Fire Engine Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  I cleared my throat. “You know, this all came about so quickly that I haven’t even seen your résumé, so I know only what Marty has told me. Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me about your qualifications and why you’d like to work here?”

  Alice retrieved a copy of her résumé from her bag and handed it to me before taking a seat. “As you can see, I graduated last June with a double major in contemporary history and computer science. I spent the summer traveling in South America—a gift from my family—and when I returned I started looking for a job. You probably know how tight the job market is these days, especially for liberal arts majors, even those with computer skills. I’ve found a few short-term data-entry jobs, but nothing with any long-term potential.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one. I skipped a year in high school and finished college in three years.”

  What a precocious young woman! “In a perfect world, what would you be looking for?” I asked.

  She twisted her silky blonde hair over her shoulder. “Honestly? I’d love to do something to help foster struggling economies in disadvantaged countries, particularly where women’s initiatives are involved. But I’m a pragmatist, and I know funding for such things has all but disappeared and isn’t likely to come back anytime soon. My roots are in the Philadelphia area, and I’d like to stay here, at least for now. I’ve been looking at the nonprofit sector because I think my talents would be valued there. I have no interest in getting a law or business degree, although a number of my friends have chosen that path, mainly to defer the inevitable. What’s this position all about?”

  I was reeling from the directness of her approach, and her question caught me by surprise. Apparently Uncle Edward hadn’t told her much. “The Society is a collecting institution, and we have over two million items in our various collections, all housed within this building. Since we’ve been doing this for over a hundred years, as you might imagine our cataloging systems are rather disjointed. We’ve begun digitizing the most recent catalogs, but the backlog is staggering. Until recently we had a registrar who knew the collections intimately and who was beginning to drag our systems into the twenty-first century, but unfortunately he…passed away. It’s been difficult to find a replacement for him. And we want to make sure we find someone who will fit well and who has the skills we need.”

  Alice tilted her head like a bird. “Uncle Edward put you up to this, didn’t he?”

  Again I looked at Marty, and she shrugged. Well, if she wasn’t going to help, I’d have to wing it. At least I hadn’t made any promises. “Yes. Or kind of. He promised a nice contribution to the fund we’ve created to help support this position, if we hired you to fill it.” I wondered how many rules—or laws—I was breaking, telling an applicant this kind of information.

  Alice nodded, once. “That sounds like Uncle Edward. A bit of genteel blackmail. He’s a sweet man, but sometimes I think he’s living in the nineteenth century. I just wish he didn’t think I was some helpless young creature who needed his help to find a job. But, let me get this right: if I walk away, he’ll withdraw the offer of the money?”

  “That’s my general understanding,” I said. Marty said nothing.

  “And it’s probably enough money that you can’t just turn it down,” Alice went on. “Don’t worry—Uncle Edward’s got plenty. I’m sorry he put you in this position, especially since I obviously don’t have the depth of experience I imagine you’re looking for.”

  I let out a deep breath. “I’m very glad that you understand that this puts me in a difficult position, through no fault of yours. The truth is, Alice, we’ve already made an offer to a highly qualified candidate who suits our needs. Your skills are untested, and this is a position that’s important to the Society, and we’re looking for a long-term commitment.”

  Alice regarded me with steady blue eyes, and I could almost see the wheels turning in her head. “May I make a suggestion?” she asked.

  “Certainly.”

  “Why not take me on as an intern? Pay me what you would normally pay for that type of position. I’d guess that Uncle Edward’s contribution would cover at least my salary for a year. I’ll work here and gain experience and build up my résumé, and you can go ahead and hire the person you’ve already chosen. It’s win-win for everyone. Your position would get filled, I’d get a job, and you’d get to keep Uncle Edward’s money. What do you think?”

  What I was beginning to think was that this young woman scared me. What she was suggesting sounded vaguely unethical, especially as it applied to poor Uncle Edward, but I had a suspicion that Marty and Alice between them could handle him.

  I was torn. She was offering us a sweetheart deal, one that involved only a little deception. She was certainly smart, and I didn’t doubt she could learn anything she chose to. It said something about the state of the world that someone as talented as she obviously was would have trouble finding work. But would she be happy here, even if only for a year or two? She’d already leapfrogged her way through high school and college. “Alice, your offer is very tempting. But I’m concerned that this place isn’t going to be able to keep up with you. You’ll get bored, and that will make you unhappy. I’m guessing you don’t handle boredom well? I don’t want you walking out with a job half finished.”

  She dipped her head. “You’d be correct. But I do love learning new skills, and I’m sure I can find plenty to keep me busy here. And I promise I’ll give you fair warning if I’m going to leave. What do you say?”

  Rather than answering her directly I said, “Let me show you the collections.” I had one more test to make before I committed to her creative if slightly skewed plan.

  I stood up. Marty looked bewildered, but she stood as well and followed us into the hallway. A startled Eric watched our little procession pass by, but I didn’t explain. I just kept going, to the door to the stacks. I pulled it open and let Alice and Marty enter before me, then stepped in after them.

