Praise for
FUNDRAISING THE DEAD
“Skillfully executed…It’s a pleasure to accompany Nell on her quest. Fundraising the Dead is a promising debut with a winning protagonist.”
—Mystery Scene
“Old families, old papers, and the old demons of sex and money shape Connolly’s cozy series launch, which will appeal to fans of her Orchard and (as Sarah Atwell) Glassblowing Mysteries…[The] archival milieu and the foibles of the characters are intriguing, and it’s refreshing to encounter an FBI man who is human, competent, and essential to the plot.”
—Publishers Weekly
“She’s smart, she’s savvy, and she’s sharp enough to spot what really goes on behind the scenes in museum politics. The practical and confident Nell Pratt is exactly the kind of sleuth you want in your corner when the going gets tough. Sheila Connolly serves up a snappy and sophisticated mystery that leaves you lusting for the next witty installment.”
—Mary Jane Maffini, author of the Charlotte Adams Mysteries
“National Treasure meets The Philadelphia Story in this clever, charming, and sophisticated caper…Secrets, lies, and a delightful revenge conspiracy make this a real page-turner!”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha Award–winning author of Drive Time
“Sheila Connolly’s wonderful new series is a witty, engaging blend of history and mystery with a smart sleuth who already feels like a good friend. Like all of Ms. Connolly’s books, Fundraising the Dead is hard to put down. Her stories always keep me turning pages—often well past my bedtime.”
—Julie Hyzy, author of the White House Chef Mysteries
Praise for the Orchard Mysteries
“Sheila Connolly’s Orchard Mysteries are some of the most satisfying cozy mysteries I’ve read…Warm and entertaining from the first paragraph to the last. Fans will look forward to the next Orchard Mystery.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
“An enjoyable and well-written book with some excellent apple recipes at the end.”
—Cozy Library
“The mystery is intelligent and has an interesting twist…Rotten to the Core is a fun, quick read with an enjoyable heroine.”
—The Mystery Reader (four stars)
“Delightful…[A] fascinating whodunit filled with surprises.”
—The Mystery Gazette
“[A] delightful new series.”
—Gumshoe Review
“The premise and plot are solid, and Meg seems a perfect fit for her role.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A fresh and appealing sleuth with a bushel full of entertaining problems. One Bad Apple is one crisp, delicious read.”
—Claudia Bishop, author of the Hemlock Falls Mysteries
“A delightful look at small-town New England, with an intriguing puzzle thrown in. And anybody who’s ever tended a septic system is going to empathize with amateur detective Meg Corey.”
—JoAnna Carl, author of the Chocoholic Mysteries
“A promising new mystery series. Thoroughly enjoyable…I can’t wait for the next book and a chance to spend more time with Meg and the good people of Granford.”
—Sammi Carter, author of the Candy Shop Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Sheila Connolly
Orchard Mysteries
ONE BAD APPLE
ROTTEN TO THE CORE
RED DELICIOUS DEATH
A KILLER CROP
BITTER HARVEST
Museum Mysteries
FUNDRAISING THE DEAD
LET’S PLAY DEAD
FIRE ENGINE DEAD
FIRE ENGINE
DEAD
Sheila Connolly
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
FIRE ENGINE DEAD
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / March 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Sheila Connolly.
Cover illustration by Ross Jones.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-56068-6
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing about firefighters can be challenging, because since 9/11 they have become national heroes, and rightly so. I hope that my depiction of the activities within the Philadelphia Fire Department in this book is generally accurate, and that no reader thinks that they are anything but outstanding citizens. Likewise, small-town volunteer fire departments deserve recognition, and I’ve known some members of those who were proud to give their services without compensation.
Among Philadelphia’s wonderful array of museums is one devoted to firefighting equipment and paraphernalia, as befits the city where Benjamin Franklin organized the first fire company. While I have borrowed much of the history and organizational structure, I can assure you that Philadelphia’s Fireman’s Hall Museum collection is intact, and there are no arsonists on the payroll, to the best of my knowledge.
