Fire Engine Dead (7 page)

“Yes, there is that.” I’d have to understand that connection a bit better before I could guess how the city would benefit from any of this. “But none of it is really our business, is it?” I waited to see how she would respond. Based on her long and intricate history with the city and its citizens, Marty seemed to feel entitled to meddle in affairs at all levels.

She cocked her head at me curiously. “Why not? You’re part of the collections community, and so am I. You’ve said it before: what harms one local institution reflects on all of us. If it’s proved that somebody died because of whatever might be going on at the Fireman’s Museum, then we all suffer—we don’t need those kinds of headlines. And you and I, we have insights that the police and even the mighty FBI lack. I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to sit on the sidelines and watch, not if I can do something.”

I sighed. That was exactly what James had been worried about. In some ways Marty was right. But James was also right, about keeping civilians out of the mix. I was caught
in the middle. “Okay, I’ll give you that. But I don’t know what to do next.”

Marty sprang up. “I’m going to go give Jimmy a piece of my mind.” When she saw the look of dismay on my face, she said, “Don’t worry, I’ll leave you out of this. I figured out the switch all by myself, didn’t I? And I can find out if there’s anything new today, like autopsy results. See you!” And with that she was gone, leaving me feeling drained.

Eric peered cautiously around the door. “All clear? What was that all about?”

“Come in and shut the door,” I said wearily. When he had, I said, “You might as well know this, because there’s a chance you might get some phone calls from the press or the police, and you should be prepared. That warehouse fire? Remember the pictures I showed you? Both Agent Morrison and Marty believe that there was a robbery involved—the fire engine that Marty’s family gave the Fireman’s Museum seems to have been removed before the fire and a different one put in its place. Which means that the fire may have been deliberate, and it’s not clear whether the death was related. And we shouldn’t be talking about any of this.”

“Wow,” Eric said. “And here I thought the museum world was supposed to be kind of stuffy.”

Poor Eric—he was learning fast. “All this is off the record. James has asked what I know about the museum and their collections, and the director, who I had never met until this week. Look, if you do get any calls, pass them on to me. But I hope it won’t come to that.”

I managed to get some more work done before Latoya knocked on my door frame. “A moment, Nell?”

“Sure. Come on in.” This was unusual. Somehow Latoya always made me come to her.

She sat gracefully, tucking her long legs under the chair before beginning. “I’ve found a candidate for registrar that I’m rather excited about, and I wondered if you’d have time for an interview?”

“Of course.” I knew how important the position was to the smooth running of the Society, and how badly we needed to fill the vacancy. “Tell me about…him? Her?”

“Him. His name is Nicholas Naylor. He brings an interesting mix of skills—he was a history major as an undergraduate, but he’s also done a lot of software development, particularly for cultural applications.”

I settled back in my chair. “That does sound interesting, not that I know much about that side of things. What brings him to us?”

“It’s not that he needs the job—currently he’s working at Penn. But he’d like more autonomy to work on his software programs. I’ve told him what Alfred was using as software, and he said he could improve on it. And it wouldn’t cost us anything above his salary. I see it as a win-win situation.”

I wasn’t so sure. We’d paid dearly for that state-of-the-art system not long ago, and the late Alfred Findley had barely begun to explore its possibilities. He was the only one who had really understood the system, which he had quickly dubbed Cassandra, because she was always spitting out reports filled with doom and gloom. Still, we’d invested in it, and I was leery of starting over so soon, especially with someone I didn’t know. “Does he expect to market this software? Because I wouldn’t want him to use the Society as a stepping-stone and then leave us in the lurch after a year or two. I’d rather see someone who is willing to make a long-term commitment to this place.”

Latoya nodded once. “Of course. I don’t think this is about the money or selling his program. From what he’s told me, it sounds as though it’s pretty closely tailored to each individual institution and its needs. Can you at least give him an interview and let me know what you think?”

“Of course. His skills sound intriguing, even if he doesn’t work out for the position here. Any other likely candidates?”

