Fundraising the Dead

by Connolly, Sheila

  “Noted. Any of them have any connection to the dead guy?”

  “Not that I know of, but there’s no reason why I would know.”

  “What can you tell me about the dead guy?”

  “Alfred? He’s been here longer than I have—at least fifteen years. He loves his work; he’s happiest with his computer and with the collections. He’s never said an unkind word to anyone, in all the time I’ve been here. Of course, he tries not to see anyone at all—he’s really not comfortable around other people.” I realized I had slipped back into present tense again. This was going to be a hard adjustment to make.

  “Family?”

  “I can’t really say. I mean, I knew him, but I didn’t know him outside of work. I can’t remember him mentioning anybody. You’d have to ask our personnel director, who’s probably downstairs now.”

  “Anybody else here close to him? What about his boss?”

  “Not that I know of. His immediate supervisor is Latoya Anderson, the VP of collections. She’s been here about four years, and from what I’ve seen, they had a fairly formal relationship, strictly business. Is there anything else? The staff should be gathering downstairs by now. What can I tell them?”

  “I think I’ve got all I need. You can tell them there was an accident.”

  “Did he fall?”

  “Looks like it. Hit his head on the concrete floor, cracked his skull, split his scalp open—that’s why there was so much blood; head wounds bleed a lot. You might want to keep your staff behind closed doors until we get the body out. I’m gonna go find your boss.”

  The detective was out the door before I realized that I’d been dismissed. But for a moment I couldn’t move. I knew the people waiting downstairs needed to know what was going on, but I wanted a moment to myself before I tried to talk to them. Alfred, dead. I’d just talked to him yesterday.

  I felt a chill. We’d talked about theft from the Society. But that couldn’t mean anything. The detective had said it was an accident. It had certainly looked like an accident, an unfortunate fall. Too many hard edges and creaky equipment in this building, and Alfred had put his foot wrong, or that old step stool had crumbled beneath him. It was very sad, but that was all.

  I was going to have trouble erasing that scene. Even if and when the bloodstain disappeared from the hall carpet, I’d still remember seeing it there. And seeing Alfred, motionless and grey. At least no one apart from me and the police would have to see the body and the blood in the stacks.

  Still stalling, because I wasn’t ready to face anybody, I riffled through the envelopes on my desk. If there were checks, they would need to be processed—entered in our database and prepared for deposit. Charles had said they were substantial, so it was important to take care of them quickly. I should remember to take care of that later today after the meeting.

  One envelope was thicker than the others, and sealed. I slit the top and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers, which turned out to be a printed, single-spaced list several pages long.

  Alfred’s list of the missing items.

  CHAPTER 7

  In the lobby Officer Johnson stood squarely in the center, feet planted apart, pointing staff members toward the room under the stairs with the barest minimum of speech. I threw him a quick false smile and went to find the employees.

  Inside the room most of the staff was sitting around the table, looking sleepy, dopey, grumpy, and in a few cases, hungover. And now they were trying out anxious and frustrated.

  Charles wasn’t there, and I wondered what the staff knew from Officer Johnson. Since it appeared that I was the only person in the room who actually knew anything, I’d have to be the one to tell them. I moved to one end of the conference table but not before laying the pastry box I’d snagged from upstairs in the middle of the table. “Sorry there’s no coffee, but I figured you must be hungry.” A number of people made a grab for the goodies, but their eyes returned to me quickly.

  Latoya Anderson was the first to speak. “Nell, can you tell us what’s going on?”

  I cleared my throat. “I am sorry to tell you that Alfred Findley was found dead in the third-floor stacks this morning.” There was an immediate outcry from the staff, and I paused until the hubbub died down. I saw that Carrie, my bubbly membership coordinator, looked ready to cry, and even our unflappable head librarian, Felicity Soames, had paled, shutting her eyes.

