Fire Engine Dead (18 page)

“Of course.” Shelby nodded her encouragement.

“Hence all the stone and steel and concrete. It was kind of interesting—there were sliding metal doors that would shut automatically in the event of a fire, and all the bookcases and tables are also steel, painted to look like wood—believe me, they’re a pain in the derriere to move for events. And all the floors are concrete. And if that wasn’t enough, there was the holiest of holies, where the cream of the collections was stored: the fireproof vault. You know, that room off the reference room? That’s where we’ve been keeping the Terwilliger Collection. There’ve been a lot of changes over the years, and the fireproof vault is really the only room that retains those original sliding doors, which are now artifacts in their own right.”

“Cool,” Shelby said. “So tell me what we’ve got now?”

“Original sprinklers, but as you can imagine, soaking documents would be a disaster, only slightly less awful than letting them burn. Although I suppose you can argue that you can restore a wet document, but not a pile of ashes. Anyway, there are new and improved water based systems coming along, that are more localized or use less water, but we don’t have them.”

“Do go on,” Shelby drawled. “I’m fascinated.”

In a truly dignified manner I stuck out my tongue at her. “A decade or so ago the Society actually had some money for remodeling and installed a new halon fire suppression
system in some parts of the building.” When Shelby looked blank I continued. “Halon is a gas, or a mix of gasses—basically it deprives a fire of oxygen. Much less destructive to the collections than water.”

“So that’s good, isn’t it?” Shelby asked.

“Yes and no. It won’t do great harm to documents, but recently it has been phased out because of environmental issues. You can still get a halon gas system for a museum, but it’s very expensive. Plus you can’t just keep using it. Once you’ve zapped a fire, you have to replace the gas, which is also expensive.”

Shelby thought for a couple of moments. “So, we’re more or less safe at the moment with a mix of sprinklers and halon, and it would cost a lot to change anything. How well do the systems work?”

“Actually, there’s never been a fire here, so I have no idea. I’d hate to be the first president to find out.”

“Amen,” Shelby said fervently. “Is this typical of local museums and libraries?”

“It is. There’s one other important fact: most fires in museums are caused by electrical problems. We’ve already had our electrical systems checked out and they’re adequate, not that we should be complacent. But it’s different for libraries. Want to guess what the single largest cause of library fires is?”

Shelby again looked at me blankly.

“Arson,” I said. “Nearly forty percent of library fires are deliberately set.”

Talk of arson naturally led us to discussing what might
have happened to the Fireman’s Museum collection.

“Look, anything I say here has got to be in strictest confidence, because this really isn’t my secret to share. But I can use your help,” I said.

“I won’t tell a soul, cross my heart,” Shelby declared. “What do you need?”

“Okay, how much do you know about the management structure of the Fireman’s Museum?”

“Not a whole lot,” she admitted. “I’m not even sure where it is.”

“I’ve only been there once myself, for an event. I don’t think it’s far from your neighborhood. But what’s interesting is that it’s kind of a homegrown organization. It was originally created from within the fire department, but after a while they figured they should get serious, so they set up
a nonprofit corporation, created a board, and so on. But the ties to the department are still real tight.”

“Based on what I’ve seen here at the Society, board members aren’t always real involved in what’s going on day to day. Is that true there, too?”

I smiled at her. “That’s where you come in.”

“Me? You want to drag me into this mess?” Shelby didn’t look too worried about the idea, if her smile was any indication.

“I sure do.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Well, aside from the undying gratitude of the local FBI, which might dispose them to be more willing to let us have first crack at that collection we’re sorting, you can have a lot of fun playing investigator.”

“Deal. What do you need?”

“Let’s pull together background material on the Fireman’s Museum board and staff. I’ll bet we already have profiles in the files for the board members, but information access has probably improved a lot since those files were put together, so see if you can flesh them out now. For the staff, we may have to start from scratch. Certainly take a hard look at Peter Ingersoll.”

“You think he’s in on whatever’s going on?”

I considered. “I really don’t know. But maybe we can find out if he has a motive.”

Shelby nodded, then said slowly, “You know, you might end up treading on some political toes if you aren’t careful.”

