Fundraising the Dead

by Connolly, Sheila

  “No, I don’t believe so. I expected him to meet us there.”

  “Had you seen him at all yesterday?”

  Doris shook her head.

  “Talked to him?”

  “Well, I must have, wouldn’t you say?” She looked at James as if challenging him.

  He took a different tack. “After you led Miss Pratt to the basement, what did you do?”

  “I went back upstairs. I had some paperwork to finish up.”

  “You must have finished it, since you didn’t go in to work today.”

  “Charles was kind enough to let me take the day off.”

  “Where was Miss Pratt when you left yesterday?”

  “Still in the basement as far as I’m aware. May I ask why you would like to know?”

  “Are you familiar with the room that used to be a wine cellar, in the basement?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I seldom go downstairs—there’s more than enough to keep me busy upstairs.”

  “So you were not aware that Miss Pratt spent the night locked in that wine cellar?”

  Doris’s eyes darted briefly to me. “Why would I be?”

  I stared at the woman in front of me: prim, self-contained, sitting tidily on a straight-backed chair, her legs crossed at the ankles. Was she a very good actress? Apparently she was. But something about Doris Manning was off. She had shown no surprise when we appeared at her door, and little curiosity about why we were here. I decided to cut to the chase. “Doris, you knew I had a relationship with Charles, right?”

  For a brief moment her eyes flashed with venom. Then the shutters dropped again. “That’s none of my concern.”

  “Did you know about the other women, too?” I pressed.

  “I know that Mr. Worthington meets many women in the course of his duties as president. On occasion he has asked me to make a dinner reservation or send flowers.”

  “Did you know that he made a pass at Marty and is now dating a friend of hers? And that he’s been involved with other women—multiple women—at every place he’s worked in the past ten years?”

  Doris was now glaring openly at me. “Why should that be of any interest to me? He’s my employer. I don’t intrude upon his personal affairs.”

  I sat back in my chair. “Of course you don’t. But he depends on you, doesn’t he? You’re a great help to him, and you’re an important part of the Society’s organization.”

  “I try to be of service,” she said. “It is, after all, my job.”

  And how far did her devotion go? I was getting tired of this. “Doris, cut the crap. Yesterday afternoon you pushed me into the wine cellar and locked the door. I think you hoped that it would be a good long time before anybody found me.” When her expression didn’t change, I realized that she wasn’t going to alter her story, and I had precious little proof to back up mine. But then an idea occurred to me. “Doris, I’m going to bring charges of attempted murder against you, and against Charles. If he asked you to, uh, remove me, then he’s equally guilty under the law, and he’ll be arrested, too.”

  I could see that shot had hit home. For all I knew, she was perfectly willing to be a martyr, but she wasn’t about to let Charles be dragged down with her. Not after she had gone to such great lengths to help him. “No! Charles didn’t know.”

  “Know what, Miss Manning?” James said.

  “About . . . what I did, yesterday.”

  “And what was that?”

  Doris lifted her chin. “I did push Miss Pratt into the wine cellar. And I knew that she wouldn’t be found for days, if not longer.”

  James said carefully, “You admit that you attempted to kill Miss Pratt?”

  Doris nodded vigorously, dislodging a piece of her precise coiffure. “Yes. I did it. But Charles knew nothing about it. I never even talked to him yesterday—you can check the phone records. You’re with the FBI, and you can do that, can’t you? You’ll see, it wasn’t Charles, it was me. All me.” There was a thread of hysteria in her voice now.

  I stared at the woman. Someone I had known, had worked with, for years. Whose obsession with the boss I had laughed off, dismissing it as trite and pathetic. She must have hated me. I shivered and wondered just what else I had missed along the way.

  But there was still one other matter. I wasn’t sure what my standing here was, but I had to know. “Doris, what about Alfred?”

  She swung her gaze at me, eyes wide. “What about him?”

  James shook his head at me, but I ignored him. “How did he die?”

  I could see that Doris’s hands were trembling, and she clasped them in her lap. “It wasn’t Charles,” she said stubbornly.

