Fundraising the Dead

by Connolly, Sheila

  I stood up, uncertain. “Marty, I need to talk to you—can you wait a minute?” Then I turned to Libby. “Libby, thank you for being willing to play along with this. We’re both worried that the FBI may not find enough to nail Charles for the thefts, and this gives us some extra insurance.”

  Libby laughed. “Hell, I wouldn’t miss it. This will be the most fun I’ve had in a long time. And we girls have to stick together, right? Marty, give me a call when you get the doohickeys. Nell, good to meet you, and I have a feeling I’ll be seeing more of you.”

  Marty and I left her to deal with the check, although I had to wrestle with my conscience. Unfortunately my meager wallet trumped my heavy conscience. I hurried out after Marty. “Listen, I remembered what you said about talking to colleagues. I’m going to try to talk to some of my counterparts at the other places Charles has worked and see what I can find out. I figure they might be more likely to talk to me than to an FBI agent.”

  “Brilliant! Nell, I’m beginning to think you have a real talent for conspiracy. Well, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you when I’ve got the equipment lined up, and we can go from there.”

  I watched her pull out of the parking lot. It was nice that she thought well of my skills, but I was beginning to wonder just what I had gotten myself into. How would bugged a romantic tryst to solve a felony look on my résumé?

  CHAPTER 22

  I didn’t hear from Marty over the weekend. Monday morning in the office, I took a look at the plan I had come up with, decided it still made sense, and started to put it into effect. Armed with a large mug of coffee, I logged on to the Internet and reviewed the staff lists at organizations where Charles had spent time in the past twenty years or so. I remembered details of his CV from his interview, and I knew that he had been a busy boy, climbing steadily up the administrative ladder and then hopping from one place to another (bigger, better) one as soon as it was seemly. He had apparently done it very well, and the progression led quite naturally to the top post at the Society. I focused in on the places he’d worked within the last decade. High staff turnover in development is normal, so people I might have known in the past had moved on to other places, and I had to do a bit of tracking.

  In the end, after an hour or so of trawling websites, I identified two women whose paths had crossed mine, either at fundraising conferences or at museum or library functions, and who I could legitimately contact with business questions. For the moment, I was going to assume that the word of the Society’s troubles was not common knowledge, especially beyond the Philadelphia community. And I had a perfect cover story: I wanted to know about how our sister institutions handled their security measures. I was researching various state-of-the-art security systems, with the view of writing grant proposals to fund a new system for the Society, and I had heard that they had installed a blah, blah, blah. It would do to get my foot in the door, and it had the added benefit of being almost true.

  The ones I knew best, and thought I could glean the most information from, were in Boston and in Washington, DC. I started with Diane Carpenter in DC. “Diane? This is Nell Pratt, from Philadelphia? I’m the development director at ...” And so on.

  And we were off and running. Five minutes of polite chitchat later, I had a date with Diane for the next day—on my tab, of course. DC was a two-hour train ride away, but it was worth meeting her in person, rather than trying to do this over the phone. I wasn’t sure how my budget was going to stand for this, but maybe the FBI would reimburse me. Oops, the FBI didn’t know about my own investigation. Well, maybe they would reimburse me if our little plan worked out. Boosted by my first success, and no less by the apparent viability of my cover story, I tried the second name on my list, Gail Wallace, and set up a meeting in Boston for later in the week. Surely one or the other would have some good dirt to dish. Otherwise I’d run out of time and money pretty fast this way.

  I sat back in my chair and reviewed my strategy. It seemed likely to me that Charles might have done a little harvesting at various collections, sort of a dry run before tackling the Society. But what if he’d been going after the patronesses there, too? My contacts were both women, and who better to fill me in on the nonpublic aspects of Charles’s activities? The ones that never made it to the personnel file; the ones that made the institutions very glad to give him a glowing endorsement, hoping fervently that he would become someone else’s problem. This was one part of the investigation that I could handle much better than Agent James. I knew what I was looking for and how to ask the right questions. It felt satisfying to know that maybe I could pull my own weight and do some good.

