Fundraising the Dead

by Connolly, Sheila

  The casket in the front of the room was closed, thank goodness—I really didn’t want to see Alfred’s face again. Marty was seated in the front row, her expression grim. I settled myself in a folding chair next to her. She nodded to me but then turned her eyes forward again. After waiting for ten minutes past the appointed time, the funeral director stood up and read from what was clearly a standard script, with Alfred’s name inserted periodically. He’d clearly never met Alfred. The room was cold, despite the pompous drapery swags and plush carpet. As the director droned on, I did my best to remember positive things about Alfred—shy, conscientious Alfred, who had never harmed anyone in his life. Who had loved his job. Who had trusted me. I felt that I owed it to him to make things right, and I was glad Marty was on the same side.

  After the brief service, Felicity left without speaking to either of us. Marty went forward to lay a hand on the coffin, then conferred with the funeral director. Then she slipped her arm through mine and led me out to the front of the building.

  “You don’t have to go to the burial, Nell. I’ll take care of that. Pretty sad turnout, wasn’t it? Don’t say anything—I know what they thought of Alfred at the Society.”

  I couldn’t add anything. I wondered where the rest of Alfred’s relatives were and why they hadn’t attended.

  Marty buttoned her coat. “Well, I’d better be off to see to Alfred. Thanks for coming, Nell. I’ll see you at six.”

  We parted ways on the sidewalk: she went off to bury Alfred Findley, and I went back to work.

  Felicity sought me out before the end of the day. She came into my office and perched on a chair, uncomfortable outside of her own kingdom downstairs. “I’m glad you came to the funeral, Nell. Alfred always liked you. And he really did care about this place. It may be hard to find that kind of loyalty again.”

  We shared a few moments of silence, in honor of Alfred. Then Felicity stood up abruptly. “I’d better get back downstairs. Let me know if you need any help in searching for his successor.” And then she was gone.

  I was not ready to think about that, not until I had a lot more information.

  Marty Terwilliger’s townhouse may have been within walking distance of the Society, but it was in a distinctly different neighborhood. She lived in a tall, narrow row house, on a shaded cross street that still retained a fair number of trees; a nice street, very old Philadelphia. I walked up the brownstone steps and pressed the polished brass doorbell. I could hear footsteps immediately, and then Marty opened the door.

  “Nell. Glad you could make it. Come on in.” I followed my hostess down her narrow hallway. She was wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt; her feet were bare. As I looked around, the plainness of the house surprised me. I hadn’t thought that Marty was the type to go in for Victorian gewgaws, but I hadn’t expected the stark modernity of many of her furnishings and artworks. The high windows in the bay at the back were bare of curtains, and even this late in the day I could see trees at the rear and the twinkle of lights from houses the next block over.

  “Here. Sit down. You want a glass of wine or something? Dinner’s almost ready.”

  Why not? “Sure. You have white wine?” I was within walking distance of Thirtieth Street Station, and I really did want a drink.

  Marty grinned. “Good woman. I hate to drink alone.” With that, she disappeared toward the kitchen area, a large alcove tucked off to one side, and kept up a running commentary.

  “I made a corn and cheese casserole—it tastes better than it sounds—and a salad. I’m not much into cooking.” She clattered around the kitchen, finding a tray, plates, glasses. I decided it wouldn’t improve things if I volunteered to help, so I stayed where I was and studied her furniture. Now that I’d gotten past the first impression, I noted a number of handsome eighteenth-century mahogany pieces around the room; overwhelmed by the modern stuff, they reminded me of timid wallflowers at a dance. Knowing Marty, those older pieces had probably come down in the family—whichever great-great having once bought them new, fresh off the ship from England.

  Marty staggered in with a tray loaded with wine, glasses, and bowls of munchies. “Here, just clear that junk off the table.”

  I swept aside a stack of magazines and newspapers, and she set down the tray and sat down with a sigh of relief.

  “There. Help yourself.”

