Fundraising the Dead

by Connolly, Sheila

  When I came back downstairs the water was boiling, so I dumped in the pasta, then wandered aimlessly around my living room, picking up stray newspapers and magazines and tossing them into the trash. I was restless, and I had to admit I was upset. I loved my job, and I loved the Society. Yet someone had been rifling through its collections for his or her own nefarious ends, and thus threatening both my job and the institution. That made me mad.

  I realized I was crumpling a week-old newspaper in my hands, and made a conscious effort to relax. Charles and Latoya were working within the Society to get to the bottom of this; Marty and James were working from their own end and had brought me in to bridge the gap. Things were under control—weren’t they? I stared at my own little collection of treasured objects, arrayed on a shelf—things I had collected over the years from flea markets and antique stores, not for their value but because I liked them.

  Then I took a harder look. Nestled among my tchotchkes was something I had never seen before, a charming silver snuffbox. I picked it up and looked at it: eighteenth century, I could tell from the hallmarks. Nice quality. And completely unfamiliar, unless I had already succumbed to early memory loss.

  No, this was not mine. I thought for a moment, then began a systematic search of the rest of my house. After half an hour I had collected no fewer than six other items in various locations, all small and exquisite and no doubt valuable. And not mine.

  I felt a queasy mixture of fear and anger. I carefully drained my pasta, heated the sauce in the microwave, tossed them together in a bowl, and sat down at my table to think, with the bibelots arrayed in front of me. They ranged from the silver snuffbox to a small printed pamphlet, its paper foxed, bearing a date of 1685, to a pocket-size leather-bound book whose contents were less interesting than the inscription inside—it apparently had been a gift from Benjamin Franklin to a friend.

  Somebody had planted these pretty things in my house, I was sure. But who? And why?

  Who had had opportunity to bring these items into my home? I had few visitors—except for Rich and Charles the past weekend. When Rich had arrived, I had gone to the kitchen to make him coffee; when Charles had shown up later, I had spent some time in the shower, scrubbing off paint so I wouldn’t sully his borrowed Jaguar—which would have left either of them with enough time to plant the pretty antique trinkets I had found scattered through my house. All the suspicious items were small enough to have been concealed easily, and either one could have carried them into the house, just the way so many people tried to sneak stuff out of the Society reading room.

  Were these extremely valuable items? I’d guess no. Could they be traced to the Society’s collections? Maybe, maybe not—but if somebody wanted to identify me as light-fingered, they’d have to be able to prove it, so the odds were good that these items would show up in the online catalog, with definitive descriptions.

  So someone was setting me up. Rich or Charles? Or someone else entirely? My security was laughable, but I didn’t have much that anyone would want to steal. Who on earth buys locks to keep people from leaving stolen goods in their house?

  But why would anyone plant stolen items here? Did anyone really think that trying to pin the Society thefts on me would work? One look at my bank account would make the idea laughable. No way was I pawning trinkets, valuable or otherwise.

  I needed help to make sense of this. With surprising calm I went to my purse and fished out the card that Agent James had given me, which included a cell phone number. I punched it in, and he answered on the third ring. “Morrison,” he said curtly.

  I almost hung up then, but he’d already seen my caller ID. “Agent Morrison. James. I think I have a bit of a problem. Is there any way you could come over to my place?”

  “This is related to the thefts at the Society?”

  “I think so.”

  “We can’t do it at your office in the morning?”

  “No. There’s something you need to see here.”

  “All right. Address?”

  I gave him the necessary information and hung up. I supposed that I should be flattered: I call an FBI agent after hours and he takes me at my word that what I have to say is important. Now I didn’t know whether to hope it actually was or not.

  He arrived fifteen minutes later, which left me wondering just where he lived. He rang the doorbell and I let him in. “Thank you for coming. Would you like coffee?”

  “Whatever. What is it you wanted to show me?”

  I guessed that coffee was out of the question. He was a very direct man. “Okay, as you see, I’m not the world’s greatest housekeeper, and I don’t always look too hard at this place. But tonight I noticed something, some items scattered here and there that don’t belong to me.”

  “What kind of items?” I had his interest now.

  “Nice, small antique items. Items that would fit neatly in a pocket. Items that might have come from the Society’s collections.”

  “Show me.”

  I pointed at the collection assembled on my table, noting where I had discovered the items. Or at least the ones I knew about. For all I knew, if I dug any further I might find lots more.

  James gave them a cursory look, then said, “Maybe we should have that coffee now.” He watched me with unnerving silence as I brewed coffee and poured two mugs.

  “How do you take it?”

  “Black.”

  It figured. I handed him one mug, added sugar to mine, then nodded toward the living room. He turned and sat down at my dining table, and I joined him. Without preamble I said, “I had two visitors last weekend: Rich Girard and Charles Worthington. It’s the first time either one has been here.”

  James nodded, once. “I thought it might be something like that.”