She shrugged. “A few, but nobody who impresses me as much as Nicholas, at least on paper. I’ve already met with him.”

“When can he come in?”

“Tomorrow? As I said, he’s currently employed, but he’s in the city, so he could meet with you early in the morning before he goes to work. Does that work for you?”

I thought it might, but I needed to check with Eric first. I walked over to the door and stuck my head out. “Eric, do I have anything on my calendar for tomorrow early?”

He punched a couple of keys on his computer. “No, ma’am. It looks open. Do you want to add something?”

“Yes—pencil in an interview for the registrar position first thing in the morning. I’ll confirm with you once it’s set up.” I turned back to Latoya. “Give this Nicholas a call and tell him coming in before he goes to work will be fine, then let me know if he can make it and what time.”

Latoya stood up. “Thank you, Nell. I’ll do that and get back to you. Oh, and I’ll have that information on the Fireman’s Museum collections later today.” When she left, I went back to my desk, sat down, and thought.

I hadn’t had any part in the hiring of our last registrar, and even if I had, the nature and demands of the position had changed substantially in the years Alfred had worked
here. The Society was a collections-based institution, and those collections had been growing for well over a century. Unfortunately the tracking systems had failed to keep up, from the beginning. It was easy to imagine the very early days, when one curator/librarian could probably keep all the information in his head. Then had come the era of handwritten cards and the arrival of the first card catalog. Some order had been imposed, but as the collections expanded, classification systems had changed, and the physical distribution of the collections had changed even more often. By the later twentieth century the whole thing was all but out of our control. And then the digital age had arrived.

Alfred had bridged that gap. He had been good at his job—in part because he had no real life or love outside of the Society—and he had been instrumental in transferring significant portions of the catalogs to a computerized format, and even overseeing the digitization of a portion of those catalogs so that our members could access them online. He’d made great strides forward, but we’d been stymied since his untimely death. For all my lack of familiarity, I recognized that software cataloging systems were essential to contemporary collections management, and it sounded as though Latoya’s candidate Nicholas might be a good fit. I looked forward to meeting with him and picking his brain.

The morning’s confrontation with Marty had left me unsettled, and I needed to clear my head. I pulled on my coat and stopped to tell Eric, “I’m headed out to get some lunch. Tell anyone who calls that I may be a while.”

“Right. You’re in a very important meeting and can’t be disturbed.” Eric grinned at me.

“Exactly.” I made my way downstairs and out of the
building. On the front steps I paused, trying to figure out what I wanted. Mostly I wanted some space, and time to think. Maybe it was time to go back to the Reading Terminal Market—I hadn’t been there since lunch with Arabella a few months ago, and I recalled that I had promised myself to visit more often. Certainly its bright colors and sounds—not to mention the wonderful smells—would distract me from the thorny problem of the missing fire engine. I set off toward Market Street at a brisk clip.

I had forgotten that the funeral for Allan Brigham would be taking place today, and that Market Street would be its route; it put a serious crimp in my plans. James had told me that firemen’s funerals in the city were important events, but I was not prepared for the scale of the parade that was unfolding before me. Somehow I had timed my arrival to coincide with the head of the procession. I had to stand on tiptoe to see anything over the fairly thick crowd. First came a pair of drummers and a bagpiper, leading a modern fire truck draped in black bunting; the casket, covered with a flag, lay atop the truck. Two uniformed firemen rode on the truck’s tailboard, flanking the casket. They were accompanied by a pair of Dalmatians, who sat still as statues, as though sensing the solemnity of the occasion. Additional firemen walked alongside the fire truck—probably some sort of honor guard. Following the truck were several groups of dignitaries—I saw the mayor and the city’s fire chief among the ones in the front. They were followed by a slew of local firefighters—I recognized the uniforms—and then by what must be visiting firefighters in different uniforms. Toward the rear was a long string of fire vehicles, and finally cars. The whole of the procession stretched over many blocks, nearly to the waterfront, headed to the imposing
mass of City Hall. I couldn’t help but wonder whether this was a typical department funeral, or whether Allan Brigham had been particularly highly regarded in his community, even after retirement.