  “You don’t have to tell us what happened, Miss Manning. You can have a lawyer if you want one,” James warned her.

  Doris shook her head vehemently. “No. You have to know it wasn’t Charles. Alfred, he . . . found out things. He was going to tell someone—I know he told you, Nell—and that would mean disaster for the Society. It would hurt Charles, wreck his career. I couldn’t let Alfred do that. So I had to stop him. He couldn’t tell.”

  “What happened, Miss Manning?” James’s voice was gentler now.

  Doris nodded. “I told him I needed his help to find something in the stacks. He didn’t ask any questions—I knew he wanted to get away from that party. He hated parties. There was nobody around upstairs, not in the hall, not in the stacks. We went inside, and I pointed toward a shelf, and when he turned to look, I picked up the step stool and I hit him with it. Just once. He must have heard me pick it up, because he was turning, and then he fell back against the shelf and hit his head. He fell on the floor. He was bleeding. I waited to see if anybody had heard anything, but nobody came. He was unconscious, and when his breathing changed I knew he wouldn’t last long. I went back downstairs to the party.”

  Doris’s calm, even tone sickened me. She’d just described murdering someone, watching him die, and she didn’t seem to feel a thing.

  Then she turned to me again. “Why couldn’t you have left it alone? Alfred was nobody—he had no right to interfere. What did it matter, a few bits and pieces of old paper? The Society would survive. Charles would make sure of that.”

  Marty finally spoke up. “Alfred was my cousin, and he was a good man. And at least he was an honest one, which is more than you can say for Charles.”

  Doris stood up abruptly. “How dare you!” And she sprang at Marty, claws out. James stepped in and held her back, and she turned on him. “Don’t touch me! Take your hands off me!” She was sliding into full-blown hysteria, and it was all James could do to restrain her. Over his shoulder he said to me, “I think we could use a little help here. Can you call the police?”

  I was happy to comply.

  I went downstairs and out to the front steps to make the call, and stayed there to wait for them. I wanted to get out of that cramped apartment and away from Doris. I sat on the brick steps until the first police car arrived, and I wasn’t surprised when Detective Hrivnak stepped out.

  “You again? What is it this time?”

  I debated very briefly about taunting her, but mainly I wanted this to be over. The fact that she was here meant that she or someone had taken my mention of murder on the phone seriously. “Top floor. You might need a hand—there’s a hysterical woman up there, and she’s trying to confess to Alfred Findley’s murder.”

  Hrivnak eyed me incredulously but headed up the interior stairs, followed by a uniformed cop. I remained where I was.

  Marty came down shortly and sat down beside me. “Well.”

  “Yes. Well. Should we have known?”

  Marty shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope not.” She lapsed into silence.

  Finally two officers guided a still-struggling Doris out of her apartment and down the stairs, followed by James and Detective Hrivnak, talking with each other. “I’ll come by in a few minutes, Detective. There are some other things you need to know,” James said.

  “Right. Make i
t sooner rather than later.” She nodded wordlessly to Marty and me, then climbed back into her car and followed the black-and-white to wherever they were taking Doris.

  James turned to Marty and me. “I’m going to have to go with them and explain things. Nell, why don’t you go home? You look like you’re about to fall over. I think we can hold her for Alfred’s murder alone, unless you want to press charges.”

  I shook my head. “No. Let’s keep this simple.” I shook my head again. “That was really unnerving. Doris has always been so cool and collected, and then she just fell apart. I can’t believe she really killed Alfred. But—what about Charles? What are you going to do about the thefts now?”

  “I think we can wait until tomorrow for that. At the moment he doesn’t know we’re on to him, and he has no reason to disappear. If he gave Doris the day off, he won’t expect to see her until tomorrow, most likely. We can deal with him in the morning. Good enough?”

  “You’re the expert. If you’re going to arrest Charles, can I be there?”

  “I think you deserve that much. Look, I’ve got to get over to the police station, but let’s say we meet at the Society tomorrow morning.”