Maybe she hadn’t been in Philadelphia long, but she’d figured out how things worked. “What do you mean?”

“The firefighter’s union, for a start. They’ve got some
clout—and if you start looking at them cross-eyed, they might find themselves taking their own sweet time when and if we ever need them here. Heaven forbid!”

“Good point. Anything else?”

“Let me dig around a little and see what I can find. Thank you for trusting me, Nell.”

I felt better as I headed back toward my office. It helped to share the problem with someone. I expected Shelby to be circumspect, but I needed her help because she could lay hands on a lot of information without alerting anyone, since it was part of her job. The more she knew about the who was who in administration and management of Philadelphia cultural institutions, the better she could present the Society to funders, individual donors, and the outside world.

Eric perked up when I appeared. “Nell, I thought you’d disappeared. Must have been some lunch!”

“I came back a little while ago, but I had to talk to Shelby about some research. Did you need me?”

“I wanted to remind you about the Bench Foundation reception tonight. I just got a follow-up reminder in my email.”

Shoot, I had entirely forgotten. The foundation was announcing their new and improved funding strategy for the next couple of years, and since it would attract a good crowd, no doubt some members of the Fireman’s Museum would be there: when the Bench Foundation made pronouncements, people jumped. They were a major force in the local funding community. And this would be the first of their events that I’d attended since becoming the Society’s president. Eric had made a good catch, and I was glad he had reminded me. “Thank you, Eric—that had completely slipped my mind. Details?”

“It’s from five thirty to seven, at the Bellevue. Should be well attended.”

“You’re right. Eric, how did you get so smart, so fast?”

“I pay attention, and I’ve been reading through the files when I have time.”

“Well, keep it up. You’re doing great. Anything else?”

He handed me the usual sheaf of call slips. “Nothing urgent.”

Just past five o’clock I dashed into the bathroom to run a comb through my hair and take the shine off my nose. At least I’d worn something decently professional this morning, and I’d blend into the crowd. Conveniently the Bellevue was right around the corner. It was always a treat to enter the grand old hotel, even though I could barely afford to breathe the air in the much-gilded lobby. The reception was being held in a function room on the twelfth floor, so I boarded the ornate elevator along with several other suit-clad people who looked vaguely familiar. Upstairs I surveyed the crowd, looking for familiar faces. I wouldn’t have called it a glittering throng exactly, since most people had come straight from their offices and ran more to grey flannel than to sequins. But the room was filled with the movers and shakers of our little cultural community. Of course, the fact that the foundation provided an open bar and excellent hors d’oeuvres didn’t hurt, either.

I spied Arabella Heffernan of Let’s Play barreling toward me. “Nell, how nice to see you—again!”

“We must stop meeting like this, Arabella,” I said, hugging her. “It looks like the sharks are circling.” I gestured toward the crowd, then snared a glass of wine from one passing waiter and something in puff pastry from another.

“We can all use the money, and the Bench people sit on
a lot of it.” She leaned in closer. “Awful thing about the Fireman’s Museum collection, isn’t it?”

“I know—it makes me shudder. And of course, it forces us to check out how well protected the Society’s collections are.” I swallowed the delightful hors d’oeuvre, then snagged another one from the next waiter. After all, this was my dinner, and I figured I’d earned a few smoked-salmon-on-crème-fraiche-topped-with-a-sprig-of-dill goodies.

“Of course—all that paper! However do you sleep at night?”

“I cling to a firm belief in the goodness of humanity.”

“As do I, my dear. It’s just easier to see it among children.”

I did another quick scan of the room before asking, “Do you know the director of the Fireman’s Museum, Peter Ingersoll?”

“Not personally, apart from events like this. You?”

“I met him only after the fire happened. Is he here?”

Arabella turned to search the crowd. “I don’t…oh, there he is.” She pointed across the large room.

I followed her gaze. Yes, there was Peter, and even from this far away I could tell he didn’t look any better than he had the last time I’d seen him. I was surprised to see Jennifer Phillips clinging to his arm—or holding him up. I had seen her at the fundraisers’ luncheon—was that event really only ten days ago?—but her presence here was unexpected, since usually only the highest levels of management were invited to Bench events. Maybe Peter wouldn’t have made it here without her support.

