubtedly return to high-profile cases, but I was worried that I’d lost my instincts for the job.

Better to start slow.

My older sister and only sibling, Caitlin, would be pleased. Five years my senior, she’d mothered me most of my life, especially after our dad walked out, leaving our mother to work two jobs to keep us afloat. Since Mom died, she’d been my closest and best friend, except for Sam.

Caitlin suggested I accept a kinship project, assisting in the search for someone’s ancestor or lost relative to help me ease back into the rat race. My gut said she was right. It was time to rejoin the living and say goodbye to the sloth I’d become.

The case sounded simple. Professor Michael Carver, Head of the Anthropology Department at Connecticut College in New London, wanted me to confirm the identity of human remains found on campus by one of his students. According to Carver, little of the original wooden casket survived, but the body was in remarkably good condition. They suspected it had been dislodged from one of several upstream historic cemeteries during a flood. In his voicemail, he suggested the victim might be Mary Rogers, a woman originally found floating in the Hudson River in 1841, and whose final burial location was still a mystery.

From his brief description, the case sounded simple enough. He’d need three primary sources to prove Mary’s body had been buried in New London. If not online, I’d probably find them in state or local archives.

I wiped dust off the chair seat and desktop, then settled at my makeshift desk while summoning the courage to call Carver. After a half dozen rings, my call went to voicemail. It’s RaeJean Hunter regarding the human remains. Please reach out if you’re still interested.

I looked at Sophie, fast asleep at my feet. Who’s Mary Rogers?

She cracked open one eye, sighed, then rolled onto her side.

I laughed. My thoughts exactly.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I let out a long breath. My skin hurt. Raw nerve endings, no doubt. Noticeable signs of life returning.

I was back in the game.

Sam had already left for the weekend when my phone rang the first few notes from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, a tune I’d selected years ago. My stomach tightened at the sound. It used to charge my batteries, but no more. I made a mental note to change it.

RaeJean Hunter, I said by way of greeting. How may I help you?

It’s Mike Carver at Connecticut College, following up on my voicemail. Austin Bradley recommended you. He claims you’re the best forensic genealogist he knows. I could really use your help.

Austin was a lawyer I’d met several years ago at a conference. Typically, I hated dealing with lawyers, but he’d changed my opinion on at least one of them when we worked on the same FBI case. I’d used my DNA mapping skills, and Austin did what lawyers do. Jointly, we located the suspect’s family.

Is Austin involved? I didn’t mind, but I was curious.

No, he isn’t. We just go golfing together. Bradley got tired of hearing me moan after my genealogist quit. He recommended you. Like I told you in my message, I need help confirming the identity of hundred-eighty-year-old bones found on campus. We believe it’s Mary Rogers.

If you already have an identity, I can’t imagine why you would need me. I relaxed, once again sensing an easy case on my hands.

He cleared his throat. It’s a long story. One I’d prefer to discuss in person.

Okay. I hesitated, then asked, Should I know who Mary Rogers is?

"If you’re an Edgar Allan Poe fan, maybe. It’s a famous unsolved case that inspired him to write his second whodunit, The Mystery of Marie Roget."

"I liked a lot of Poe’s stories, but Marie Roget wasn’t my favorite."

Carver laughed. Mine, either. But Poe believed he’d solved the mystery of her death.

What happened to her? Why was the case so famous? I couldn’t recall much about her from Poe’s version of the story.

She fascinated the public. Youth, beauty, charm. He went on to tell how she’d clerked at a Manhattan cigar emporium, a regular hangout for New York journalists like the Herald’s James Gordon Bennett, the Sun’s Benjamin Day, the Evening Post’s William Cullen Bryant, as well as writers such as James Fenimore Cooper and Washington Irving.

And, of course, Poe, he added after taking a moment to think. The daily penny presses went wild over Mary. Reported her movements like today’s paparazzi do with celebrities.

So, her youth, beauty, charm, and tragic death sold newspapers. Using her to sell papers gnawed at me, but with that kind of notoriety, I’d likely find sufficient data to conclude the remains could be hers.

That’s right. Will you take the case? Carver asked.

Unsure if I was ready for a public appearance, yet fascinated by a project with a connection to Poe, I mumbled, Maybe.

