Fire Engine Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  I picked up a tad reluctantly. “Hi, James. I just got back from lunch.”

  “Oh, right, with Ingersoll.”

  As if that wasn’t why he’d called. “Yes, and his curator, Gary O’Keefe. I thought that’s what you wanted to hear about.”

  “Did either one mention the fire engine?”

  “No, it didn’t come up. I gave them the materials we’d collected, and they barely looked at them, although there were pictures of the engine in there.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t think so. Peter seems to be on the up-and-up. The only hint of any discontent was the impression I got that the city might be packing his board with ex-municipal employees. If it wasn’t about my lunch, though, why did you call?”

  He was quiet a moment. “There’s been another warehouse fire, early this morning. It looks like arson again. There were other, smaller fires over the past few weeks, so it could be there’s an arsonist running around.”

  “What do you think? Are they all related?” From the way he was talking, I suspected he wasn’t convinced.

  He sighed quietly. “Nell…I think there’s more to it.”

  I smiled, even though he couldn’t see me. “Is that your gut talking?”

  “Maybe. Anyway, the police department is telling us politely to stay in our corner and speak only when spoken to. In other words, we’re consultants and that’s it.”

  I bet that galled the FBI—and suggested a certain lack of tact on the part of the police department, which didn’t surprise me. “And will you?”

  He chuckled. “I’ve got to go, Nell. We’ll talk later.” And then he hung up.

  I noticed that he hadn’t answered my question.

  CHAPTER 9

  Over the weekend I wrestled with whether to hire Nicholas Naylor, while I kept my hands busy with gardening. Given that I lived in a converted carriage house, set behind the former “big house”—now the offices for a group of psychiatrists—my land consisted of a parking space, a patio big enough for two small chairs and a grill, and a three-foot strip of grass, which the tenants in the house kindly mowed. My garden was a few large pots that I usually planted with annuals and ignored for most of the growing season, with predictable results. I really respected plants that could look after themselves, since I tended to remember to water only when my petunias turned brown and lay down in defeat. As a result, my gardening efforts were limited to throwing away the very dead remains of the previous year’s optimistic efforts, in preparation for repeating the cycle all over again. Heck, in a good year the interval between “buy” and “die” might be as much as a month, and for that brief time I did enjoy a splash of color to welcome me when I walked home from the train station on long summer evenings.

  I didn’t even try to keep a pet.

  Still, it was nice to dig my hands into the now-warm potting soil and tear out the old, dead roots. It made me feel virtuous, and I much preferred prepping my planters to doing the full spring-cleaning thing inside my house. Bad enough that the lengthening days made the cobwebs and dust bunnies more obvious. I opened the windows and hoped that they would all blow away to somewhere else.

  So I had plenty of time to think about Nicholas. I knew that the salaries we offered were below the market average, even for chronically underfunded nonprofits. Of course, in some cases the recent economic woes might override that consideration, since these days any job was a good job—but Nicholas already had a job, and I’d be willing to bet that Penn paid more than we could. But the Society had no choice: the lousy economy meant that some percentage of our members might not renew this year, and we needed that income. Board contributions might also slip. Marty had ensured that the registrar’s position would be adequately funded, but I hoped that the other staff members—who had been patiently waiting for even cost-of-living raises for the past five years or so—would understand that the registrar’s position was important and would not begrudge its occupant a slightly higher pay scale. We didn’t talk about salaries in-house, but somehow people always knew.

  Of course, that made it doubly important that everyone get along. We had about forty employees, including part-timers, so everybody knew everybody else. We mingled—no artificial hierarchies, which always reminded me of playground cliques. As director of development I’d worked alongside many of them for years, shared lunch or dinner with most people at one time or another, and I didn’t intend to stop just because I had a fancier title and a bigger office now. So, did I see Nicholas fitting in?