I owe a debt of gratitude to Dian Williams, Ph.D., author of the book Understanding the Arsonist: From Assessment to Confession. S
he is a specialist in firesetting psychology, and she teaches near Philadelphia, which made her an ideal resource for the information I needed. In her book she makes it clear that there are many reasons why people set fires. I hope she’ll find that the motives I created in this book are credible.
Thanks as always to my perceptive editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez, who continues to ask gentle questions like “why would he do that?” and to my agent, Jessica Faust of BookEnds, who keeps this series moving forward. Carol Kersbergen is still my eyes and ears in the greater Philadelphia region. As always, Sisters in Crime and the Guppies chapter provide ongoing support and cheerleading—which every writer needs.
Soon after it [a fire] is seen and cry’d out, the Place is crowded by active Men of different Ages, Professions and Titles who, as of one Mind and Rank, apply themselves with all Vigilance and Resolution, according to their Abilities, to the hard Work of conquering the increasing fire.
—Benjamin Franklin on firefighting in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Gazette, 1733
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
CHAPTER 1
I looked in both directions along the third-floor hallway. Good, nobody in sight. I pulled open the door to the library stacks only wide enough to slip through it, and closed it quietly behind me.
I was playing hooky. It had been only a few months since I had taken over as president of the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society, shoved unceremoniously into the corner office from my nice, safe, lower-profile job as director of development. Don’t get me wrong—I loved my new job. Or at least, parts of the job. But while the Society was a venerable and respected Philadelphia institution, it was now my responsibility to keep it solvent, intact, and open to the public. Not easy, especially since the current fundraising climate sucked; the hundred-plus-year-old building cried out for repairs and upgrades that we simply couldn’t afford; and the salaries we offered were so uncompetitive that we had trouble hanging on to enough staff to cover the desks and retrieve and shelve items requested.
Hiding wasn’t going to improve any one of those problems, but it was going to make me feel better. I’d first come to work at the Society more than five years ago because I loved Philadelphia and I loved local history. One of the unacknowledged perks of the job was the chance to prowl in the stacks. In the past I could claim that I was getting to know the collections so I could write grant proposals about them, but the truth was, I loved to handle original documents and memorabilia from everyone from William Penn to the most recent mayor of Philadelphia. I got a real rush from the heady smell of old leather and crumbling paper. I needed to revisit the stacks periodically to remind myself why I had accepted the job of president, especially when board members called every other hour to ask why I hadn’t done A, B, or C. The answer usually was because we can’t afford it, but they were getting tired of hearing that. Heck, I was getting tired of saying it. I needed some new lines—or preferably, more money.
I trod quietly along the dimly lit aisles, making as little noise as possible. Was I looking for anything in particular? Not really. I was certainly trying to avoid noticing the blue tarps spread over shelves here and there to divert the drips from the leaking roof, and the teetering piles of boxes that I knew were not acid-free archival quality, and which were slowly sinking under their own weight, doing who knows what damage to their precious contents. No shelves to put them on; no staff to shelve them. Come on, Nell—you’re supposed to be cheering yourself up!
I found myself an old metal chair and took it to a corner, about as far from the door as I could get. I was surrounded by large ledgers from long-gone Philadelphia companies, and I knew if I opened any one of them I’d find some clerk’s careful copperplate script in fading brown ink, recording the day-to-day transactions of daily life a century ago. I shut my eyes and breathed deep, waiting for the calm and quiet to do their work…
“Nell?” a male voice whispered.
I jumped a foot and opened my eyes. “Eric, how did you find me?” Eric was my administrative assistant. He’d only been in the job for two months, but I swear he had learned how to read my mind.
“I know you come up here when you get stressed out. I hate to bother you, but you told me to remind you about the luncheon today, and it’s already eleven thirty.”
Luncheon, luncheon…no wonder I’d told him to remind me, since I had no clue what he was talking about.
“The Greater Philadelphia Grantmakers Coalition?” he added.
