Fundraising the Dead (16 page)

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.

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.”

“What, no shades?” I was thinking furiously. Was it James Morrison, Marty’s cousin? If Doris had been expecting an agent, he must be here to see Charles. Had Marty already blown the whistle and sent James into the fray? After all, her deadline for action had already passed. “Well, that’s interesting. Maybe he’s a history buff. Anyway, I’d like to get these lovely items”—I gestured at the stacks piled around the table—“into the mail by the end of the day, so let’s dig in and get them done.”

“But aren’t you curious?” Carrie pressed. “Why would His Lordship be talking to an FBI agent?”

“I have no idea,” I lied. “But I’m sure he’ll tell us if he thinks we need to know.”

With all hands at work, the letters were done quickly. Leaving Carrie to run them through the postage meter and bundle them for the mail pickup, I made my way back to my office and tried to make sense of what was going on. A knock on my door frame interrupted me. As I had so astutely guessed, it was none other than Cousin Jimmy, in his special-agent role.

“Ms. Pratt?”

I nodded. Was he being formal in case anyone was listening? Did he not want anyone to know that we had met before?

“I’m James Morrison, special agent for the FBI, Philadelphia office.” He flashed some sort of credential, too quickly for me to see. “I’ve just spoken with your president, and I’d like to have a word with you, if it’s convenient.”

“Of course. Please, come in, sit down. Would you like some coffee or something else?” I could act the perfect hostess.

“No, thanks. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.” He came into my office, which immediately felt much smaller. I nodded toward the door and raised my eyebrows, asking if he wanted to close it; his curt shake of the head indicated no. So this was to be a public conversation, one that could be overheard by all and sundry. I’d be willing to bet that Carrie was hovering just around the corner.

At Marty’s house James Morrison had been wearing jeans, and at the gala, a sport jacket. But Carrie had been right: here in an official capacity, in his serious suit, he now he looked like an Agent, with a capital A.

I realized he was studying me, too. He’d probably noticed that I had a run in my panty hose, and that there was a button missing on the cuff of my shirt. I thanked the stars that I had nothing worse than that to hide.

“I assume your mother read A. A. Milne? Are you ‘commonly known as Jim’?” A little light banter to defuse the situation. All right—I was nervous. This was official; this was serious.

“James, James, Morrison, Morrison? Most people think of The Doors.”

“Not my speed, I’m afraid. Now, what can I do for you?”

He sat down in my guest chair and took his time about answering as his eyes prowled around my office. “I’m here to investigate a possible theft of historic items from the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society. Are you aware of any problems in this area?”

I stuck to the simple truth. “Yes. A board member—someone I know fairly well, who’s done a lot of research here—came to me on the morning of our annual gala to tell me that she thought some pieces were missing from her family collection.”

Mr. Agent Man had pulled out a small pad and pencil, and was checking his existing notes. “That would be the event held a week ago Thursday?”

“Yes, that’s correct. That same day, I spoke with the registrar to see if he knew where the missing items could be. You must know that the registrar was Alfred Findley, who sadly was found dead the morning after the gala.”

“I was informed of that,” he said.

We both paused for a moment, and then I went on. “I also spoke to our head librarian and to the employee who is currently cataloging that collection. When neither of them could shed any light on the whereabouts of the missing items, I felt compelled to communicate the problem to the vice president for collections and to our president. They said that they would look into it.”

“I see.” James checked his notes. “Did you speak with anyone else about this?”

“No. I felt that any official action should be taken by someone higher up the ranks than I am, and the president agreed with me. I’m not directly responsible for the collections. I merely reported what I had been told.”

“Why would this board member come to you rather than go straight to the top?”

“We had worked together on some projects, so she knew me. Maybe she didn’t want to make a fuss and thought it could be handled at a lower level. Or maybe I was just the first person she came to. I really can’t tell you.” No one could say that I had had any sort of special relationship with Marty before all this came up.