  The next morning, I caught an early train to Washington. I suppose I could have driven, but it would be easier to just get there, see Diane Carpenter, and come back again without worrying about parking or getting lost. I doubted she’d be willing to let down her hair to a comparative stranger, so the meeting would probably be short. I just hoped it would be sweet.

  I didn’t know Diane well. We’d chatted at various meetings over the past few years, but we were more acquaintances than friends. I knew she was about my own age and, like me, had worked at a variety of places in her career, but I couldn’t recall any other personal data to save my life. Children? Pets? Hobbies? I spent the train trip trying to figure out how to steer the conversation toward in-house thefts and Charles Worthington’s girlfriends, official or otherwise.

  From the station I grabbed a cab to Georgetown. Diane was my counterpart at a small but exquisite library, whose collections and massive endowment made many of us in the business green with envy. Once inside, I made the appropriate reverent noises about the handsome building and impressive collections; it was easy to be sincere, since both were wonderful. She gave me the full behind-the-scenes tour, including the basements and the elaborate electronic control room that ran their security system, and I dutifully asked her to join me for lunch, which she accepted with tepid enthusiasm. I let her pick the place, and when we were settled and had ordered, I started my oh-so-subtle probing.

  “If I may be direct,” I began, “can you tell me if you installed your system as a precautionary measure or because of a specific incident?”

  Diane fixed me with a cold eye. “Does this have anything to do with the call I received this morning from the FBI office in Philadelphia?”

  I stared at her, hoping I didn’t look like a deer caught in the headlights. I could play ignorant, or I could tell her the truth—or a modified version of the truth. I decided on the latter.

  “Actually, yes, it does. What did they tell you?”

  “Very little. They asked about Charles Worthington’s tenure at the library. They already knew about our theft.”

  I looked blankly at her. Either this had been very carefully hushed up, or I hadn’t done my homework very well. “Theft?”

  Her expression shifted to disdain. “Yes. Several years ago, we lost a collection of Greek coins that were part of the original endowment from our founder. They never surfaced in the marketplace, and they were never recovered. So, to answer your original question: yes, that was what prompted us to invest in a more effective security system.”

  “I didn’t know about that.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, because we made every effort to keep the incident quiet. It would not reflect well on us—as I’m sure you know.”

  I avoided her eyes. “What makes you say that?”

  “I can put two and two together. You call out of the blue and want to talk about security systems, and then I get a call from the FBI? I have to infer that the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society is having a problem with theft, too.”

  I considered my options. If I was frank about our theft problem, would she be? Did she have any information that could help me? It seemed worth a try.

  “Diane, you’re right. Like you, we’ve had some problems, but we haven’t gone public, and we hope it won’t come to that. But we’re just beginning to get a handle on the extent of it.”
/>   “Do you have any suspects?”

  There was the sticking point. I decided to dodge it for the moment. “What makes you think that we would?”

  She regarded me as though I were a bug under a microscope. I didn’t like it. “To put it bluntly, your institution and mine share one obvious common denominator: Charles Worthington.”

  We looked at each other for a moment, like two boxers sizing each other up. Finally I said carefully, “Was Charles a suspect in your case?”

  She maintained her stare a moment longer, then her shoulders sagged, and she took a drink of water before replying. Composed once more, she said, “There was no evidence to implicate him.”

  You’re evading the question, I thought. “But the timing was right?”

  She nodded. She didn’t add anything.

  I sat back in my chair. “Diane, I appreciate your discretion. I believe we at the Society find ourselves in a comparable situation. Like you, we have suspicions but no proof.” I thought hard for a moment. “Is there anything else that you can add, that might help us now?”

  She carefully aligned the silverware of her place setting. With her eyes on the table, she said deliberately, “Charles made a point of . . . getting close to people who could be helpful to him.”