Oh. I must have been trying hard to forget it. The coalition was a group of local funders who got together to talk about local philanthropy. What that meant, mainly, was that the area movers and shakers with money to give gathered together to divvy up the pot. To be fair, they also offered workshops, issued publications, and held conferences to encourage grant giving and teach effective proposal writing, all of which I had benefitted from in the past. I’d attended their events when I was a fundraiser, and it was now even more important that I have a presence among the group, to keep the lines of communication (and pocketbooks) open. This would be my first meeting with them since I’d ascended to the giddy heights of the Society’s presidency. What’s more, I’d promised to take along my relatively new director of development, Shelby Carver, so she could start figuring out who was who in the local funding community.
In short, I couldn’t hide out. I sighed and stood up. “Did you remind Shelby?”
“Sure did,” Eric said. “She’s waiting in your office. You want me to tell her I couldn’t find you?”
I straightened my back. “Thanks, but I have to go. And I want to introduce Shelby to some people she needs to know. Thank you for finding me, Eric.”
I led the way back to my office where Shelby was waiting. “Were you planning to duck out on me, lady?” she asked, her faint southern drawl softening her words.
“Believe me, I thought about it. You ready to go? You mind if we walk over?”
“Works for me. Looks like spring might actually get here sometime this year.”
I pulled on my light raincoat, gathered up my bag, and said, “Let’s go.”
Once we were outside the building, I realized Shelby was right: I hadn’t even noticed, but there were green buds peeping from the few spindly trees that could survive on city streets, and the air felt cool but pleasantly so. Shelby matched me stride for stride. I probably needed the exercise more than she did, since she usually walked to work from her home on the other side of Independence Hall, while I took a train from the suburb of Bryn Mawr. At least I walked from the train station to the Society, but that was about all the exercise I got.
“Where’re we going?” she asked.
“The luncheon’s at the Marriott. At least the food should be good.”
“You want me to do anything in particular, or should I just sit there and soak up wisdom?”
I smiled. I enjoyed Shelby’s slightly skewed humor, which matched mine. “I’ll try to point out the important people, and the ones who have looked favorably upon us in the past. Unfortunately they aren’t always one and the same.”
The Marriott was a ten-minute walk from the Society, and we arrived in good time. I usually tried to arrive early for events like this, because it was a good opportunity to renew old contacts and mak
e new ones. Besides, I was trying to set a good example for Shelby. When we walked in, people were standing around in clumps in the hallway, waiting for the doors to the luncheon to open. I greeted several by name—and so did Shelby, to my surprise. She hadn’t lived in Philadelphia very long, but she’d certainly gotten to know a lot of people quickly—and influential ones, at that. I spotted Arabella Heffernan, my counterpart at the Let’s Play Children’s Museum in the city, when she bustled in. She saw me and made a beeline over, and then we exchanged brief hugs.
“Hello, Nell! It’s so nice to see you again.”
“You, too, Arabella. How’s the new exhibit doing?”
She twinkled—hard to believe, but Arabella could do that. “It’s marvelous. The children love it, and our revenues are up. We’re looking forward to the school vacation week.”
“Sounds great. You remember Shelby, don’t you?”
“Of course I do! Shelby, it’s so good to see you. Are you settling in?”
“I am indeed, Arabella. Nell was kind enough to bring me along today so I can get to know people.”
“I brought you along so you could take some of the load off of me!” I said in protest. “And for that, you have to know the players.”
The doors to the main dining room opened, and the crowd surged toward them like water down a drain. You’d think that they hadn’t eaten in days. Was a free meal really that exciting? In these tough times, maybe it was. We were separated from Arabella, and I guided Shelby toward a table of local CEOs I recognized, as well as other museum colleagues. “Hi, Arthur—do you have room for two more here?”
Arthur Mason, a man some twenty years older than me, stood up courteously and all but bowed. “Of course we do, for two such delightful companions. You’re looking fine, Nell. And I don’t believe I’ve made the acquaintance of this lovely lady?”
“Shelby, this is Arthur Mason. He’s the CEO of the Waterfront Museum. Arthur, please meet Shelby Carver, who’s replaced me as director of development.”
Shelby turned on the charm. “We may not have met, but my ex-husband was positively addicted to your model ship collections. I swear, he was in there at least once a week.”
Fire Engine Dead Page 1