The sidewalks on both sides of Market Street were crowded with spectators, although it was hard to distinguish between mourners and gawkers. I wasn’t sure which category I fit. Still, there was enough room that I could move to the front of the crowd without shoving, and when I arrived there I found Peter Ingersoll, looking pale. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped and turned toward me.

“Hello, Peter. Quite an impressive event,” I said.

“It is. Of course, our firefighters deserve it. You know Jennifer, right?”

I hadn’t seen Jennifer, who was standing on the other side of Peter, looking equally unhappy. “Of course—hello, Jennifer.”

“And this is my brother Scott.” Peter gestured toward a man standing behind Jennifer. If Peter hadn’t introduced me, I never would have pegged him as Peter’s brother: Scott stood half a head taller and must have outweighed Peter by fifty pounds. “Scott works as a security guard part-time at the museum—well, when there’s anything to protect. There hasn’t been since the collections went into storage.” Peter swallowed hard.

“Good to meet you, Scott,” I said, extending a hand. Scott took it reluctantly and shook it, mumbling something, then turned his attention back to the procession. I noticed that he laid a hand on Jennifer’s shoulder.

“And this is Gary O’Keefe, our curator,” Peter added, and another, older man, moving clumsily, came forward to shake my hand.

“We appreciate your help, Ms. Pratt.”

“No problem—that’s what the Society is here for.” I turned back to Peter. “I’ve collected at least part of the information you asked for. Can we get together so I can show you?”

“Of course. Let me call you after I get back to the office and we can set a time,” Peter replied.

“That’s fine. Are you going to the burial? Did you know the man?”

“Not personally, no. I just came to pay my respects. I feel so bad about what happened, like the museum is somehow responsible for his death.”

Peter’s mind seemed to be somewhere else, not surprisingly, so I decided to resume my search for lunch. “I’ll talk to you later, then,” I said, and turned away. It looked as though crossing Market Street would be out of the question for a while, so I headed back toward Chestnut Street, where I knew I’d find plenty of restaurants. After lunch, the afternoon passed quietly, until I was interrupted by another call from James.

“You sicced Marty on me,” he began without preamble.

“I did not,” I replied tartly. “She came to me after drawing the same conclusion that I did, based on the newspaper photo. I warned you she might. I just confirmed what she suspected. Was I really supposed to lie to her? She was mad at me because I had told you before I told her.”

He sighed. “All right. Can you keep her out of this?”

“Marty? Not a chance.”

“I was afraid of that. I suppose I should have known she’d end up in the middle of this. I assume you’ve told Marty that she has to be discreet about it?”

“I did, but if you see her, can you repeat that? You don’t
want her asking people the wrong questions, or maybe I mean asking the
wrong people
questions. If you know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” I could hear the sound of a door closing on his end before he continued. “Listen, the autopsy showed that the guard was dead before the fire began.”

I felt a chill. So it was arson
and
murder. Had the dead watchman been party to the arson, or an innocent bystander? “At least he had full honors for his burial. You were right—the procession was very impressive. What was the cause of death?”

“A blow to the head,” James said, “but there’s more than one way it could have happened. For the moment the police are treating it as suspicious rather than accidental. Please, keep that to yourself unless it’s announced officially.”

“Of course.” The news saddened me. The fire was bad enough on its own, but this made it tragic—and complicated. “Have you shared the information about the fire engine with the police?”

“No. I’m not sure where that fits, and I’d rather they didn’t know, unless they figure it out for themselves. At which time I’ll be happy to cooperate with them—if they ask.”

“You sound tired, James. Is everything all right?”

“Just busy. Look, Nell, try to stay out of this, will you? It’s bad enough I have to manage Marty. I know you both mean well, but this is a criminal investigation.”

“You were the one who invited me into the investigation, remember?”

“Yes, but in a limited capacity, based on your knowledge of the cultural community. Period. Please don’t meddle with the criminal side of things.”