  It was, as always, dim, dusty, and quiet. Marty cocked her head at me; I nodded toward Alice, without speaking. Alice looked like a very alert cat, assessing the scene before deciding which way to jump. If she’d had whiskers, they’d be twitching right now, collecting information. She inhaled deeply and half smiled.

  Come on, girl, take the hook, I said silently.

  She looked at me. “May I browse?”

  “Of course. I’d like you to get a sense of what we have here.” And I let her roam.

  At first she was efficient, noting the hand-scrawled numbers on the card at the end of each row, observing the precarious piles of large and unwieldy old books stacked on tables, windowsills, and wherever else there was space. She paced off the length of the aisle, no doubt calculating in her mind the total linear feet of materials. But then she disappeared into a side aisle toward the end of the room, and she came out with a book. She cradled it with her left hand and delicately turned a few pages, that curious half smile still on her face. I left her to the first flush of discovery, then finally approached. She held it up to me. “Look at this! Early eighteenth century, published in Boston. Original woodcuts. Gorgeous binding, probably later—right?” Her eyes met mine, and she grinned. I grinned back and nodded.

  She was hooked.

  Marty and I walked her out after another half an hour, during which Alice had become giddier and giddier, grazing through the stacks, collecting grime on her lovely interview suit without even noticing. It was funny, by the end she seemed both older and younger: older because she was being open about her excitement; younger because she looked like a child in a candy shop, with coins clutched in her increasingly grubby hands and all those treasures to choose from. She let her true enthusiasm shine. In the front vestibule she turned to me. “So, can I come back?”

  I smiled at her. “Of course you can. Give me a few days to work out details. I’ll call you at the end of the week.”

  “Thank you,” she said simply. She stuck out her dirty
hand, and I shook it proudly. It was a pleasure to acknowledge a collections soul mate.

  When she had left, I turned back to Marty, who had remained uncharacteristically silent during the interview. “Please don’t do that to me again.”

  “What? Throw you a curveball?”

  “No, undermine my authority. If she’d been the bimbo I half expected, nobody would have ended up happy—including Uncle Edward. You were lucky.”

  For a moment I thought Marty was going to get angry. After all, I had challenged her, and as a board member she had some sort of seniority. But in the end she nodded. “I may not like it, but you’re right. You’re the leader here, and I never intended to be a puppet master. For all of that, Alice may turn out to be an asset.”

  “Thank you. And I hope so. Now all I have to do is explain it all to Latoya. And find something for Alice to do. I’ll let you handle Uncle Edward. And I expect to see that check by the end of the week.”

  “Done,” Marty said.

  CHAPTER 11

  After Alice left and Marty disappeared back into the stacks, I felt as though I had been through a wringer. I should talk to Latoya, find out where we stood with Nicholas, and fill her in about Alice. I should figure out when either or both could start, and what I was going to ask them to do. No, that should be Latoya’s decision, because they would both be reporting to her.

  But I was beginning to hatch a plan, one I hoped I could sell to Latoya. It helped that she knew it was difficult to say no when Marty wanted something. I’d already asked Rich to shift the Terwilliger Collection to the third-floor workroom so we could finally get a handle on how much we had and how it was organized; one advantage of this was that it would be easier to reintegrate the stolen items that James kept promising the FBI would return any day now, and then decide where and how to store the whole thing, once the collection was all together again. We should probably plan on some grand opening down the line, to introduce the world to the Terwilliger Collection. Since it was largely uncataloged at the moment, the general public hadn’t had much access to it. What we should do, I realized, was to create not only the fundamental cataloging but also a simpler finding aid that we could post on our website. And that might solve my problem of how best to make use of the odd couple of Nicholas and Alice, plus Rich. Rich was doing the basic description, Nicholas could begin inputting the entries into his software program, and Alice could craft a more user-friendly document.

  Eric appeared in my doorway with a clutch of phone message slips. “Good interview?” he asked cautiously.

  “I think so, unexpectedly. There are a few details to be worked out, but we may actually have two new employees shortly, and then we can get down to some real work. Any important messages?”

  “Only one that won’t wait until tomorrow—Agent Morrison.”

  Again? “Thanks, Eric. I’ll give him a call.” When Eric went back to his desk, I punched in James’s office number.

  “James Morrison,” he answered automatically and then caught himself. “Hi, Nell—force of habit.”

  “Not a problem. You called me?”

  “Yes. Do you have time for a quick drink around six? I’ve got a couple of things to discuss with you.”

  “Uh, sure.” We picked a place near his office and close to my train stop, and agreed to meet at six.

  Bolstered by something nice to look forward to at the end of the day, I braced myself to talk to Latoya and marched to her office, only to discover that she wasn’t there. I checked my watch and realized it was after five—we must have spent more time in the stacks with Alice than I had realized. I was ashamed to feel relief that I wouldn’t have to explain to Latoya right now. I went back to my office and resumed writing reports, one of my least favorite activities.

