Dead Letters
Authors: Sheila Connolly
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
eSpecials
DEAD LETTERS
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DEAD LETTERS
A Berkley Prime Crime eSpecial / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime eSpecial edition / February 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Sheila Connolly.
Excerpt from
Fire Engine Dead
by Sheila Connolly © 2012 by Sheila Connolly.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-56834-7
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“Damn,” I said as the folio of documents I had pulled from the shelf fell apart in my hands and the fragile papers inside scattered across the floor. Instinctively I looked around to see if anyone had observed my clumsy handling of the precious antique letters, which was stupid because I’d made a point of waiting until the building had emptied before venturing into the stacks for my search.
The library stacks of the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society were never crowded, since the general public was not allowed into them to browse at will. But after hours, at night, they were dark and silent and more than a little creepy. I had worked in the building for years and knew it well, but even I had to fight a sneaking fear when I was alone there. Maybe it was the weight of history looming over me—and there was plenty of it—or maybe it was something more.
But I was not here for my own enjoyment: I was on a mission. A few days earlier, Arthur Biddle Logan, elderly scion of several of Philadelphia’s oldest and most respected families, had requested an appointment with me—Eleanor Pratt, commonly known as Nell, president of the Society. I had never met the man in my former role as fundraiser, but I knew Mr. Logan on sight, and I certainly knew of his sterling reputation in Philadelphia social circles. I also knew that he avoided anything that smelled of a request for contributions of any sort, so the fact that he had approached me was intriguing. Of course, I had informed him that I would be happy to schedule an appointment at his convenience, while mentally licking my chops at the prospect of a healthy infusion of much-needed cash and/or donations of family memorabilia.
He had asked that I meet him at his Rittenhouse Square apartment rather than at the Society, and I had been happy to oblige. When I arrived at his building, a doorman held the door for me and a concierge announced my arrival and ushered me to the elevator, which carried me smoothly and soundlessly to the penthouse floor. I was surprised when Mr. Logan answered the door himself, and slightly disappointed that there wasn’t a butler. I’d never met a butler, and I had been kind of looking forward to it.
“Miss Pratt? Please, come in. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. In my younger days I loved to walk about the city, but I’m afraid I find that difficult now.” He stood back to let me into his home.
“Mr. Logan, I’m delighted to be here. I’ve always hoped to have the chance to meet you.” I hoped that he didn’t add the implied follow-up:
so I could ask you for a donation of some kind
. He must hear such requests often.
“I apologize for the oblique approach, but I have a rather unusual request, and I thought you would know best how to address it. May we sit?” He gestured toward the living room.
I was torn between studying my host and admiring the understated elegance of the space, dominated by damask-clad mahogany furniture (could that be real Chippendale?) and imposing oil portraits. Mr. Logan was exactly what I expected of a Main Line blue blood: tall, silver-haired, immaculately tailored in what I had to assume was a bespoke suit, with a monogrammed linen handkerchief discreetly peeping from his pocket. His sober silk tie gleamed dully, as did his slim gold watch and cuff links. Cuff links! How many men wore those anymore, much less at home? I had, of course, reviewed the file we kept on him, as with all our donors, actual and potential, so I knew the basics—his age (eighty-three), his family (widowed; three adult children, two boys and a girl, all scattered), where he lived (the horse country of West Chester, and this coveted address in town), and what charitable institutions he had supported (not us, yet).
He settled himself in a straight-backed wing chair, hitching his crisply pressed trousers, revealing a tasteful minimum of dark sock and polished leather shoe. “Miss Pratt, you must be wondering why I asked you here,” he began.
“I will confess that I am. You haven’t visited the Society, have you?”
“Perhaps on one or two occasions as a guest, but not recently. Others in my family have had a closer relationship.”
I didn’t mention that I knew and could easily list off those near relatives of his who had supported the Society for many years: the Biddles, the Coxes, the Whartons. I nodded, trying to look encouraging. “We’d be happy to welcome you, and I hope you’ll take some time to peruse our collections.”