  I was a bit at a loss. I felt as though I was there under false pretenses, because I didn’t for a minute think that this was a polite social occasion. I decided to take the bull by the horns.

  “Marty, I’m flattered that you want to have dinner with me, but I have to admit I don’t really know why I’m here, and I’d rather be clear about that before we eat.”

  “Good for you—never break bread with the enemy, eh? Fair enough.” She bounced out of her chair again to fetch something and a moment later returned with a large envelope. She reached in and pulled out a sheaf of papers. I recognized it as a copy of Alfred’s list. Had he shared it with her? And why? She waved it at me. “You know what this is?”

  For about a millisecond, I thought about denying it, and then I decided that it would be better to have Marty as an ally, given her clout with the board. “Yes. It’s a list Albert put together of things he thought were missing from the Society. He left a copy on my desk, before he . . . died.”

  “Bingo.” Marty threw herself into her chair, draped her legs over the arm, and reached for her glass. “I’m glad you’re not going to play games with me—saves time. What do you know?”

  I picked up my wineglass, stalling. “Let me ask first, do you think the missing Terwilliger papers are part of something larger?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but there sure does seem to be some kind of pattern. You agree?”

  “I’m afraid I do. But nobody else wants to believe it.”

  “Who’ve you talked to?”

  “Other than Alfred? Well, I asked Felicity and Rich about what you told me you were looking for. But about Alfred’s list, I went to Latoya, since she’s head of collections.”

  “That it?” Marty fixed me with an eagle eye.

  I debated with myself, then said, “I also told Charles that there was something going on and that he should expect to hear about it from Latoya.”

  “Pillow talk, huh?”

  So she knew? I had hoped Charles and I had been discreet. All right, cards on the table. “Not that it’s any of your business, but why do you ask?”

  Marty pondered her answer. “If you and Charles want to fool around, that’s no concern of mine, but I’m trying to work out who knows what. I guess I’m trying to figure out if I trust you. To be blunt, I was testing you.”

  With deliberation I set my wineglass back on the side table. “What do you mean?” I said.

  “Oh, don’t get up on your high horse. Look, I’ve known there was something funny going on at the Society for a while, but when it reached my family papers, it got personal. So I told you.”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “I wondered about that—why me? Why not go to Latoya or Charles or the board?”

  “All in good time. I told you, this was kind of a test. I wanted to see what you’d do about it. And you did everything right—asked all the right people. Good for you.”

  I was really getting confused. “I still don’t understand. Are you saying you don’t trust the staff?”

  “Nell, right now I’m not sure who to trust, now that Alfred’s gone.”

  “You trusted Alfred?”

  “Sure—he was a cousin, about three times removed. I’d known him all my life. And I got him the job at the Society.”

  Oh. That was interesting. I knew Marty was related to half of Philadelphia society, but I’d had no idea Alfred was one of her many relatives. At least that explained why she had taken care of the funeral details—and maybe a lot more. “So he was keeping you informed? That’s why he sent you the list?”

  “Yes. And he knew I’d be concerned about the family collection. I�
��m guessing he stuck that list in the mail to me the same time he left you a copy. I got it in the mail yesterday, but that was the first I’d seen of it—and the first I knew just how big this thing might be.”

  I looked at my wineglass. It was still full, so the confusion I was feeling was not due to the wine. “Marty, this isn’t making any sense. If Alfred thought there was something going on, why didn’t he just tell Latoya?”

  “He did, at least by his terms. You knew Alfred—he wasn’t very good at being pushy. He probably dropped a few hints here and there, but nobody paid him any mind.”

  “He did tell me he had included what he suspected were losses in the monthly reports to Latoya,” I said slowly, “but according to Latoya, that level of missing items was to be expected. I don’t think he ever told her straight out what he suspected.”

  “Latoya’s right, up to a point—museum records aren’t all that they should be, and that’s true at a lot of our peer institutions. But Alfred was worried that somebody had sticky fingers, and that was good enough for me. I’m sorry to say, Alfred got ignored a lot. He was kind of negligible, may he rest in peace. And you need to know that he had another reason to keep quiet, at least until he was really sure.”