  I took a deep breath before going on. “I found him, and I called the police immediately. It looks like he fell and hit his head.” I decided to leave out the blood. “We don’t expect to open to the public today, under the circumstances, and if you want to leave, that’s all right, and you won’t be penalized for it. But if you feel up to it, maybe we should just go ahead with our planned meeting, while everybody’s memory is still fresh?”

  For a long moment I wondered what they would decide, and I had to admit, it sounded pretty callous to talk about the party with Alfred dead upstairs. Luckily they seemed to welcome the idea of a distraction, and no one protested. And that made me wonder—had anyone even cared about Alfred?

  “All right, then. Let me say first—great job last night, one and all. Definitely our best event in living memory—and that’s saying something, given the average age of our guests.” A few people laughed feebly at my joke. “Does anyone have any general comments before we review what the attendees said? Any problems, issues?”

  I looked around the table. Nobody was evading my eye, so I had to assume there were no major complaints in the offing. Or maybe they were all in shock.

  We worked our way through the guest list. Various people had had conversations of various durations with various guests, and we picked through them, looking for any hints about that person’s current opinion of us. The ones who seemed happiest, we would tap for a larger role in the organization: board membership, sooner or later; a volunteer committee; or a bigger donation. The unhappier ones I would have to sound out and try to placate. Then there were always the chronic whiners, the ones who never thought that they were getting the attention they deserved. Usually they were getting exactly what they deserved, which was the same courtesy we extended to everyone, if a bit more saccharine, since we had all long since pegged the whiners as permanently discontented. Still, that was the way things worked in this business, and at least they had paid for their seat—well, most of them had, anyway.

  Felicity, her composure restored, said, “I had an interesting conversation with one woman—it seems her great-uncle has just passed away, and she remembers that he had some interesting collections. She hasn’t seen them for a long time, but she thought there were quite a lot of old books. I said we’d be happy to send someone over to help her sort through the books.”

  “Good catch,” I said. “Give her a call in a day or two, to follow up. Do you want to go, or do you want to send someone from collections?”

  “I can do it—I could use a field trip.”

  “Great. Anything else?”

  Carrie spoke up. “Mrs. Bennington didn’t pee.” There was general laughter. Poor Mrs. Bennington must be eighty-five if she was a day, and she had trouble remembering where to find the restrooms. On one memorable occasion, she had sought directions from a staff member, then said brightly, “Oh, never mind,” as a puddle spread around her feet. We tried to keep an eye on her, since other than this little foible she was a sweetheart, but sometimes there just weren’t enough people to go around. We were hoping we were mentioned in her will, and her estate was rumored to be substantial. Her father had been a board member in the 1920s.

  The discussion faltered. Normally I would give a wrap-up of the financial side, mostly for Charles’s benefit, but I didn’t have any of my notes, which were still on my desk. Still, it was at least a bright spot. “This is still a rough estimate, but it looks like we should clear about thirty thousand, after we pay the bills.” Polite applause. I went on. “Did everyone like the caterer?” Nods.

  “Great desserts,” someone
added.

  “Well, there are plenty of leftovers in the staff fridge, so enjoy. The caterer wasn’t too expensive, so if he did a good job, I’d be happy to have him back.”

  Fred, the building supervisor, cleared his throat. “They were a little slow on the cleanup. I had to stay until they finished, to lock up, and it was close to one.”

  “Thanks for mentioning that, Fred. Next time I’ll tell them to beef up the staff on the back end, okay? Sorry you had to hang around so late.” He nodded, mollified.

  Joan Sartain, our communications director, spoke for the first time. “Nell, I’ll draft a public statement for Charles to approve. We should say something.”

  She was right, but I wasn’t sure what we could or should say right now. “That’s a good idea, Joan, but can you hold off until we know a little more? Maybe by the end of the day we’ll have a clearer idea of what happened.”

  I had nothing more to add, and I was worried that the meeting was going to degenerate into questions about Alfred—questions I didn’t want to answer even if I could. Luckily we were interrupted by a commotion in the hall. At first I could hear only the bass rumble of Officer Johnson’s voice, alternating with a shriller and insistent female voice. Belatedly I realized it had to be Marty, arriving for her nine o’clock meeting, which had completely slipped my mind. Rich and I exchanged a glance; apparently he had reached the same conclusion.