Mr. Logan appeared to be at a loss for words. I waited patiently until he began, “Miss Pratt, I find myself in a rather awkward position. I trust I may rely on your discretion?”
“Of course.” I would never betray a confidence, either professionally or personally.
He sighed. “Are you acquainted with the history of the Logan family?”
That was familiar ground. “To some extent, yes. Your family—both your father’s
and
your mother’s ancestors—were instrumental in establishing the coal mining industry in the state, weren’t they?”
“Precisely. And they profited handsomely from those endeavors.” Mr. Logan gave a small smile. “Let me come to the point. I have been going through my family papers, which are, I fear, in much disarray.”
I leaned forward. Did he want our help in cataloguing them? How fabulous they might be! I could only hope he was contemplating the gift of the collected family papers, which would document a major segment of Pennsylvania history. What a coup it would be for the Society to acquire such an extraordinary collection. But why the secrecy?
He steepled his hands and resumed, “I have come upon several documents . . . whose contents I do not wish to disclose at this time, but suffice it to say, they contain information that troubles me.”
I had no idea what this charming gentleman might consider troubling. “Mr. Logan, what is it you would like me to do?”
“I admire your directness, Miss Pratt. To put it briefly, I would like you to review the collections that your institution holds, to see if there is any corroborative information about a particular . . . unfortunate event. This is purely for my own peace of mind, you understand. I want to be sure that I have made the correct interpretation.”
“I’d be pleased to assist you, but you must know that I’m not part of the research staff. One of our archivists would be better equipped to find whatever it is you’re looking for.” Especially since I knew we didn’t possess any documents from his direct familial line, and therefore whatever existed in our collections already—if anything—would be buried in any of the many collections donated by other families over who knows how long a period.
“I understand, but I would prefer you to handle this yourself, for some particular reasons. One, I’ve spoken with colleagues of mine, and they have reported that you are unquestionably discreet. Two, I know you are familiar with your institution’s holdings, at least broadly, so you are equipped to initiate such a search. This is not a scholarly undertaking, merely an exploratory effort. Let me add that I think you will appreciate the incentive that I offer.”
While it was true that I knew the collections in general, I was not familiar with the minutiae. This was getting odder and odder. He’d been talking to people about me? He kept coming back to “discretion”—what was the information? Potentially damaging? Personally? Legally?
“If I find something . . . illegal, you know I’d have to tell the authorities.”
“Understood. I would expect nothing less from you. However, I do ask that you apprise me first of your discoveries.”
“Mr. Logan, I appreciate the compliments, but what is it you hope I would find?”
“I’d rather not say. But I think you would recognize it if you found it.”
Great, now he was playing coy. I was supposed to mount a search through what could be tens of thousands of documents in our extensive collections, with no idea of what I was looking for? “I assume I can’t ask anyone else to help?”
He shook his head. “I’d prefer you did not. I would like to know the . . . parameters of the issue before it becomes common knowledge. Aren’t you going to ask what I’m offering in exchange?”
Of course I did. “All right. What is it you’re offering?”
“All the Logan family papers, as an outright gift to the Society.”
All that I could have hoped for! Even though I wasn’t an historian, I knew full well the scope and the importance of what he offered—nothing short of magnificent. “When would this take place?” It seemed a polite way of asking whether we’d see them soon, or only after his death.
“I’m prepared to transfer them to you upon the completion of your inquiries.”
“Regardless of what I find?”
He dipped his head, once. “Yes. Without restrictions.”
“Even if I find nothing at all?”
“Yes. I want only to know if there exists any additional information about this particular event and its aftermath. I assume that once the documents have been transferred, there will be scholarly interest in them, at least among Pennsylvania historians. And before you ask, I am not suggesting that you to destroy or conceal any relevant documents—only that you let me know of their existence and their contents.”