  It was not an easy answer. I didn’t have to do anything until Monday, when Latoya might have something to add from her contacts and Nicholas’s references. We really, really needed to fill the position, which had been vacant now for several months. The right person could do a lot for us, and Nicholas had hit on some critical issues. He got points for his level of expertise. As for personality? I had found him hard to read, and I was reluctant to judge. Okay, to be honest I hadn’t warmed to him immediately, but that wasn’t a good basis for a decision. Maybe after a couple of months he’d loosen up. Maybe he’d even smile.

  To distract myself I decided to turn to the Internet to bone up on the Fireman’s Museum, which as Gary had explained in ample detail, was closely tied to the history of firefighting in Philadelphia. Old Ben Franklin had been one busy man. Not only had he had a hand in the formation of the city’s first volunteer fire department, but he and his group had also suggested creating a fire insurance company, which came about in 1752: it was known as The Philadelphia Contributionship, which had survived to this day. And then, of course, there were all of Ben’s other farsighted works—the founding of the country’s first public hospital and the first public library, for example—and he managed all this between his writing and his scientific experiments. And his ambassadorial role during and after the Revolution. It made me tired just reading about him—when did he find the time or the energy?

  It was clear that local firefighters had a long tradition of solidarity, which persisted to this day. Philadelphia has always been a strong union town, and the firefighters were in the thick of it. On the other hand, there were clearly strong loyalties to individual volunteer firefighter groups in the nineteenth century. They had proliferated rapidly and generated a lot of competitive spirit, that sometimes went beyond friendly and resulted in pitched battles on the streets, not to mention sabotage.

  Did either deeply ingrained aspect of Philadelphia firefighting apply to the situation at the Fireman’s Museum now? Could politics have played a role in the warehouse fire? Was that event intended to discredit the fire department in some way? Surely the museum must look foolish when their collection of fire-related memorabilia burned to a crisp. But who stood to benefit from their downfall?

  Or was there a personal element? Had someone hated Allan Brigham? Was there some deep, dark secret about his exit from the fire department? That was a question James was better suited to answer. Or did someone have personal issues with Peter Ingersoll, strong enough to seek to destroy his museum to hurt him? Or was the museum itself the target? I had no way to answer any of those questions. Certainly I’d picked up no rumors of that kind of animus within our community. James was right: it would be better to let the police and the FBI deal with the whole thing.

  Benjamin Franklin had coined the phrase an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure in urging greater attention to fire safety. I agreed in principle, but was there a way to apply it to my job? I amused myself on the train ride into the city on Monday with muddling metaphors: a lot of my job seemed to consist of putting out fires—figuratively, of course. No doubt there were some issues smoldering below the surface. Was I ready to take the heat for the decisions I made? The other passengers on the train must have wondered why I was smiling as I ran through increasingly silly analogies in my head, but at least I arrived at the Society in a good mood.

  I greeted Eric when I walked in, and by the time I had hung up my coat he had appeared in my doorway
bearing coffee—with Latoya hard on his heels. I would have liked a moment to absorb a little caffeine, but since Latoya had braved my den a second time, she must think this was important.

  “Good morning, Latoya. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, I’m good.” She sat down in front of my desk. “Listen, I made a few calls, as you asked, and everybody was uniformly enthusiastic about Nicholas. He’s smart, he’s meticulous, he’s thorough. I think he’d be a wonderful addition to our staff.”

  I sat back and sipped coffee, reflecting that I had seldom seen Latoya so enthusiastic. “Thank you for following through, Latoya. I’m inclined to agree with you. If you feel comfortable with Nicholas, then I believe you should offer him the position. After all, you’re going to be the one working most closely with him. And you’ll have to bring him up to speed on our existing records and monitor his progress. All right?”

  Latoya gave me a rare honest grin. “That’s fine, Nell. I’m glad we can move forward. I’ll get in touch with him today.” She stood up, but before leaving she said simply, “Thank you.”

  I sat back in my chair, relieved. I’d actually made Latoya happy, and with Nicholas’s hiring we would fill the last large remaining vacancy in our staffing, and we could finally begin to sort out our stalled cataloging issues. I’d have something positive to report at the next board meeting. Things were definitely looking up, and it was still only Monday. I had high hopes for this week.

