Fundraising the Dead Page 12

  “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.

  “Charles,” I said brightly, “what a delightful surprise! What brings you out to the wilderness?”

  For a brief moment I swear he recoiled at my appearance, but he recovered quickly. “Nell, my dear, may I come in?”

  “Of course.” I stood back, careful not to let him brush against my paint-covered clothes. I would’ve hated to sully the magnificent tweed jacket he had chosen for this expedition to foreign territory. He stepped into my tiny vestibule, then into the main room, which I laughingly called the parlor.

  “What a charming place this is.” His eyes swept the room, which was filled with my yard-sale finds, lovingly refinished and reupholstered, and my eclectic collections of prints and objets trouvés hanging on the walls. I hoped that he was ignoring the dust bunnies in the corners and the stacks of books and magazines that I never seemed to finish reading or put away.

  “Thank you. I like it.” I trailed after him as he wandered into the room, through the archway that set off the eating area (well, it did have a table and chairs), into the tiny
kitchen. He did seem positively intrigued. Finally, I couldn’t wait any longer.

  “Charles, it’s lovely to see you, but what are you doing here?”

  He turned to look at me, then said, with touching concern in his voice, “I thought you might enjoy a diversion, after this past week. A friend of mine offered to lend me his car—it’s a Jaguar—and it would be wasted in the city. A car like that really needs an open road. So I thought of you, way out here, and took the chance that you’d be home, and free. Shall we go explore the winding lanes?”

  How sweet. I beamed at him. “That sounds wonderful—if you’ll give me time to clean up a bit?”

  “Of course. I thought we could go investigate Chester County. I’ve heard there are some interesting antique places out that way. And perhaps we could finish up at a restaurant? I’m told the Dilworthtown Inn has an excellent cellar.”

  I, too, had heard of the Dilworthtown Inn, but my budget did not extend to trying it. Rustic it might be, but sloppy? I doubted it. I had better plan on changing into something a cut above blue jeans. “That sounds wonderful. Oh, and do you know the Brandywine Museum?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve met the director, but I’ve never had the pleasure.”

  “Maybe we could start with lunch there—it has a wonderful view of the river.”

  “Isn’t that largely a collection of Wyeths?” I could almost see a faint curl to his lip. Snob.

  “Yes, Andrew Wyeth lived nearby. It’s a lovely place, and I enjoy the paintings.” So there.

  “Well, then, go perform your ablutions, and I will amuse myself until you’re ready.” He prowled around the room, picking up a book here and there, then settled himself in front of the window in a wing chair that had been my grandmother’s. I took one last despairing glance around the mess that I called home and fled for the bathroom.

  Half an hour later, scrubbed free of paint, powdered and primped, clad in my best country-casual outfit (which looked suspiciously like all my usual workweek outfits), we set off in Charles’s borrowed Jaguar. I was navigator, and since I knew he was itching to get off the Lancaster Pike, which was filled with slow SUVs running Saturday errands, I pointed him toward the back roads and scenic byways. The car was a joy, purring along the rolling lanes, and I sat back in the leather upholstery and reveled in the engine’s effortless power. The weather was perfect—the trees were already losing their leaves, but the cool autumn sun bathed the monochrome landscape with clean white light. It was, in fact, very much like being inside an Andrew Wyeth painting, and I stuck to my guns and insisted that we stop at the Brandywine Museum, which was one of my favorite small museums anywhere. After a sandwich there, watching the river roll by, we wandered for miles, stopping at antique stores when we felt like it. Charles picked up a few bits and pieces that caught his fancy, but mostly we enjoyed the process of looking, making snide comments about overpriced dreck, and occasionally haggling with a proprietor.

  We finished up with an early supper at the Dilworthtown Inn, which lived up to its reputation. It managed to combine the best of colonial and modern: the small dining rooms, many with working fireplaces, were warm and intimate, and the wine cellar was impressive, even by Charles’s estimation. I let him order, and sat and watched him play alpha male. He looked distinguished, even dashing, in the flickering light of the candles and the fire, and I managed to rise to the occasion, bantering with unaccustomed wit and charm.

  The food was lovely, the wine rich and velvety, gleaming like old garnets in the glass. But even the best of nights must end. We departed the restaurant as the first wave of regular Saturday night diners began to appear and drove back to Bryn Mawr in companionable silence.

  Charles pulled up to my carriage house with a flourish. I looked over at him. “Do you want to come in?” I said, shoving aside thoughts of my unmade bed and the mess I’d left in the bathroom and the half-painted room.

  “I think not. I should get back to the city and put this lady to bed.” He patted the steering wheel affectionately. I sighed inwardly with a poignant mixture of regret and relief.

  “Well, then, I’ll see you Monday. And Charles? Thank you so much for today. You were right: I needed it, and it was lovely.”