  “All right. I’ll let you in, say eight thirty? Before the rest of the staff shows up.”

  “Fine. Go get some rest, Nell.” He headed down the stairs, leaving me standing in the hall with Marty.

  “Well,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Marty replied. “He’s right—you look done in. You okay to drive home? Or you want to stay with me tonight?”

  “Thanks, Marty, but I’m okay. I’d really just rather be in my own place.” I wanted to slink back into my cave and hibernate. I had a lot to process. I shook my head in disbelief. “What an unholy mess. And tomorrow isn’t going to be any better. Marty, what’s going to happen to the Society?”

  “I won’t kid you—it may be rocky for a while. But I think Doris was right—the Society will survive. We’ve survived this long, and damned if I’m going to let it go under on my watch.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Walk me back to the car?”

  We made our way slowly back to my car, now decorated with a couple of parking tickets. I drove home carefully, where I fell into bed and slept for twelve hours.

  CHAPTER 33

  The next morning, I lay in bed trying to sort out what had happened the day before and what was going to happen today, and what it might mean to me and to the institution where I worked, a place I happened to care about quite a lot. Funny, wasn’t it, that a crumbling building filled with a lot of old books and papers could lead to such drama. But in a perverse way it made me feel better—the place, or at least its contents, were worth fighting for. If I hadn’t cared about it, maybe I would have brushed off Marty’s accusations of theft as the rantings of a crank, and ignored Alfred’s findings, much as Latoya had, and things would have gone on just as they always had.

  And maybe Alfred would still be alive.

  But I had taken Marty’s complaint seriously, and I had talked to Alfred, and I had sent the whole thing tumbling down. How would we put it back together?

  Well, lying in bed wasn’t going to help. I hauled myself upright, took a shower, and stood in front of my closet. What does one wear to an arrest? I decided a sober black jacket and wool pants would be appropriate, with a silk blouse in a rich but subdued burgundy. I put on my grandmother’s pearls, then took them off again—this was not a social occasion. I put on my good leather shoes and some real gold earrings. The appropriate outfit to help the FBI arrest a criminal.

  I decided to drive into the city, since I had no idea how or when this day would end. I made it without mishap, parked in the expensive garage next to the Doubletree Hotel, and walked briskly to the corner. I was early. I spied Marty approaching and nearly laughed: her outfit was a mirror image of mine, as though we had enlisted in the same army. As we stood there, I saw James approaching.

  James was accompanied by another agent—a Morrison-in-training, as it were. He was younger, and smaller in all dimensions, but he was doing his darnedest to emulate his associate’s stance and demeanor, all the while hanging back a respectful two feet.

  James introduced us to the second agent, Agent Tuttle. Then he turned to Marty and me. “You are here as a courtesy, and I’d prefer it if you don’t speak. I don’t expect Charles to react violently, but Agent Tuttle is here just in case.” The young agent tried to look menacing and failed. “Are you ready?”

  Marty and I looked at each other briefly, then nodded. On the stone steps of the Society, I fished out my keys and opened the door. The lobby was still dark, but I didn’t bother with the lights before leading the way to the elevator.

  We rode up the elevator in silence. When we reached the third floor, the men got off first and strode toward the executive offices, Marty and I trailing behind. No one was in. Would Charles appear? Why wouldn’t he? When we reached the outer office of the president’s suite, Doris’s desk was pristine—not a stray paper in sight. Wordlessly, all four of us sat in the stiff visitors’ chairs to wait for Charles.

  We didn’t have long to wait. I could hear the whine of the balky elevator, although the carpeting in the hall muffled footsteps. And then Charles appeared in the doorway. There was a moment of absolute silence. At the sight of us, he paused and surveyed the group before speaking.

  I watched his face. He was not a stupid man, and he had to know the game was up. But he chose to play the gracious host.

  “Gentlemen, ladies, to what do I owe this visit? Please, come in.”