I have the remains in my office, if you’re interested. We could meet tomorrow around, say, one o’clock. I only teach one class on Friday afternoons. It’s not until three-fifteen.

His offer to meet sounded more private than public, and he seemed anxious to begin. It wouldn’t hurt to hear him out. Plus, I would love to see the specimen. I’d seen human remains before, but none that old, except museum mummies. Okay. I’ll travel up in the morning.

Fantastic. Carver’s voice conveyed relief. I’ll see you after lunch tomorrow.

My hands shook as I called my sister. Realization set in. I’d moved forward. It was a baby step forward, but a step in the right direction, nonetheless.

Hey. You up for a weekend visitor?

Let me check my social calendar. Caitlin hesitated, maybe two seconds. Looks like you are in luck, Cub. The Governor canceled.

I laughed. Caitlin had been a freelance reporter in and around Philadelphia for a decade. She lived in Granby, Connecticut, a little over an hour northwest of New London, not far from the Hartford airport, and had relocated there three years ago as an editor for a small local newspaper. Since her first job, she’d always called me Cub, claiming it fit me—small and feisty.

Great. I have a meeting in New London tomorrow about a potential case. It shouldn’t take long. I could be at your place by five.

Yes! A warm feeling washed over me. I loved spending time with Caitlin.

What about Sam? Are you deserting him?

No, Sam deserted me. He left this morning to meet an antique dealer at a vintage furniture show in Boston. He won’t be home until late Sunday night. I missed him already.

What’s the case about?

It’s a confirmation-of-identity issue. I’ll tell you about it over a glass of wine. I looked down at Sophie. I have to call the Canine Fitness Camp. Sophie needs a place to stay.

After we hung up, I moved to the library window, hoping to settle my nerves. Cardinals flitted in and out of the cedar copse near the edge of our property.

I’d done it. My first step back into the outside world.

My mind sputtered, then shifted into gear as I planned my trip. I’d take the early morning train on Friday to New Haven, then rent a car for the weekend. On Monday, the train would take me from Hartford back to Philadelphia and I would be home by noon. I hadn’t traveled in six months. Until now, I hadn’t felt ready to separate myself from Sam or leave my home library.

I texted Sam, explaining I’d be spending the weekend with Caitlin. He sent back a quick thumbs-up emoji and a big red heart. He was my rock.

There was no way to deny it, I’d begun to crave the therapeutic buzz that came from working. I’d taken on easy projects before to recover from especially gruesome cases. Like eating strawberries at a wine tasting, it cleansed the mental palate. This case would be my strawberries.

Chapter Two

Iarrived on campus at twelve-thirty, remaining in the car to wolf down the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I’d packed. After checking my teeth for remnants, I ventured toward the Winthrop House. A plaque outside the entrance indicated it was constructed in 1916 to honor John Winthrop, Jr., the founder of New London. Hard to imagine founding a city.

The hall was dark, except for a beam of light where Professor Carver’s door stood ajar. I peeked inside and marveled at its resemblance to Dumbledore’s office at Hogwarts. An arched beadboard ceiling loomed over cherry bookcases lining three walls. A cluster of dusty furniture blocked a wall cabinet in one corner.

I cleared my throat. Excuse me. I’m RaeJean Hunter, here about the remains.

Professor Carver looked up from a lighted specimen case. Please, come in and join me. I am fascinated with this nearly intact cadaver after almost two centuries.

I peered into the glass-covered display containing human remains. Empty eye sockets stared back. Dark curly hair and brownish skin clung to the skull. The skeletal frame lay prone. Scraps of floral fabric hung from the leathery tissue still attached to the joints. I’d expected bare bones.

The air around the display case smelled musty, like soil recently sprayed with glass cleaner. An index card indicated homo sapiens, female remains, approximately 180 years old, 5’5" tall.

At that height, she beat me by six inches.

Not sure what to say, I remarked on the condition of the remains. She’s well preserved.

Yes. Luckily, she was packed in a clay substrate most of the time. Carver gestured toward a couch. Please, have a seat. Let’s discuss the project in detail.

The oversized loveseat dwarfed me. My feet dangled six inches above the floor. Carver fought a smile as I perched on the edge. His reaction was nothing new. Besides being petite, I looked nineteen—well, maybe younger. I was actually thirty-two.