  I should have known it wouldn’t last. A few minutes later I looked up to see Marty bustling into my office. She dropped casually into a chair and grinned at me. “I’ve got you a registrar!”

  “You what?” I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach, and it wasn’t from the coffee.

  “A replacement for Alfred.”

  I sighed. I had, in the space of a morning, gone from no registrars to a surfeit of them. “Uh, Marty, I think Latoya’s already made an offer to a candidate.”

  “Well, tell her to withdraw it.”

  I considered that idea briefly and shuddered. We’d look foolish and inconsistent to Nicholas, and Latoya probably would stop speaking to me. “Why? And I wish you’d consulted me about this. Who is this person?”

  Marty’s good humor had evaporated along with mine. “She’s the niece of Edward Perkins—and he’s agreed to make a nice contribution to the endowment for the collections management fund.”

  Ah, now Marty’s enthusiasm made sense. “How did all this come about? Who is Edward Perkins? And do I assume the donation is contingent upon hiring his relative?”

  “I was at a party over the weekend, and Eddie was there. If you don’t know him, you should—we’ve been trying to lure him onto the board for years. Old money, but tight with it. I’ve known him forever, but not well. Anyway, we got to talking, and it turns out he’s got a lovely niece who just graduated from college and has been having trouble finding a job, and he wondered if I knew of any openings. I should add, he doesn’t have any kids of his own, so his nieces and nephews stand to inherit. So he tells me that she was a history major at Mount Holyoke and she just loves the city. I said we had a slot that might be a good fit.”

  I felt a small sense of relief. “Do you mean you haven’t actually offered her the position?”

  Marty cocked her head at me. “Nell, you know how this works. I made appropriately gushy noises about young Alice and then happened to mention that we were looking for funding, since it was such an important position. Eddie and I danced around that for a while, and I finally told him something in the low to mid five figures would be nice—and mentioned a few of his friends who were chipping in.”

  This was news to me. “I haven’t heard about any recent flood of contributions.”

  Marty waved a hand at me. “They’ll come around. Anyway, Eddie was good with it but made it clear that Alice came with the package.”

  Oh, sh…oot. This put me in a real bind. Alice might be a lovely girl with a shiny new college degree, but she couldn’t possibly match Nicholas’s depth and specificity of experience. On the other hand, brushing Alice off could well mean saying good-bye to a nice contribution and alienating a potential donor and future board member, which was never a good strategic move. At the very least I owed it to Marty to go through the motions and interview this girl.

  “Who’s your pick?” Marty demanded.

  “His name is Nicholas Naylor. Latoya found him, and I have to say, he’s extremely well qualified. He’s been working on his own version of software for managing collections for cultural institutions, which he would bring with him. He’s got several years of experience, and his references check out. I told Latoya to make him an offer this morning.”

  “Well then, we have a problem here,” Marty said.

  We stared at each other. I owed my current position to Marty’s behind-the-scenes machinations, and the longer I held it, the better I liked it. But there was no way I intended to be her puppet. I reserved the right to make my own decisions about administrative matters, including hiring. At the same time, I didn’t want to alienate Marty, because while the Terwilliger fortune might have dwindled over the centuries, she knew everyone in the five-county area, she had a pretty good grasp of their current net worth, and she was happy to share her information and contacts with the institution she loved. So I couldn’t just blow off her proposed candidate, no matter how unqualified she sounded. “We do,” I said neutrally. “Why don’t I talk with this Alice and see how the wind blows? Seriously, Marty, if she’s an airhead, then it should be an easy decision. If she seems up to the job, we can consider our options.”

  “Fair enough. Want me to call her?” When I nodded, Marty continued. “You know, I’m not saying that you have to take her on. Sure, Eddie’s money would be nice, but I care about the Society’s collections, including my family’s, and I don’t want to see the cataloging screwed up. Can I sit in on the interview?”