  He leaned over to kiss me, a warm and lingering kiss. Then he sat back in the driver’s seat as I opened the door. When I reached the path to my door, he pulled away with a brief backward wave of his hand, the motor nearly silent. I watched him go, then reluctantly turned back to my house with its unfinished paint and the usual mess. I felt a bit like Cinderella after the ball. Back to the real world, Nell.

  CHAPTER 15

  Monday I was still thinking back wistfully on Charles’s unheralded appearance at my door. It seemed to me as though some undefined boundary had been crossed. Before now, our relationship had taken place exclusively on his home turf in the city. I could understand his need for room to let the lovely Jaguar prowl, but I wondered which had come first: borrowing the Jaguar or wanting to comfort me? I had no intention of reading too much into it, though. Besides, I had plenty to keep me busy.

  After a week’s worth of waffling, agonizing, and tweaking, we were finally ready to send a discreet and mournful letter to the entire membership regarding the unfortunate demise of a treasured employee, Registrar Alfred Findley. Of course, they’d likely have read about it in the newspapers already, but we needed to make a public statement of our own. Our spin was that there was no spin: Alfred had died. Period. No mention of the fact that he had bled all over the floor of our own stacks. We would just say that he had been a longtime employee and he would be missed. But that still meant printing out a couple of thousand letters and matching envelopes, and stuffing and sealing and stamping and mailing. And that would require the efforts of myself, underlings, and anyone else we could snag. As I said, I was busy.

  In addition, there was the upcoming board meeting to worry about. The Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society’s board of directors met four times a year, to manage the affairs of the institution. I doubt that it’s a coincidence that board sounds like bored, which is what the participants usually are. But in case you’ve never been privy to this style of management, let me tell you that getting ready for a board meeting throws the entire staff into a tizzy. Board members are supposed to receive packets filled with useful and relevant information—attendance figures, acquisitions, state of the budget, and so on—a week or two before the event. That rarely happens—usually they get delivered a day or two before the actual meeting. Board members are supposed to have read and digested the two or three inches of information they receive in advance of the meeting—and that happens even more rarely. Of course there are some conscientious souls who do plow through the documents, making notes, and then come to the meeting and ask serious probing questions—while their peers all look blank, shuffle through the pages, and check their watches frequently.

  Don’t get me wrong. The board members are good people in most cases. The majority of them know history and collecting, as well as the ins and outs of the Society. A few others are chosen because of their public stature (political figures, academic leaders), and a few more are picked because they have money. No surprise there. Many of them have been on the board in some capacity for years, or in some cases decades. When their allotted term in one position (per the bylaws) is over, they shift to another one. As you might guess, a lot of these people know each other, both within and outside the Society. It’s pretty typical of small nonprofits, and we seem to muddle along well enough, just as we have for over a century. Nominally there are twenty-seven members, with an average age north of sixty, although we do try to bring in some younger folk; more men than women; and very few minorities, although we’d been recruiting hard in that area. So when you sit down in a board meeting, you generally see a sea of grey flannel and grey hair.

  The meetings usually followed a stately progression, more or less set in stone. There were munchies and even alcoholic beverages to grease the slides a bit, and
then a welcome, a summary, and individual departmental reports. Faithful Doris took notes, with a tape recorder as backup for her impeccable shorthand, not that she’d ever needed it. The meetings went on for a couple of hours, and then the members scattered to the winds for the next three months. The only major exception was the annual meeting, open to all of our members (although very few ever come, even with the lure of free food), as required by our bylaws.

  This time I was a bit on edge, even though I’d made sure that the notices and the information packets went out in a timely fashion for Thursday’s board meeting. But there was no mention of Alfred’s death in the meeting agenda, and I knew there would have to be some talk about that. And then there was the whole collections issue. It was a touchy subject, so I hadn’t committed anything to writing, apart from Charles’s suggestion to include Security on the agenda. At least I knew I had good news to report from the gala: our fundraising was marching along at an encouraging rate, and our membership was inching steadily up. Or at least it had been, before Alfred’s death.

  Since it was Monday, the building was locked tight, with only staff members around. Most of the lower floor was half dark, despite the tall windows overlooking the street. Actually I relished the quiet time: my staff and I could stuff all the member letters without interruption. The first inkling that something was amiss came when Carrie Drexel slipped into the room where we had spread out our stacks of letters and envelopes on a big table, and closed the door behind her. She looked positively giddy.

  “You’ll never guess who’s downstairs.”

  “I have no clue. The mayor? The head of the Philadelphia Museum? Brad Pitt?”

  Carrie sat down and pulled a stack of letters toward her. “Not even close. It was an FBI agent!”

  I felt a distinct chill in the pit of my stomach. “How do you know it was an FBI agent?”

  “Because Doris was hovering around the lobby waiting for him, and he identified himself when he came in. Besides, he looks exactly like every FBI agent you’ve ever seen on television. I think they have a dress code. You know, wool topcoat, dark suit, shiny shoes, hair short but not too much—the whole package.”