I’d built a career, and now I only accepted new clients based on referrals. Even so, my youthful appearance sometimes caused concerns with the new customers until I proved my worth. A college professor would likely give me the benefit of the doubt after having taught so many brilliant female students of all ages and sizes.

I took the lead. Tell me how your student found the remains.

Carver proceeded as if delivering a lecture. Every spring semester in my advanced archaeology class, I assign a field project. Each student selects a site and postulates what they hope to find.

He paused to flick something off his shoulder, maybe a hair. One fellow chose the isthmus on the Thames River by the boathouse, downstream from the Rogerene Cemetery.

What compelled him to choose that site? Rogerene was a new term to me.

He hoped to find missing bodies from the cemetery. He’d built a fascinating model using historical map coordinates of the river. Over decades of flooding, the model revealed a shrinking cemetery and a small isthmus forming at the Coast Guard Academy’s northern boundary. He hypothesized that the river had dumped the dislodged caskets there.

I assume you agreed with him since you approved his project. It sounded reasonable to me, but I didn’t know much about limnology.

I’ve suspected the same thing. Most rivers change course over time. That’s why we have an ongoing project to locate bodies buried within that cemetery. He leaned back, grinning. Forty-one so far, with records indicating forty-four more that are yet to be found. The Rogerenes complicated things by refusing to mark their graves.

And? Travel fatigue crept in, playing with my attention span. I blinked to keep my eyes from glazing over. My mind wandered to the Rogerenes.

We found original documentation indicating the cemetery was twice its current size.

Interesting. And that fact led you to believe the remains are Mary, I assume.

He adjusted his chair. Analysis of the physical evidence. The skeletal characteristics and bits of fabric indicate a female. Plus, DNA results from three independent labs converged, suggesting she’s a descendant from two prominent families—Mather and Rogers.

I had noticed sufficient skin and hair still remained for a decent DNA test. Sometimes, all a lab analyst needed was one or two cells to develop a meaningful profile. Still, after so many generations, finding matching markers would be pretty iffy.

He held up a russet-colored expandable folder. I’ve made copies of the DNA reports, my research notes, and a few other items. Irrefutable evidence requires confirmation documents, which is where you come in. We need three confirmable, primary sources.

Which means additional research. This sounds easy.

Exactly. We had a top-notch genealogist working on it for two months, but she resigned.

She, the professor had said she. Claire Allen, a friend from graduate school and the mother of my sixteen-year-old goddaughter, Emma, was the best female genealogist around.

Before I could ask Carver if it was Claire, he added, I’m not at liberty to reveal her name.

That confused me. Why not?

Per her request. Carver shoved the expandable folder across his desk toward me.

I couldn’t explain it, but my rational side pricked a warning—refuse the case. If Carver’s files included any supporting information, I wouldn’t be there.

You don’t have much research data. I’d have expected a full banker’s box by now.

True. However, the genealogist quit suddenly, without explanation, and retained her work files. We offered more money, but apparently that wasn’t the issue.

If it was Claire, why would she react like that? We’d talked a few times over the last six months, but she never mentioned this case. She’d sent me a family-sized bag of M&M’s on a regular basis to let me know she was thinking of me. I owed her a call.

Austin Bradley is pursuing the work files, the professor added. Legally.

Yesterday, you said he wasn’t involved. This surprised me, but I was pleased to have Austin on the case. We worked well together.

I hired him this morning after the genealogist refused my latest call.

A bad sign. The original genealogist resigned without explanation and refused to cooperate. And Carver’s twitchy right eye suggested he had a secret. I bit my lip, looking toward the display case. At least the specimen hadn’t moved.

He finally spoke. If my sponsor is correct, you could reveal a long-held family secret: Mary’s final resting place.

A sponsor? You’re saying that the real client wants to remain anonymous.

Exactly. You do work with intermediaries. Carver looked uncomfortable.

I will. But typically, I prefer to work directly with the person paying the bills. Something didn’t feel right, but I waited for Carver to explain.

I’m handling things for a man I’ve known for years. He has a reason for anonymity.

I’ll take your word for it, but I’m still puzzled about how he got involved in the first place, and who wants to know if the remains belong to Mary.

He does. One night at dinner, I talked about our discovery and the DNA results. Carver paused. He got a strange look, then suggested the remains might be Mary Rogers.

Did he explain why? This is getting interesting.