  Luckily I had a pretty good idea of what she meant. “And would his, uh, relationships have helped him to gain access to the collections?”

  Diane nodded. “He cultivated a close friendship with the chief librarian, who managed the collections. She left us after the, um, disappearance was discovered. I’m not sure if she’s been able to find a comparable position—this was such a blot on her reputation, and word spreads, even without public exposure.”

  The food arrived, providing a welcome break. I didn’t think Diane would be any more specific about what had happened, but she had told me what I needed to know. When the waiter had withdrawn again, I said, “Diane, I understand your position. What you’ve told me corresponds to what we have put together, and I think it will help. If we uncover anything that would lead to your missing items, I’ll make certain to share it with you. And thank you for telling me—you could have just blown me off.”

  “Nell, you and I are part of the same rather small cultural community. We should be able to provide mutual support. I will be glad if I have helped you.”

  And we dug into our meal, while the talk turned to more neutral topics. An hour later, I caught the train back to Philadelphia, and as I watched the landscape roll by, I reflected that, if nothing else, I was building my network of colleagues. There were a lot of women in nonprofit development, and most were intelligent and committed. Unfortunately, some of them were gullible as well. And Charles knew exactly how to exploit us.

  CHAPTER 23

  When I got home on Tuesday afternoon, I had a message from Marty saying we were to meet at Libby’s country place the next day, and giving me the address and some rather vague directions. Wednesday afternoon found me wandering the lovely lanes of Chester County, trying to find Libby’s house. I’d looked at my maps and checked MapQuest, so I’d thought I had a general idea where I was going. The problem was, reality was quite different. For one thing, the places out here sat on more acres than I could guess at, and most boasted discreet and tasteful signs giving the name of the estate—but no numbers. It wasn’t like I could stop somewhere and knock and get directions, because most of the homes had driveways that were miles long—I couldn’t even be sure there was a house at the end of them. I swear I passed one estate that had its own landing strip.

  I finally pulled into what I hoped was the right driveway, only fifteen minutes past the appointed time. I parked my car in front of the house, on a graveled drive that surrounded a lovely circle of enthusiastically blooming flowers—not a dead or wilted one in sight—and studied the building before me. It was actually quite modest by local standards, a handsome fieldstone colonial from the early 1920s, by my semi-educated guess. It looked to have at least six bedrooms (not including the servants’ quarters, of course), a screened porch at one end, and a matching three-car stone garage. The front overlooked rolling hills and artfully distributed clusters of trees—and there wasn’t another house in sight. Nice. I could live this way, I thought once again, and I’d certainly like to try. I tore myself away from the view and rang the doorbell.

  Although I half expected a maid with a black uniform and frilly apron to appear, it was Libby herself who opened the door.

  “Nell, glad you found us. Some people just give up after the first few wrong turns. Come on in—we’re in the library. I thought it was fitting.”

  I followed her through the broad entrance hall with a magnificent sweeping staircase, and to the designated library at the back of the house. Marty was already there, and there was a buzz-cut young man next to her, who, at the sight of an unfamiliar female person, bounced to his feet and stood awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other. One look at him and I felt old: he couldn’t have been much more than nineteen. Still, it was the young ones these days who understood all the rapidly changing technologies, leaving us old fogies in the dust.

  Marty stood as well. “Hi, Nell. This charming young man is my nephew Philip. He’s an electronics wizard.”

  Philip blushed, and extended a hand, which I shook. “Phil. Hi,” he said. That exhausted his social repertory.

  “I made tea,” Libby announced, waving her hand vaguely at a low table surrounded by easy chairs. That was something of an understatement: what looked to be a magnificent Georgian silver teapot was flanked by matching creamer and sugar, with sugar tongs in the shape of birds’ claws, and I could swear the china was Royal Crown Derby. I itched to turn them all over and read the identifying marks, but that would be impolite, and besides, they were full. I sighed inwardly—maybe later. At least I could use them. I sat and added three lumps of sugar to my teacup—with the antique tongs, of course.