  “Excuse me,” I said hastily to the staff, and rushed out to the lobby to rescue someone—and I didn’t think it was Marty.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Marty demanded when I appeared. “I show up, say that I have a meeting with you, but this officer here won’t let me in, won’t call anyone, just keeps telling me that you’re closed. You’d better have a good explanation!”

  I cast around desperately for a quiet place to talk to her. I couldn’t take her back to the conference room, so the only choice was the catalog room, blessedly empty at the moment. I looked at Officer Johnson, and when he nodded, I grabbed Marty’s arm and dragged her through the doors and around the corner.

  “Marty, Alfred Findley was found dead upstairs this morning. It looks as though he died sometime last night.”

  I had expected my announcement to hush Marty’s protests, but I wasn’t prepared for the peculiar shade of green that she turned—and for the expression of distress that swept across her face. “Oh, my God, no,” she whispered.

  When I didn’t get any further response, I said gently, “I think we need to postpone our meeting.” When she made no sound, I added, “Marty? Are you all right?”

  Color was creeping slowly back into her face. She drew herself up, and her eyes focused on me. “What? Oh, yes, of course. It was just a shock. Poor Alfred.” She stopped before going on. “You’re right—this is not the time or the place. But we still need to talk. You think you’ll be here tomorrow?”

  I shrugged. “As far as I know.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow morning.” Marty’s tone had regained its usual crispness, and she was thinking like a board member again. “And make sure Rich is here, too.” She turned on her heel and left, with a withering glance at the officer.

  Believing that the staff meeting was over, people were drifting out of the conference room, standing around in clumps and talking. After checking with Officer Johnson, I gave them permission to go into the reading room, where they wouldn’t have to watch the people from the medical examiner’s office cart out Alfred’s body. I didn’t want to see it, either, so I snagged Rich by the arm and dragged him in the opposite direction, to the microfilm room. Rich looked dazed.

  “Are you okay? Did you know Alfred well?”

  “What?” Rich’s eyes focused on the present. “Not really. But, I mean, he was at the party last night, right? Then he died a couple of hours later? That’s hard to take in. Hey, what’s going to happen with the cataloging?”

  I wondered if he was thinking about job prospects. He might be qualified for the position, but it was a little early to think about filling Alfred’s shoes. “I have no idea, but that’s something to worry about later.”

  He hung his head. “Sorry. That was kind of tactless, and I didn’t mean it that way. Did you need me for something?”

  “Actually, yes. Marty still wants to get together, about the Terwilliger Collection. I told her we’d be here tomorrow morning at nine. Does that work for you?” It occurred to me that I had no idea where Rich lived, or with whom. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck finding what she was looking for?” I asked, nursing a small hope.

  “Nope. I took a look at every place I’d been working on that stuff, and went over the shelves and the boxes very carefully. Those letters are not there, or at least, not where they’re supposed to be.” He hesitated for a moment. “You know,” he began, “I’ve been having trouble finding some other things.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, especially after what Alfred had told me. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, things I wanted to look at, that I’d heard or read about—not in the T-Collection, but in others. And sometimes they just aren’t there. Of course, maybe somebody changed the filing system and didn’t make a record of it. You know, I may not be an expert, but there’s a lot of room for improvement in the record keeping around here.”

  Just what Alfred had said, and now he wasn’t even around to fix it. I sighed. “I know, I know. All it takes is staff and a lot of time. But staff costs money. We’re working on it.” Poor infant: he was going to have to learn about the realities of working at a nonprofit institution—low pay, limited staffing, and no money for interesting projects. But I didn’t think I should share my concerns about any other missing items.

  Rich seemed satisfied with my answer. “You think Ms. Terwilliger is going to blame me?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s blaming anyone yet. We just want to see if we can find what’s missing.” Which could be far more than Rich knew, but maybe finding something would lead to finding other things. Maybe.