Sort of. Due to the body’s condition, city authorities quickly buried Mary in a pauper’s grave in a Presbyterian cemetery on Varick Street. More than a century later, a developer relocated the cemetery to build a hotel.

Is your friend related to Mary? I was confused about the purpose of the project.

I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. Mary’s name wasn’t on the list of bodies exhumed and moved.

Why was he researching her in the first place?

He wasn’t. Carver went on to explain how the friend had happened upon the list of relocated bodies while searching for dirt on the hotel developer. Having recently worked on an article about Sybil’s Cave in Hoboken, New Jersey, he expected to find Mary’s name among those moved. But he said a red flag went up when it wasn’t there.

I surmised that Carver’s sponsor was a journalist. And someone built a hotel on the site. There must be more evidence than that.

Of course. The fabric found with the remains fits the period. Plus, my sponsor read that Mary’s aunt, a Mrs. Downing, insisted Mary was buried with family and not in a pauper’s grave. He suspects when the coroner exhumed the body for further confirmation of identity by family, they relocated Mary’s remains to the New London site.

What kind of further identification? Why would they bury her without family involvement? I couldn’t fathom leaving family members out of such an important decision.

Arthur Crommelin, a former boarder at Mary’s house on Nassau Street, identified her based on clothing and the hair pattern on her arms. Bloating from the water had rendered her unrecognizable. Carver swallowed. Crommelin claimed he knew her well. The police accepted his word and opted for a hasty burial. Later, doubts arose about it being Mary at all.

I shuddered. I’d seen what water did to a corpse. And no family involvement.

None. The list of moved bodies and the aunt’s claim aren’t conclusive, but the first genealogist’s files might contain supporting documents. I believed my friend when he said the remains are Mary Rogers.

I admired Carver’s conviction, but it wasn’t enough. I needed Mary’s background. Tell me about Mary. The person. Who she was.

Carver’s eyebrows arched. I expected you would have researched her after we talked yesterday.

His comment stung. I regretted my slipshod preparation for the interview, but after dropping Sophie at canine camp, calling Caitlin, and packing, I had headed straight to bed. Sorry, I ran out of steam.

Carver thought for a moment. As I said, she was a Manhattan celebrity. Every city paper covered her death, each printing their own versions. To this day, the case remains unsolved.

It sounds like you are asking me to identify her cause of death. I’m sorry, but unfortunately I’m a genealogist, not a coroner. I didn’t want him to see that my hackles had been raised, but clearly, my diplomacy hadn’t returned. Exhausted, I glanced at my watch.

Carver delivered the punchline. Solving the mystery is not a priority. But if you do, my sponsor promised a sizable endowment to the School of Anthropology.

Cha-ching. Here we go. Ah, an endowment.

Plus, a bonus for you, he added.

I solve the mystery, and we both get a bonus. Not a bad deal. The case was about money, not the poor woman. There probably wasn’t a relative alive who cared if the remains belonged to Mary Rogers.

Carver straightened in his chair. Students always need research money. We also plan to expand our archeology minor. Develop a degree program.

I wasn’t convinced the case had merit. Hearsay evidence suggests Mary’s family moved her body. But you’ve got no evidence to indicate they did.

True. But if they did move her, it’s a strong possibility the remains are hers. All we need from you is proof she was moved here.

Even amid the self-serving intentions, he’d roused my curiosity. The pieces of the puzzle might just fit. I mulled over the facts. Eventually, lost family plots scattered across New England were discovered. The past had a way of seeping up through the soil.

I slid off the couch and wandered toward the window. Carver drummed his desk with his fingers, watching while I debated how to answer. So, what do you think? he finally asked.

I continued to roam, weighing the pros and cons. Not many genealogists got the chance to solve a hundred-eighty-year-old cold case. I stopped to read the identification plaque on a woman’s portrait.

Isabelle Kemp, Ph.D., Professor, School of Anthropology, 1939 to 1989.

The dates on the brass plate suggested she was Carver’s predecessor. I moved on.

The endowment soured me, and the previous genealogist had quit. Not to mention, the odd appearance of a sponsor, who sounded more like a shadow client. The case oozed uncertainty.

Nothing like the strawberries I’d hoped for.