  In his office, James took a small step forward. “Charles Worthington, you are under arrest for the theft of historic items from the Society. You have the right to remain silent . . .” He ran through the familiar litany. Charles did not respond, did not move, but maintained a pose of studied dignity until James had finished. Then his eyes flickered toward me, briefly, as though contemplating his options, weighing the odds. I met his gaze, and he was the first to turn away. He turned back to James and finally spoke.

  “I see. Well, I suppose I should contact my lawyer, if I may?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Of course. You can tell him to meet you at FBI headquarters on Arch Street.”

  Charles went to the door. Little Agent Tuttle sprang to follow him, but Charles went only as far as the doorway, and I realized he was looking for Doris. Her absence appeared to surprise him. He came back, then extracted his wallet from a pocket and searched for a business card. “May I?”

  James nodded. He left Tuttle keeping an eagle eye on Charles as he made his phone call, and drew Marty and me into the outer office. “Right now I want to get him processed, and that should take a few hours. Shall we meet for dinner?”

  I nodded on behalf of us both—I wanted answers. He looked at me, and I thought I saw a hint of a smile. “How about that restaurant with the great reception? Say, seven?”

  “OK. Oh, what can I tell the staff?”

  “I would hold off on making any official announcements, although I’d guess they’ll notice that both Charles and Doris are missing. But I’m sure you can stall for a bit. Tell them Charles has been called away and Doris is out sick or something.”

  Marty nodded. “A day or two won’t hurt. Of course, I’ll have to inform the board, but that can wait until tomorrow, too. Maybe we can hash out a story at dinner. And, Jimmy? Try not to make us look too stupid, will you?”

  “I’ll do my best, Martha. See you later.” Then he headed for the elevator, and Marty and I were left standing there in the hallway.

  “So, now what?” I really was at a loss.

  “Get back to work, I guess. Good luck, Nell.”

  I have no idea how I got through the day. I sat at my desk and looked busy, took care of trivial follow-up letters, and updated the database, all on autopilot. A few people drifted by, but nobody asked anything about Charles’s dark office or the more noteworthy absence of his fierce door warden Doris. It was as though everyone sens
ed something was wrong, but no one really wanted to know what it was, and I wasn’t ready to tell them anything—not until I knew what Charles would say. At the end of the day I sat listening to the familiar sounds of the place shutting down for the evening—people heading for the elevator in twos and threes, doors closing, lights going out, and then quiet. And then I listened to the old building, and heard . . . nothing. The building was rock solid. It had been standing here for over a hundred years, and it wasn’t going anywhere. That thought cheered me.

  I made it to the restaurant with five minutes to spare. Marty was not there, at our table, but James was. He had a glass of clear liquid in front of him, which I feared was club soda, which meant this was still business.

  I dropped into the seat opposite him. “Hello. No sign of Marty?”

  “No. But she’s not known for her punctuality.”

  “But she makes up for that in tenacity,” I replied.

  That drew a laugh from him. “That she does.” Then the smile left his face. “I think Marty took Alfred’s death hard, whether she admits it or not. I have to admit, I always thought Alfred was a weaselly little wimp, but Marty used to hit me when I said anything like that. She’s very protective of underdogs, which explains half of her charitable activities.”

  “Sounds to me like you all had an idyllic childhood,” I said wryly, trying to attract the attention of a waiter, any waiter, so I could get something to drink.

  James raised one masterful hand, and a waiter materialized instantly. “White wine?”

  He’d remembered. “Chardonnay, if they have it.” The waiter nodded, then scurried away toward the bar.

  The wine arrived in seconds. I took a healthy mouthful, then sat back, closed my eyes, and let it glide down my throat. Better. In fact, it tasted too good if I was planning to drive home tonight. Regretfully I opened my eyes and helped myself to a piece of bread. I looked up to see James studying me.

  “What?” I said, more sharply than I might have intended.

  “You still look tired.”

  Actually, I had no idea what I looked like at this point. I dimly remembered making a brief stab at applying makeup before I rushed to get to the city this morning. “I got plenty of sleep. But it’s not every day that someone tries to kill me.” James, on the other hand, looked as he always looked. “You look like you eat criminals for breakfast.”