  When everybody was settled with something to drink, and a plate of cookies (packaged, I noted, which made me feel better) had made the rounds, Marty took charge of the meeting.

  “Nell, when we started talking about bugging, Phil was the first person I thought of. He has some toys to show us.”

  “Is it okay to talk openly in front of ...” I nodded toward Phil.

  “The kid?” Marty finished my question for me. “Sure. You can trust him.”

  Phil blushed.

  But should he trust us? I wondered. “Good. Okay, before we get into all the tech stuff, I want to bring you up-to-date on what I’ve been doing. I figured that there were people in the business who might talk to me, even if they wouldn’t talk to the FBI. And I don’t think the FBI would be asking questions about Charles’s, uh, amorous adventures.”

  Libby gave a snort. Marty nodded encouragement.

  I took a swallow of the tea, which was lukewarm. Silver might be pretty, but it lost heat quickly. “So I talked to a colleague of mine in Georgetown yesterday, at an institution similar to the Society, and I’ve got a chat lined up for tomorrow with another colleague in Boston. Diane pretty much confirmed what we suspected. I think we’re definitely on to something.”

  “So tell us,” Marty urged impatiently. Phil sat like a mouse at her side, nibbling on a cookie.

  “First, there was a significant theft at her place, although they kept it quiet to protect the reputation of the institution. And it corresponded to Charles’s time there.”

  “Yes!” Marty exclaimed, slapping her knee. “I knew it.”

  I went on. “Second, he apparently seduced the person in charge of the collections, and she lost her job after the theft.”

  Libby had been quiet but burst out now. “Why hasn’t anybody put this together? How is it that he keeps getting bigger and better positions?”

  I glanced at Marty before answering. “Probably because the women involved feel embarrassed or ashamed or stupid, and they’d rather not say anything—besides, who would they tell? They got taken in by a slick line and
some nice suits, and then they got dumped when they were no longer useful, without even knowing why. There hasn’t been any evidence to pin on him for the thefts, unless you count the fact that he was around for all of them. And since the institutions kept these things quiet, how would anyone know?”

  “Jesus, doesn’t anybody check references anymore?” Marty said in a tone of disgust.

  “Marty, you should know it doesn’t work like that,” I protested. “He hasn’t lied on his résumé. He’s got a nice list of scholarly publications, speaking engagements, activities in national organizations—all the stuff you look for in a job applicant. And, as I said, the women he’s used wouldn’t want to say anything—after all, what harm has he done? Nothing illegal, as far as they know. And finally, as a board member you know the potential fallout if you say anything negative about someone and it gets back to him—you risk getting sued. I’ll bet most places were glad to see the back of him, so of course they’d say wonderful things about him just to get him out of their hair.”

  Marty turned to her silent, wide-eyed nephew. “Phil, you are getting an invaluable education about the realities of the working world. I do hope you’re paying attention.”

  I had a last point to add. “Oh, and one other thing—the FBI called Diane. That’s both good and bad. At least we know they’re thinking along the same lines we are and checking out Charles’s history. But the downside is, if anyone at these institutions puts two and two together, the word of our thefts is going to get out. I more or less had to admit to Diane that we shared a problem.”

  Marty said promptly, “Good for Jimmy. I told you he was smart. But it sounds like we need to nip this in the bud, before it gets any worse.”

  Libby drawled, “So I still get to do my femme-fatale routine?”

  “Looks like it, if you’re still willing. Uh, ladies?” I didn’t quite know how to approach this, but I thought I should at least mention it. “I did a little research. You know that taping a conversation is illegal in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania without the consent of all the parties?” I knew I sounded like a priss, but I had been doing my homework on the Internet, and I thought they needed to know that. “In fact, bugging someone’s place is illegal. Just so you know . . .”