  “Then you’d better tell me why.”

  He sipped from his mug as though he had all the time in the world. “Good coffee.” He took another sip. “I think someone’s trying to set you up, and that someone is going to drop a little hint suggesting that we should take a closer look at you. And you know, if we hadn’t had our little chat at Marty’s, I think that could have been a real problem for you.”

  I laughed incredulously. “Has somebody also deposited a million dollars into my bank account? Just to make me look really guilty?”

  He shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

  “You mean you already checked? Then maybe I used my ill-gotten gains to buy a lot of gold and buried it in the backyard. Want a shovel?” I was really steaming now.

  “Nell, calm down. I don’t believe you had anything to do with the thefts. We’ve been checking everybody’s records as a matter of routine.” He paused as if searching for words. “If, say, your employer, whose record is spotless, suggested that you might have a motive for taking valuable and easily sold items from the collections, we would have to take that seriously. You certainly have had opportunity, and, surprise, we would have turned up suspicious items in your possession.”

  I was stunned. Charles? If he was trying to set me up, that meant that he was the one stealing things from the Society . . . which was ridiculous. He was the leader of a prestigious institution; he made a healthy salary; he had come with glowing recommendations from his prior places of employ. Why would he do it?

  “Can you tell me about your relationship with Charles Worthington?” James asked.

  Oh, hell. No way was it going to look good if I said I’d been sleeping with my boss. But covering it up wouldn’t look good, either—somebody was bound to know something, or guess. Doris had. Even Marty had hinted at it. “We’ve been, uh, involved in a personal relationship since shortly after he arrived in town.”

  James nodded once, and I guessed that he had already known or figured that out. “Thank you for being honest. I had reason to believe that, but you’ve saved us both a lot of time.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” I wondered if Marty had tipped him off. “Look, he was new in town, I offered to help him learn the ins and outs of the Philadel
phia community, and things just sort of went from there. Apparently we aren’t as close as I thought we were, though, if he’s the one who planted the items. But why implicate me, and why now?”

  “Because you know about the thefts, and he knows you weren’t going to let it go easily. That’s probably a compliment.”

  How nice of Charles to recognize that I had some moral fiber. “But if it was Charles, what did he hope to gain?”

  James sat back in his chair and swallowed some coffee. “Let’s look at this hypothetically. The thefts have been discovered and acknowledged in-house, but it’s hard to pinpoint what has disappeared and when it happened. You’ve been there a few years, you’ve had plenty of opportunity, and your salary’s not terrific. That makes you a good scapegoat. Absent any real proof, it’s unlikely that there would have been any charges made—the Society has its reputation to consider, and they wouldn’t want the publicity. But you would probably have been fired, security would have been beefed up, and the thefts would have stopped.”

  I could see his point. “But then Marty got pushy, so we had to go public, or semipublic, anyway, which meant Charles had to move quickly. So he tried to set me up to take the fall by planting this stuff. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s what I’m guessing.”

  “What about Rich?”

  “As a suspect? Not a likely candidate—he hasn’t been there long enough. Although someone could have pressured him into doing their dirty work, at least where the Terwilliger Collection is involved. He has a juvenile record for theft.”

  “I know—he told me when he was here.” Did that make Rich honest, or was he just being devious and trying to throw me off? “But don’t juvenile records get erased or something?”

  “We can access those records,” James said bluntly.

  “What about Alfred?” I whispered. “Did Marty tell you . . .”

  “That she thinks he was murdered? Yes, she told me. I took it with a grain of salt. The police dismissed it, and no matter what you want to think, they’re good at their jobs. They found no evidence that his death was anything but an accident. I know, the timing is pretty suspicious, but there’s no way that the investigation will be reopened, based on the physical evidence, or that the FBI would get involved in it now. The FBI’s responsibility is the thefts.” James looked at me with something suspiciously like pity. “But, Nell—if it’s any consolation, based on what I’ve heard, Charles’s whereabouts are pretty well covered for the time of Alfred’s death. If it was murder—and I stress the if—he couldn’t have done it.”

  I resumed breathing. “I really can’t see Charles doing anything as messy as killing someone. I mean, I saw him that night, after the event, and he didn’t act like someone who had just killed someone—at least as far as I know. It’s not like I’ve met a lot of killers.” I straightened my back and looked Agent Morrison in the eye. “All right, what do we do now?”

  James grinned. “Good for you. I didn’t think I’d have to hand you a box of tissues.”

  I managed to smile back. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Do you have a plan?”

  “The barest outline of one. Look, I’ll be honest. It keeps coming back to the fact that we have very little hard evidence that any thefts have actually occurred, beyond a list put together by a man who is now dead, whose information is locked up in a computer system nobody else has figured out yet.”

  “Have you looked at his computer?”

  “Not yet—our computer whizbang is working on another case at the moment. In any event, even when we do get to it, from what I’ve learned about your operations, it’s going to be hard to prove anything. Now, don’t overreact—we’ve only been looking at this for a few days, and it takes time to follow up some of these trails.”