I took a moment to think. Not that there was much to think about: the man was asking me to do a quiet search of documents and, if I found anything damning, to let him know about it. I had to believe that the information must be pretty important to him. He had certainly piqued my curiosity. “Mr. Logan, your terms are very generous. I would be delighted to undertake your request. Do you have a time frame?” In my mind I was already planning how to begin such a search, even with slim information as a starting point. Surely there was already ample detail in our files about the family’s history to set me on the right path . . .
I could swear he looked relieved. “Miss Pratt, as you can see, I am not young. I would hope that you could pursue this immediately, so long as you don’t excite any suspicion regarding your activities.”
In other words, don’t draw attention to myself or what I was looking for. Fair enough. I was willing to put in some overtime after the staff had left the building if it meant a chance to acquire the Logan collection.
Which is why I was wandering the dim labyrinths of the Society stacks after hours looking for what amounted to a needle in a haystack. Mr. Logan had handed me a list of the families whose connections he could trace personally, which held few surprises for me. In addition, I had written many grant proposals to federal and state agencies and private foundations requesting cataloging and preservation support for our collections, so I knew what we had, more or less. I’m not sure anyone knew what we had specifically, since the Society’s generations of cataloguers had barely made a dent in our extensive holdings. I had gone through our files in the administrative offices and had gleaned a few facts about the rise of the Logan family and the sources of their fortune, so I knew where to start. I had no idea where I’d finish, and from what I’d achieved so far, it could take years—years I wasn’t sure Mr. Logan had.
What was it he thought I’d find? Despite my carefully phrased questions, he had refused to say more than that I’d know it if I saw it. My mind turned over possibilities as I pulled folders and boxes from shelves, leafed through them, then carefully replaced them in their original locations (far be it for me to further confuse the already haphazard filing system). What could be so important? An early land swindle that somehow had never been recorded? A banking scam? After all, hadn’t a Biddle played a major role in financing the American Revolution? There could have been some funny business there. A crazy uncle who had been disinherited? A coal mining accident that had been covered up? There were a lot of possibilities, and the odds of locating a document that shed any light on them were daunting.
I checked my watch. I’d been working for several hours, and if I didn’t get out now, I’d miss the last train back to my home in Bryn Mawr. If whatever I was looking for existed at all, it had been here for a while, and it wasn’t going to go anywhere in the next day or two. I replaced the last box and stuck a sheet of paper between it and its neighbor so I’d know where to start tomorrow night. I shivered; the stacks were chilly, and I still had the feeling that there was someone or something there. Even as I thought that, there was a metallic clang several bays of shelves over. The metal shelves cooling? I wasn’t in the mood to investigate: I gathered up my notes and fled, carefully locking the gates and turning off the lights behind me.
The next morning, back in my office, I found it hard to focus on what was on my desk, and my mind kept drifting back to Mr. Logan and his hints. Why the secrecy? I was sorely tested when one of my colleagues, Latoya Anderson, vice president of collections, popped her head in. I didn’t have a particularly warm relationship with Latoya, but I acknowledged that she was very good at her job and knew her historical materials. Since she was responsible for acquisitions, I wondered if she had her eye on the Logan collection.
“I understand you paid a call on Arthur Logan yesterday,” she began.
Damn. How had she known? “Yes,” I said cautiously.
Latoya came in without invitation and settled herself in a chair. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t spying on you. It just happened that I was returning from an errand just as you were entering the building on the Square, and I knew Arthur Logan lived in that building. I made the logical connection. What did he want?”
What could I tell her that she would believe and yet wouldn’t give me away? “He wanted some information on archival storage conditions.” Lame, but the best I could do on the spur of the moment.
As I’d feared, Latoya did not appear convinced. “Why didn’t he come to me? Or to Janice? Conservation is her department.”
“I have no idea. He said some of his friends had mentioned me, so maybe I was the only name he knew here. Or maybe he’s the type who only wants to deal with the president.”
If I had hoped to deflect Latoya, I had failed. Her face took on a calculating expression. “Did you tell Janice to get in touch with him?”
“No, not yet. Listen . . .”
She interrupted me before I could finish. “Why don’t I contact Mr. Logan, to make sure we know what he needs?”