“Who’s that with him?” Arabella asked.

“His assistant, Jennifer. She was at that luncheon, and we shared a table. I think I’ll go over and say hello to Peter. Can I catch up with you later, Arabella?”

“Of course, dear. Poor Peter looks as though he needs all the friends he can get.”

I wiped my fingers on a tiny napkin and began to wade through the crowd that was growing rapidly. It took me a couple of minutes to make my way to where Peter was standing, since I had to greet several people along the way.

Finally reaching him, I said, “Hello, Peter. How’re you doing?”

“Oh, Nell, hello,” he said in a distracted tone. “As well as can be expected, all things considered. You’ve met Jennifer Phillips?”

He really didn’t remember? “Yes, we met at that luncheon at the Marriott.”
Not to mention at the funeral procession.
I extended a hand. “Nice to see you again, Jennifer.” I leaned in closer. “You must find yourself in a difficult position at the moment.”

“You mean, trying to raise money? Thank you for saying so, Nell. You know how hard it is when your institution is under a cloud. But I must say our supporters have been very generous—they want to see us rebuild our collection, and I think that’s a real tribute to Peter’s leadership. Our exhibits may be small, but they’ve always been popular, particularly among school groups.”

“More so than ours, I’d guess. Our demographic is a bit older—by a few decades.”

Jennifer laughed politely. I noticed she was keeping a watchful eye on Peter, who indeed looked like he needed support. His complexion was greyish, his hair was greasy, and there was a reddish blotch—ketchup?—on his silk tie. As I had suspected, under normal circumstances Jennifer would not have been included in an august gathering such as this, but either Peter had dragged her along for companionship,
or she was there to make sure he didn’t do anything unforgivable in front of a major philanthropic organization as well as his peers.

As I watched, Peter pulled an inhaler from his pocket and breathed in a puff. He noticed me watching and said apologetically, “The stress has been awful. And I hate events like this, but I have to be here.”

Jennifer laid a hand on his arm. “Gary could have handled it, Peter.”

He shook her off. “I know, but it’s important that I show my face here, Jennifer. You understand, don’t you, Nell?”

“All too well.”

At the dais at the far end of the room, it appeared that the Bench people were preparing to launch into their spiel. Time for me to work the crowd. “Peter, let me know if there’s anything else I can do. Jennifer, nice to see you again. Call me if I can help with anything.”

“Thank you, Nell. I may take you up on that,” Jennifer replied.

“Bye, Nell,” Peter said, his tone dismal.

I dove back into the crowd. I waved at a couple of Society board members, wondering which of their institutions they were there to represent. The Old Guard of Philadelphia tended to sit on multiple boards, and I hoped they didn’t have to wrestle with conflicts of interest too often. Still, sometimes their names on our letterhead were enough to spur giving, and I wasn’t going to complain.

I recognized quite a few other faces, not that I could put names to them all. For all that Philadelphia had a population of one and a half million, we moved in small circles within it. This was my tribe gathered here. Was one of them capable of murder, arson, and fraud?

Probably. I knew full well how invested people became in their collections, both the getting and the keeping. I looked at the near-empty wineglass in my hand: better stop with one, if I wanted to keep a clear head.

I listened with one ear to the doughty representative of the mighty foundation, who outlined what sounded like a fairly reasonable plan for allocating scarce resources among so many worthy candidates. I noticed that one fiftyish man stopped to talk to Peter, while Jennifer stepped back and watched them, looking anxious. I didn’t recognize the man, but as the speaker wound down, I edged in his direction, at the same time that Peter and Jennifer made their farewells and drifted toward the door.

The man stayed behind, giving perfunctory attention to the speaker, and more attention to the highball glass in his hand. It took him a moment to focus on me, even when I stood in his line of sight. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Nell Pratt, president of the Antiquarian Society. You know Peter Ingersoll? Terrible thing about the collection.” My words came out in a rush, because I didn’t want to give the man an opening to brush me off.