  “I don’t suppose I can stop you. Do you know Alice? She’s not a goddaughter or a fifth cousin, is she?”

  “No, I don’t really know her, and unlike Alfred, she’s not related. Let me give her a call and see when she can come in.” She pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and retreated to the hall to make the call. While she was gone, I tried to sort out what I felt. I’d defer any decision until after I’d met the girl, but I had a hard time believing that she’d hold a candle to Nicholas’s qualifications. Well, decisions like this came with the territory.

  Marty popped back in. “Three o’clock today. Eric says you’re free.”

  That gave me time to come up with some sort of plan. Should I call Latoya and tell her to hold off? Maybe she hadn’t reached Nicholas. Or maybe he’d turned us down. One way to find out. I picked up the phone and punched in Latoya’s extension.

  “Latoya? Have you talked with Nicholas yet?”

  “I did. He seemed pleased to accept. He was going to check how much notice Penn wants him to give and figure out how much time it would take to finish up his current projects. He said he’d get back to us in a day or two with the details.”

  “Thanks, Latoya.” I hung up and faced Marty again. “Okay, so we’ve made the offer, and you’ve got to know I’d hate to withdraw it now. In fact, I’m not even sure we can, without facing legal consequences—I’d have to check with Human Resources. In any case, I don’t think it’s fair to him. I think he’s very qualified, but I’ll talk to Alice and I’ll try to keep an open mind.”

  Marty had a faraway expression on her face. “Nell, you may be worrying over nothing. You know, maybe we could set them both to working on the Terwilliger Collection, as kind of a trial, and see who does better.”

  On some level I was appalled. “Marty, that’s not the best way to make decisions. And how would you measure that? Number of pieces cataloged? Quality or accuracy of entries?”

  “Maybe not. But I’d love to see what they could accomplish in, say, two weeks? A little competition can’t hurt. And then we can see how they like the wor
k and the place, and they can decide if they like us.”

  I hated the idea. But I needed Marty’s backing, both strategic and financial, so I said firmly, “We’ll see.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Marty must surely have realized I was not happy about the situation she’d created—not that she could have known about our offering Nicholas the position, but that she had overstepped by offering someone a position that wasn’t hers to fill, without ever checking with me—because she vanished strategically back into the stacks. Sometimes I wondered just how much time she spent at the Society versus at home. Every time I turned around she seemed to pop up. I didn’t want to discourage her, but it was disconcerting.

  At three o’clock she appeared outside my door with young Alice in tow. I tried to read Marty’s expression and failed: it seemed an equal mix of trepidation and glee.

  “Nell, this is Alice Price, the girl, uh, woman I told you about. Alice, this is Nell Pratt, the president of the Society.”

  I wanted to appear welcoming, even though I didn’t hold out high hopes for this very young and slender blonde, so I extended my hand. “Alice, I’m glad to meet you. Please, sit down. Marty, you’re joining us, right?”

  “I am,” she said cheerfully, and sat down on the settee against the wall. I hoped she’d at least have the good sense to keep quiet so I could get on with business. I was already on edge, at least in my own mind: I hadn’t even told Latoya about this situation, mainly because I hoped the problem would just go away before it came to that. Part of me was hoping to find something about Alice that clearly disqualified her from the position of registrar. Dyslexia would do, or maybe a serious allergy to mold or dust, both of which the building and its contents were riddled with. Of course, neither of these would be obvious immediately. Alice on first glance appeared to be a very calm and self-possessed young woman. I didn’t hold her age against her; we already had a few young hires on-site, like Eric and Rich, but Alice would qualify as the youngest. She looked almost comically conservative, dressed in a pale blue, light wool suit—with a skirt, no less—unscuffed leather shoes with low heels, and carrying a nice, real leather handbag. Her nails were neatly manicured but unpolished, and she wore minimal makeup. All she needed was a string of pearls and she could have stepped out of an ad from the 1950s. She studied me as I studied her, showing no signs of nervousness.