  Shortly before six I collected my coat and bag and walked out of the building, nodding to the few people who were still around. The evening air felt good as I walked the couple of blocks toward City Hall—which, I recalled, sat squarely upon what had been one of William Penn’s parks. He certainly had left his stamp on the city.

  James was already waiting for me and graciously helped me off with my coat. “Nice to see you again, Nell.”

  “Is this business, or can I have a glass of wine?” I asked, sitting down.

  “A bit of business, but go right ahead. Hard day?”

  “Yes and no. I think we’ve finally filled Alfred’s old position, and then some.”

  A waiter approached, and James ordered for both of us before asking, “What do you mean?”

  I filled him in on my unexpected employee surplus and my plans on how to utilize them both on the Terwilliger Collection.

  “Speaking of the Terwilliger Collection,” James said with a grin, “I’ve got good news. We’re finally releasing the recovered goods to you, so all the collection will be together again.”

  “Oh, wonderful! And perfect timing, since we’ve now got the staff to deal with them. I was just thinking that once we get done with processing it, I’d like to plan a big media blitz and maybe a party. It’s a classic collection with some wonderful material, and I think Marty—and the rest of her family—deserve the recognition. Do the documents all seem to still be in good condition?”

  “I’d say so. What we recovered came from a private dwelling, but the—well, I can’t say owner, but the person who was in possession of them took decent care of everything. Seems he was a real local history buff. That’s why he kept quite a bit of the stuff he acquired—he was a genuine enthusiast. Prosecuting him may turn out to be a little tricky because he may well have purchased his collection items in good faith, though anyone who’s into collecting and purchases materials of that caliber had to have known there was something fishy about it. Anyway, we’ve tried to treat the papers appropriately since.”

  “Like not shoving them into a leaky warehouse?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you know if much is missing?” I asked, not sure if I wanted an answer, or if he could give one. I knew the thief had tried to sell some of the choicer items on the black market.

  “You’d know better than I would. We still aren’t sure how long the pilfering was going on, after all. Still, you may get lucky.”

  “Well, I guess that’s the upside of all this. I for one will be glad to put the whole episode behind us and move on.”

  “There was something else…” James began, seeming at a bit of a loss.

  “What?”

  “It’s about the fire and the Fireman’s Museum.”

  I took a sip of my wine before responding. “Is there something new? Are you actually on the case now?”

  “Yes and no. That’s the problem, you see. You’ve told me, in confidence, that you think the fire engines were switched, and I’m inclined to believe you. Marty came to the same conclusion, and she’s got a pretty good eye.” He stopped.

  “But?”

  “It’s been several days, and nobody from the Fireman’s Museum has come forward about it. They’re all busy mourning their lost treasure, as far as I know. And I don’t know a lot, since the police don’t know, and I won’t be involved unless there’s a clear case of fraud here, or the police ask us for help with the death, assuming it’s murder, which isn’t proved, either. I told you that the autopsy was inconclusive about who or what caused the blow that killed the watchman, so that doesn’t help.”

  “Huh,” I said intelligently. I needed a moment to think this through. “You don’t want to take your suspicions directly to them?”

  “I could, but if I’m wrong there are quite a few people who wouldn’t be very happy with me—my boss, the city of Philadelphia, the entire fireman’s union, the museum…The FBI is on a pretty tight leash these days, along with everyone else, so I can’t indulge in an investigation just because I have suspicions. But it’s difficult, because without revealing my doubts, it’s less likely that I’ll be asked in to investigate that aspect.”

  I nodded. “I see your problem.”
>
  He sighed. “I hate to say this, but I may need your help on this again.”

  This was interesting. I sat up straighter in my chair. “Seriously? I thought I’d done all I could.” Or all that he would let me.

  He was shaking his head, more to himself than to me. “I really hate doing this. Involving civilians is never a good idea.” He took a swallow of his own drink, then looked at me. “As I see it, we’ve got a limited number of possibilities. One, it’s simple arson with an accidental death, and we’re wrong about the charred skeleton of a fire truck—maybe the fire warped it or something. Two, someone switched the machines, then torched the building to cover it up, and the death was an accident—the watchman heard something, ran to investigate, and tripped and hit his head and died. Three, same as two except somebody killed the night watchman with a blow to the head because he knew something or he’d seen something, or he was even in on it and someone wanted to cut him out, which adds murder to the mix.”

  “That sounds like it about covers it. So, who are you looking at?”

  “That’s the kicker—I don’t know. An anonymous arsonist or someone connected to the museum? Or another one of your rabid collectors who really wanted an antique fire engine?”

  “I’m sorry—I still don’t see what you want me to do, now that I’ve handed the materials over to Peter.”

  He looked away, barely stopping short of rolling his eyes. “Do you think he really doesn’t see the difference? Is he hiding something? Or covering for someone else?”