  “But you’ve got to do something! The thief, whoever it is, could be looting the collections as we speak, especially if he thinks we’re on to him. It’s his last chance.”

  “We are doing something, Nell. Listen, I’m breaking about every rule in the book by telling you any of this, but frankly, I need your help—I need you on the inside.”

  I pondered that. “You mean, you want me to go back to work and wait for someone to drop the dime on me? Is that the right term?”

  His mouth twitched. “Yes, it is. And yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do. We wait and see. Look, I don’t know how long he’s been at this, or how good he is. Maybe he thought if the FBI found incriminating evidence in your house, we’d leap to the obvious conclusion and that would be the end of it. Certainly it would take the heat off of him and send us looking in another direction, which could buy him time.”

  “Time for what? To get rid of the evidence? To cover his tracks?”

  “That’s getting harder to do, thanks to you and Marty. And now we’re watching for stolen goods that might have come from the Society, so he might lie low for a bit.”

  I was not convinced. If no one had noticed items from the Society on the black market by now, what would have changed? All I could imagine was more of our priceless collections disappearing, never to be retrieved. “I’ll do whatever you think is best for your investigation—and for the Society.”

  “Thank you. Just hang tight. The fact that you found those items here in your house means that our thief is getting nervous, and that’s good to know.”

  Well, at least I’d made someone happy. It sure wasn’t me. “So how are we supposed to communicate? I can’t exactly phone you from the office or even talk freely there—you’ve seen that. You want to call me here?”

  “We can meet at Marty’s, as long as you’re discreet about it.”

  “Sir, I can be the soul of discretion.”

  “I’m banking on it.” He stood up. “Thank you for telling me about this, Nell. A lot of people might have been afraid to say anything. I’m glad you trust us.”

  “And I’m glad you believe me.”

  “Don’t worry. If we’re lucky, we’ll get this sorted out in a few days.”

  “Right.” I stood, too, and followed him to the door. I knew perfectly well that it was going to take more than a few days to sort out what was missing and where it might have gone, but nabbing the culprit and stopping the hemorrhage was at least a start. “So I’ll wait to hear from Marty about getting together? Or I’ll let her know if I need to tell you something?”

  “Exactly. Good night, now.”

  And he was gone, leaving me confused. And hungry—I went back to the kitchen and rummaged in the freezer until I found a half-empty container of ice cream. I ate it all. It didn’t help.

  CHAPTER 18

  I slept badly: too much to worry about, too much caffeine too late. Wednesday morning I dragged myself out of bed before the alarm went off, and in the shower tried to scrub myself back to life, with little success. I dressed carefully, hoping to look like a responsible grown-up who couldn’t possibly engage in felonies, just in case anyone was watching, and I fled for the train station to catch an early train. I had my orders from the FBI, and I was going to go to work.

  Could Charles actually have planted stolen goods at my home? Could the man I had admired and respected—and slept with—do something like that to me, and I hadn’t seen it coming? How was I going to be able to look at him today? Much less be nice to him? Argh.

  I let myself into the building and made a beeline for my office. Once there, I scuttled behind my desk. I looked around at the familiar clutter—odd souvenirs, framed prints, posters, hanging calendars, and stacks of things to be done, and things that had been done but needed to be filed.

  I jumped three feet when the phone rang. It was Doris.

  “Mr. Worthington would like to see you. Now.”

  Damn, he’s in early. “I’ll be right there,” I said sweetly.

  I marched into Charles’s office, shutting the door behind me. We stared at each other for a long moment. I didn’t have a clue what was going on in his head, but I could feel my view of him shifting
moment by moment. Before, I’d seen him as an attractive man, an able administrator, a considerate lover; now I was wondering if he was a felon and a liar. I hated it.

  “Nell, I’ve had a rather disturbing conversation with that FBI agent this morning,” Charles began. “I have to conclude that the FBI is looking at staff members’ possible culpability in this theft matter.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me, Charles.” I considered elaborating but decided to see how Charles would play this out.

  In the end he opted for doing the right thing. His face softened. “Nell, of course I don’t think you would steal anything from the Society. I know how much this place means to you.”

  “It does, Charles. I just hope this gets sorted out quickly. I wouldn’t want to see these losses continue.”

  “I agree. But I think it’s important at this juncture, while we are under such scrutiny, to be as circumspect as possible. It’s not a good idea for us to meet behind closed doors—it might give people the wrong idea. The fact that we’ve enjoyed a relationship and concealed it might send the wrong message.”

  “Of course, Charles. After all, you never know who’s watching or listening.” Although I had a pretty good idea that Doris had very sharp ears. “If there’s nothing else, I have a lot to do today.” I stood up and took a fast two steps toward the door and yanked it open, in time to surprise Doris hovering nearby. She immediately turned away to shuffle some folders on her desk.