  “What?”

  “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but to put it bluntly, cousin Alfred was a bona fide kleptomaniac. People with that problem take things, not because they need the money, but because they can’t stop themselves. The place he worked before . . . he sort of borrowed some of their artifacts. He didn’t sell them or anything, though, and all the articles were recovered, so I managed to keep it quiet with the help of a hefty donation. When I got him the job at the Society, I asked Felicity to keep an eye on him. She’d check his cubicle now and then to see what he’d picked up, and he was the first person she’d ask if she couldn’t find something. I’m guessing that’s why he was reluctant to tell anyone about the missing items, knowing he’d be the prime suspect.”

  That explained why Felicity had been at the funeral. “So what made him tell me?”

  “Well, I gather you were the first person who asked him about it directly. And I know he liked you—you actually took the time to talk to him. Most people ignored him. And looking at this list”—Marty held up the papers—“I think he started adding things up and got scared. This is serious stuff here.”

  “I figured that much out.” I took a swallow of wine. “You saw Charles this morning—what did he say?”

  “He said what you’d expect him to say. He was concerned, he was going to devote the full resources of the Society to getting to the bottom of this, and so on. The gist of it was, please go away and let us handle this—or not.”

  I wasn’t surprised. “What else could he say? But I assume he and Latoya will put their heads together now. At least he’s been alerted.”

  There was something else I had to ask Marty, even though I really didn’t want to. “Marty, don’t you think that the timing of Alfred’s death is kind of suspicious?”

  Marty sat back in her chair and cocked her head at me. “So that’s got you wondering, too? Alfred stumbles on what might be major theft, then suddenly he dies? Yeah, frankly, it does seem suspicious to me.”

  I finished my glass and poured myself some more wine before responding. “So, Marty, do you think someone actually killed Alfred?”

  “The police called it an accident. He fell off a stool and hit his head and bled to death. He was such an odd duck that nobody wondered what he was doing wandering around the stacks then. Right?”

  “You didn’t answer my question. Do you think Alfred was murdered?”

  Marty’s flippant expression melted away, replaced by a more honest sadness. “I’m afraid I do. You see, I happen to know that Alfred was afraid of heights. No way would he have climbed that stool. And no way could he have fallen hard enough from ground level to do that kind of damage—unless he had help. Did you kill him?”

  “Good God, no! I found him, remember?”

  “Plenty of people could have faked that.”

  “But why would I kill him?”

  “Because what he found might put a real kibosh on your fundraising efforts, if the thefts were discovered?”

  “Marty! You’ve got to be kidding. You really think I’d kill somebody so I could go on raising money? That’s ridiculous!”

  “Relax, Nell. I’m just pulling your chain. No, I do not suspect you of killing Alfred Findley. But I think someone did, and I’m betting it’s someone who knows something about the thefts.”

  I felt almost nauseated. Alfred, killed? Deliberately? Because of some vague suspicions? “Have you told the police anything about this?”

  “I don’t trust the local cops to find their way out of a paper bag. They decided it was an accident, and I’ve got nothing that’s going to change their mind. And as for the missing items in the collections, what’re they going to do? Can we prove that anything has been stolen?” Marty challenged.

  I wilted. “No. And any outsider would just say we were lousy at keeping records. Not that they’d be wrong. But if Alfred’s list was a shopping list, then somebody knows exactly what he or she is doing.” I sighed. “So who knows that we know? Are we in danger?”

  “I don’t think so. And you’ve told other people now—Latoya, Charles. Whoever’s responsible may not know that I know anything, but the cat’s out of the bag anyway.”

  Maybe I was tired, or maybe I was stupid, but I still didn’t get it. “So what are we supposed to do now?”