When I turned to answer Carver, a light flashed beside me. A sunray had breached the clouds and entered through the office window. It reflected off a ladies antique secretary desk in the corner amid a cluster of chairs, a trunk, and an old bookcase.

The desk reminded me of my impending office remodel at home. Sam and I had bought our Victorian house eight years ago. Room by room, we’d started restoring it, beginning on the ground floor. Last year, we’d reached the second level, redid our bedroom, started on my office, and then refocused on the nursery when I became pregnant.

Waves of sadness ebbed and flowed as I studied the piece. Charmed by its simplicity and character, the secretary attracted me—a perfect fit for my 1800s decor.

This desk is beautiful. May I take a closer look? I gestured toward it.

Of course. Help yourself.

A trace of fish odor hung in the air as I waded into the afternoon light. Shifting a table aside, I stepped next to the piece and swept my hand along its front. When I touched the inlaid tulip on the hutch, it felt warm. Pigeonholes and tiny drawers with green knobs revealed themselves as I rolled back the top. A desire to possess it intoxicated me. Is it for sale? I’m restoring my office. It would be a perfect fit.

Will you take the case? Carver looked surprised.

Unsure of my decision, and lightheaded from discovering the desk, I didn’t answer immediately.

Carver drew in a breath. Well?

I searched for the right words. To be honest, my expertise is interpreting genetic groupings, or pinpointing areas of family clusters. I prefer locating the living, not the dead.

As I said, the sponsor will compensate you well.

The longer I touched the desk, the more I wanted it. On impulse, I turned to Carver. I’ll take the case if you include the secretary.

You’re sure? I’m authorized to double your current rate.

The money tempted me, but the desk soothed me. Rather, it beckoned to me. I reached up and touched the crystal tulip. I’d prefer the desk.

Our offer is worth considerably more than the ladies secretary. His mouth hung open.

It’s not about the money. I want the desk. I startled myself with the decisive reply.

Okay. It’s yours. As it happens, the college asked me to dispose of it. We haven’t found a historical significance other than its age, circa 1830.

As I fingered the dry leather blotter, the sunbeam reached the crystal tulip. A blurred image appeared, then vanished. I gasped.

Carver hurried toward me. What’s the matter?

Whew. I’m fine. Just a strange play of light through the tulip.

He returned to his desk.

I’ll take the case. Neither the doubled rate nor the bonus had convinced me. It was solely the desk. While I’m here, I’d like to visit the discovery site and the Rogerene cemetery.

Carver collected his lecture notes. My class starts in ten minutes, but you’re free to go there yourself. You can’t miss it. It’s marked with yellow caution tape.

I produced the campus map I’d printed from the college website.

Carver marked an X north of the Coast Guard Academy, then circled a wooded area upriver. The cemetery’s here. A huge boulder marks its location. Again, it’s hard to miss.

Chapter Three

Rain threatened as my rental car snaked down Deshon Street’s steep incline. A gravel road bordered the southern end of a meadow and led toward a cove in the Thames’ west bank. Strands of yellow caution tape fluttered in the breeze at the discovery site.

The entire dig was comprised of a sod pile and a patch of exposed clay. Muddied cotton grid strings drooped into the dirt. The spot didn’t reveal much. After several photos, I moved on.

A breeze stirred as I strolled north along the railroad tracks parallel to the river. A granite boulder guarded the cemetery. Two students jogging along a cartroad on its west border ignored me as I stood by the rock. Typically, I loved old cemeteries, but this one possessed an unsettling sadness.

The few engraved markers leaned at odd angles or had long since fallen. Rough fieldstones marked random plots, likely Rogerene graves. A woodland musk enveloped me when I kneeled to read the inscription on a lichen-covered headstone:

In Memory of William Peck

Of Norwich who died

On board the ship Sally

Sep 1798

Skirting the perimeter, I checked for more graves. A deep gorge formed by centuries of erosion separated the burial ground from the railroad berm along the riverbank.

The remains could easily have washed downstream from this cemetery to the dig site.

Finished with my inspection, I climbed onto the boulder. A gap in the trees provided an unobstructed view of Groton on the east riverbank. The sun, still visible, reflected off the windshield of a passing boat. Dark clouds billowed just beyond the blue sky.

I planned my next steps. Read, research, report. Similar to other forensic fields, a genealogist’s process tended to be iterative and empirical.

I’d review and catalog Carver’s