Fundraising The Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  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 kno
w 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 familiarity. “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.”

  “Uh-huh.” I picked up more food, chewed, swallowed. I was in no way prepared to play undercover agent. But Alfred certainly hadn’t deserved to die, and even more frightening was the thought that if he had died because somebody was pilfering important historic artifacts, and trashing the Society’s good name in the process, then that person might not stop at one murder. It seemed as though I really didn’t have a choice, and I was already involved. I looked up to see both Marty and James staring at me. “I take it you’re assuming the two events are connected?”

  “Aren’t you?” James countered.

  I nodded reluctantly. “So what do we do next?”

  CHAPTER 14

  For the next few days it was business as usual- except I had the gnawing feeling that something awful was going to happen. It was like having a weird bin-ocular vision: on the one hand (or did I mean eye?), everything seemed just as it always had, with people doing their jobs, visitors coming and going, meetings, minor crises; while out of the other eye, there were faceless people skulking around the corners, grabbing things and stuffing them into their pockets or down their shirts, and sneaking out the door-and nobody seemed to notice. And even though the puddle of blood had long since been scrubbed from the floor, I kept seeing it there.

  It was unsettling. I had trouble believing any of our staff could be a thief-I wouldn’t even let myself think of anyone as a killer-but I’d noticed them eyeing each other oddly, and there was a lot of whispering going on in corners. The atmosphere of mistrust was contagious and could do a lot of damage, and I wanted to nip it fast. But how? I didn’t have any ideas.

  There was no further word from Marty. There seemed to be nothing else I could do except worry, so I did that. I do it well.

  I was heartily glad to see Friday roll around. I had no plans for the weekend, other than to be somewhere other than at the Society. Maybe a couple of days off would clear my head, give me perspective. Maybe. I ran through my list of household tasks and decided that I’d use this weekend to paint the walls and trim in my tiny second bedroom. I could put a CD on my little boom box and crank up the sound as loud as I wanted, paint the endless nooks and crannies of the Victorian moldings, and not think about the problems at work.

  Saturday morning I was up early to buy paint, a creamy ivory that would be warmer and more cheerful than plain white. It was barely ten in the morning when I came back, swinging my heavy gallon of paint, to find Rich sitting on my doorstep. He bounced up when he saw me coming.

  “Hi, Rich,” I greeted him, trying to remember where he lived. “What brings you out here?”

  “Hi, Nell. I wanted to talk to you, and I didn’t want to do it at the Society. Do you mind? I’m sorry I just dropped in, but I couldn’t make up my mind if this was a good idea or not. So I just came.”

  By now I was thoroughly mystified. “No problem.” I unlocked my door and ushered him in. “You want some coffee or something?”

  “Yeah, sure, coffee’d be great. Hey, I like your place.”

  I looked around at my comfortable clutter. “Thanks. Make yourself comfortable.”

  As I boiled water and ground coffee beans, I tried to figure out what Rich might need to talk about without being overheard. Maybe he was going to confess to taking Marty’s documents? Or maybe he had found them? I could only hope. “You want sugar or milk?” I called out.

  “No, black’s fine.”

  I carried two filled mugs out to the living room and handed him one. I sat down in one of my armchairs and tried to look sympathetic and approachable. “What did you want to talk about, Rich?”

  “It’s about the Terwilliger Collection. Or, well, it’s kinda more about the job, I guess.” He took a deep breath. “Look, I really like working at the Society and handling all this really great stuff. The Terwilliger Collection-it’s like a peephole into Philadelphia history-heck, even American history. So you’ve got to believe that I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize this job-it’s important to me.”

  “Okay,” I said, wondering where he was headed with this.

  “The thing of it is”-he swallowed-“when I was in high school, I was arrested once. It was really stupid-I took something dumb on a dare, and I got caught. Luckily I lived in a small town and the cops all knew my family, so I got off with community service, and when I turned eighteen the record was expunged or whatever they call it. So when I was applying for this job, I figured I didn’t need to mention anything about a record, you know?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said, still mystified. “Why do you think it’s important now?”

 
; He stood up and began pacing around the room; with his long legs it didn’t take him long to make the circuit. “Look, if the stuff from the collection really is gone, I didn’t want anybody to look at me for it. I mean, sure, I know that a Washington letter would be worth good money, and anybody would think I could use the money, what with student loans and stuff. But I wouldn’t do that, honest. And I wanted to tell you first, in case somebody said something. Do you believe me?”

  In fact, I did. “Rich, I appreciate your telling me, and I don’t think you had anything to do with this. I won’t let anyone point a finger at you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Apparently it was, because all of his joints suddenly seemed looser. “Thanks a lot, Nell. Look, if there’s anything I can do to help find the missing stuff, just say the word. I’ve been looking everywhere I can think of, but so far there’s nothing. Really weird, you know?”

  Tell me about it. “Oh, I know. And thanks for coming all the way out here. I can understand why you wouldn’t want to talk at work. Are you okay for getting home?”

  “Oh, sure. Actually I’m doing a ten-mile bike ride today, so I thought I’d ride out this way. I’ll get out of your hair now. See you Monday!”

  “Right.” I showed him out, marveling at the energy of youth. Ten miles on a bike? For fun?

  After he’d left I changed into my grubby painter’s pants and a stained T-shirt. I slapped a throwaway painter’s hat over my hair (I have been known to add creative streaks, inadvertently, when painting), gathered my brushes, threw down my drop cloths, stirred, and dug in, with a CD blaring.

  I had just finished two out of four walls when I thought I heard something, and turned down the music. Yes, it was my doorbell. I wasn’t expecting any deliveries, and didn’t have neighbors of the type who dropped in for a cup of sugar, so I had no idea who it could be. Two unexpected visitors in one day? I put down my brush, wiped the worst of the paint off my hands, and went to the front door.

  It was Charles.

  Now, this was a real shock. Charles had never been to my place in the more than two years that we had been seeing each other. Likewise, Charles never did anything unannounced-he wasn’t a very spontaneous person. I took one despairing look at myself-paint-stained, baggy clothes, no makeup, unwashed hair-sighed, and opened the door.