  “My grandfather made the Society what it is—or was, in his day—and my father was a part of it, and now I am. I don’t want to see it go down the drain just because someone has a yen for bibelots and autograph documents. It’s bad enough that there was a death in the place, but if there has been a series of thefts, and the news gets out, the Society is in serious trouble. And you of all people should know how precarious the financial situation is. Your donors lose faith in the place, and that’s all she wrote. The current endowment will carry you maybe a year, and that’s with layoffs and cutbacks. Nope, I want to figure this out before the proverbial shit hits the fan, and then you can spin it to make us look like geniuses and everyone will be happy.”

  I swallowed more wine, because I needed it. Last time I had checked, my job description had not included sleuthing, and I felt completely unprepared to start now. “What the heck am I supposed to do?”

  Marty’s eyes gleamed. “You in?”

  I didn’t have to think long about that. If Alfred had been killed, I wanted to see this through. “Yes, I am.”

  “Hurray! Have another glass of wine. Look, what I need is someone on the inside. Sure, people know me, but they think I’m a meddler and a loudmouth. You, they’ll talk to. And you’re right there on the spot, and you have access—even at the highest levels.”

  I knew she meant Charles. “But, Marty,” I protested weakly, “I don’t even know what I’m looking for or how to find it. Can’t the police do a better job? I’ll be happy to work with them.”

  “Why would they listen to you? You’re just a fundraiser!” Before I could protest, she held up one hand. “That’s what they’ll say—I know how important you are to the place. But don’t worry—we have an ace in the hole.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Marty looked at her watch. “Let’s eat.”

  She hadn’t answered my question, I noted, but I was hungry, and I didn’t want the wine to go to my head any more than it had already. So I stood up, too, and followed her to the kitchen, where she handed me a stack of plates and cutlery, and pointed to a table. Three plates, which matched the three place settings at the table. There was another guest coming?

  As if on cue, the doorbell rang. “Get that, will you?” Marty said.

  I found my way back to the front door and opened it. On the other side was Marty’s escort from the gala. “Uh, hello—Jimmy, isn’t it?”

  He entered the hallway with the ease of long fam
iliarity. “James. Nice to see you, Ms. Pratt.”

  “Nell, please,” I said automatically, and followed him as he went toward the kitchen.

  Marty greeted him with an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Jimmy. Right on time. Dinner’s ready. Help yourselves.”

  Once seated with a plate full of food, James turned to Marty. “You talked to her?”

  Marty nodded. “I did. All clear.”

  “Hello? I’m still in the room. You want to fill me in on what’s going on?” I was beginning to feel left out.

  “Sure. Nell, I’m not sure I introduced you two properly the other night—bad manners. This is my cousin, Jimmy Morrison. Or, I should say, Special Agent James Morrison of the FBI.”

  My mouth fell open. Cousin Jimmy was an FBI agent? The FBI was responsible for investigating the theft of major artifacts. The lightbulb finally went on. “You’ve called in the FBI to investigate the thefts, which are a federal offense. He’s your ace in the hole!” I finished triumphantly.

  “I knew you were smart,” Marty said. James raised his glass to me, without comment. Marty went on. “But Jimmy’s just doing me a favor, at the moment. Since we don’t officially know there have been any thefts, he can’t officially investigate, right? And we’re still trying to work out how we can get him invited to play. That’s where you come in.” Marty refilled my glass.

  “What do you mean?” I forked up a large bite of Marty’s casserole. Corn and cheese hardly described it—it had lots of butter and a dash of jalapeno pepper as well, and it was delicious.

  James finally inserted himself into the conversation. “You know how the Society works, and who does what and goes where. And if you don’t know, you can ask without raising any suspicions. We’ve got a delicate situation here. Most likely with Alfred’s death, whoever is responsible for the thefts will go to ground, which will make it that much harder to ferret him or her out. But you can keep pressing for an inquiry into the thefts, quite innocently, and if you do it right, somebody up the food chain is going to have to ask my office to look into it. Maybe with a little nudge from Marty.”