  The day dragged on . . . and on . . . and on. Charles had retreated to his office, with the door firmly shut. It was noon before the gurney carrying Alfred’s bundled body shuttled down the elevator and out the service entrance that opened onto the alley at the rear. There was only one news person hovering outside, and he had the savvy to stake out the back door to get a good shot. How did the media know so fast? It occurred to me that I should touch base with Joan, our communications director, about the public statement she was working on. There was no way to cast this sad event in a positive light. Alfred had died alone, and no one had noticed. I wondered if there was anyone to write an obituary for him.

  But instead I sent the staff back upstairs and I went to see Charles, breezing past his loyal assistant Doris Manning, who glared at me but said nothing, her eyes pink, a tissue wadded in her sleeve. Once inside his office, I shut the door.

  Charles sat behind his handsome desk, looking appropriately sorrowful. I dropped into one of his guest chairs with a sigh of relief. “No more surprises?”

  “This morning wasn’t enough? No, the detective and I made nice noises, and I informed her that Alfred was a valued employee and a pleasant person. I’m not sure I ever exchanged more than ten words with Findley—he seemed to scurry out of my way every time he saw me.”

  “That sounds like Alfred,” I agreed. “He really didn’t like people much, but he was good at his job.”

  “You knew him well?”

  “I got to know him a couple of years ago when I came to him for information I needed for a grant proposal I was working on—you know, how many widgets we had, and how many of them John Hancock had handled, that kind of thing. He always came through, and quickly. It will be hard to fill his shoes—especially at his salary level.”

  “Hmm.” Charles seemed distracted. “I don’t suppose we could divvy up his tasks among other staff members?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “You know that as well as I do. It takes a spec
ific mix of skills to do what he did. But I’m sure we don’t have to rush to advertise the position, at least until he’s been properly buried.” The Society’s cataloging had waited years already, and another week or two wasn’t going to make any difference. Unless that list he’d left me . . . no, I wasn’t going to go there, not now. “We need to release a statement of some kind, and it should go out under your name. You want me to work with Joan to put it together?”

  “Fine. I trust your judgment. What a tragedy.” Charles lapsed into silence, and I studied him. He looked weary—and he had had more rest than I had.

  “It is.” I stood up. For a brief moment I wavered, wondering if I should tell him about Marty’s concerns, but looking at his face, I decided it could wait until after I had talked to her and really scoped out the extent of the problem. If it was a false alarm, or if I could make it just go away, it would save wear and tear on everyone. “Well, let me get to work on that with Joan. She’ll have a contact list—I don’t know what the deadline is for tomorrow’s Inquirer. Drat—she’ll have to get something onto the website, too. And you should tell Doris to start contacting the board members—we don’t want them to get blindsided by this.”

  “An excellent point.” Charles, ever the gentleman, stood up to see me out. He laid a reassuring hand on my arm. “And, Nell? I am sorry you had to be the one to stumble onto this. I hope you’re not too upset, because I need you to help me—help the Society—through this difficult time.”

  Well, it was nice that he had thought about it. But I had no intention of lapsing into a fit of the megrims, whatever they were. I would soldier on, and I would save any mourning for poor Alfred until later, when I got home. Which might be a while.

  CHAPTER 8

  The next day was Saturday. The Society was usually open to the public on Saturday, for benefit of those researchers who (heaven forbid) had normal jobs during the week. The staff had agreed that the sooner we got back to business as usual, the better. Generally only the library staff, not the administrative staff, was required to put in an appearance on Saturdays, but the story of Alfred’s death had appeared briefly on the news the night before—“Tragic Accident at Local Institution Claims Life”—and I thought I should be there to help Joan deal with any inquiries from the public—and our donors. And there was a lot of follow-up for the gala that I needed to attend to: writing thank-you letters, paying the bills, summarizing results, and recording comments from the rather fragmented staff meeting. How long ago the event seemed, though it had been only two days! First, of course, there was the meeting with Marty, which I knew she wouldn’t cancel. So I went in to work.