Fundraising the Dead (19 page)

“You certainly disappeared quickly yesterday,” I began.

“Ah, yes—I had a previous engagement, and it seemed prudent to attend. I take it you met with Mr. Morrison?”

“Yes, he stopped by after he’d seen you, and I gave him a tour of the building. He seems competent. So Marty called in the FBI?”

Charles regarded me across the gleaming wooden surface. “When I spoke with Marty last week, I urged her to allow us to handle this in-house, at least as far as a preliminary review goes. Particularly in light of Alfred’s recent death, which complicates our access to collections records. However, it is clear that she feels strongly about her family’s papers, and that has made her a bit precipitous.”

Yeah, sure
, I thought.
She gave you a chance to act, and you blew it.
I wondered just how long Charles would have stalled if Marty hadn’t acted.

Charles was still talking. “But I’m sure the matter will be resolved quickly in the capable hands of Agent Morrison.” He straightened his Mont Blanc pen, the only item on his desk except for the phone. “In any event, I’m calling a senior managers’ meeting for this afternoon so that we can review procedures and discuss how we want to handle this situation. I’ll see you then—two o’clock?”

Apparently I was dismissed. “Of course.”

When the senior staff met at two, nobody had any brilliant insights, and nobody confessed to the crime—or crimes. As I listened with one ear to Charles drone on in mellifluous tones, I wondered idly whether this was considered one crime, over a long period, or a whole series of separate crimes? Would the FBI file a report on each item? The paperwork must be daunting. Imagine trying to track down each item when there could be thousands of them. I tried to refocus on the meeting. Everyone was properly bewildered, shocked, hurt, confused, and so on. Charles repeated his earlier lecture on cooperating with the authorities and not speaking to anyone else about the disappearances. He also told Latoya to accelerate the cataloging process, although without Alfred I couldn’t see what she could do right now. It would take time to advertise for his position and fill it, and to bring that person up to speed on the computer system. And would we have to disclose to that person just what a mess he or she would be stepping into?

I thanked the fundraising gods that there were no major grant proposals due before the new year, so I didn’t have to craft any creative language to conceal the fact that we were getting robbed and we didn’t even know how or by whom. I started fantasizing about writing proposals requesting support for a high-tech security system, using the documented disappearance of all those items as an argument that we really, really needed the system. Charles finally sent us on our way like a group of chastened schoolchildren, and we went about our various chores in a semidaze. I felt frustrated, foolish, and stupid. How could we have been so blind, and for so long? And what was it going to mean for the Society?

I got home earlier than usual—I’d felt I could legiti
mately catch the early train, especially since I wasn’t getting anything done at work—but it was still dark by this time of year. I’d forgotten to leave any lights on at home, so the house was dark, too. The world was conspiring to match my mood.
Get a grip, Nell,
I told myself. I hung up my coat, turned on lights in the living room and kitchen, and poured myself a glass of wine. I stood for a while in front of the open refrigerator, trying to find anything that looked like a potential meal. Inspiration did not strike, so I rummaged in my cabinet for a bag of dry tortellini and a jar of tomato sauce. I put a pot of water on to boil and went to my bedroom to change into something comfortable, a pair of old sweat pants and a matching sweatshirt. I took my wine along, and had seriously reduced the level in the glass by the time I was dressed.

When I came back downstairs the water was boiling, so I dumped in the pasta, then wandered aimlessly around my living room, picking up stray newspapers and magazines and tossing them into the trash. I was restless, and I had to admit I was upset. I loved my job, and I loved the Society. Yet someone had been rifling through its collections for his or her own nefarious ends, and thus threatening both my job and the institution. That made me mad.

I realized I was crumpling a week-old newspaper in my hands, and made a conscious effort to relax. Charles and Latoya were working within the Society to get to the bottom of this; Marty and James were working from their own end and had brought me in to bridge the gap. Things were under control—weren’t they? I stared at my own little collection of treasured objects, arrayed on a shelf—things I had collected over the years from flea markets and antique stores, not for their value but because I liked them.

Then I took a harder look. Nestled among my tchotchkes was something I had never seen before, a charming silver snuffbox. I picked it up and looked at it: eighteenth century, I could tell from the hallmarks. Nice quality. And completely unfamiliar, unless I had already succumbed to early memory loss.

No, this was not mine. I thought for a moment, then began a systematic search of the rest of my house. After half an hour I had collected no fewer than six other items in various locations, all small and exquisite and no doubt valuable. And not mine.

I felt a queasy mixture of fear and anger. I carefully drained my pasta, heated the sauce in the microwave, tossed them together in a bowl, and sat down at my table to think, with the bibelots arrayed in front of me. They ranged from the silver snuffbox to a small printed pamphlet, its paper foxed, bearing a date of 1685, to a pocket-size leather-bound book whose contents were less interesting than the inscription inside—it apparently had been a gift from Benjamin Franklin to a friend.

Somebody had planted these pretty things in my house, I was sure. But who? And why?

Who had had opportunity to bring these items into my home? I had few visitors—except for Rich and Charles the past weekend. When Rich had arrived, I had gone to the kitchen to make him coffee; when Charles had shown up later, I had spent some time in the shower, scrubbing off paint so I wouldn’t sully his borrowed Jaguar—which would have left either of them with enough time to plant the pretty antique trinkets I had found scattered through my house. All the suspicious items were small enough to have been concealed easily, and either one could have carried them into the house, just the way so many people tried to sneak stuff out of the Society reading room.

Were these extremely valuable items? I’d guess no. Could they be traced to the Society’s collections? Maybe, maybe not—but if somebody wanted to identify me as light-fingered, they’d have to be able to prove it, so the odds were good that these items would show up in the online catalog, with definitive descriptions.

So someone was setting me up. Rich or Charles? Or someone else entirely? My security was laughable, but I didn’t have much that anyone would want to steal. Who on earth buys locks to keep people from
leaving
stolen goods in their house?

But why would anyone plant stolen items here? Did anyone really think that trying to pin the Society thefts on me would work? One look at my bank account would make the idea laughable. No way was I pawning trinkets, valuable or otherwise.

I needed help to make sense of this. With surprising calm I went to my purse and fished out the card that Agent James had given me, which included a cell phone number. I punched it in, and he answered on the third ring. “Morrison,” he said curtly.

I almost hung up then, but he’d already seen my caller ID. “Agent Morrison. James. I think I have a bit of a problem. Is there any way you could come over to my place?”

“This is related to the thefts at the Society?”

“I think so.”

“We can’t do it at your office in the morning?”

“No. There’s something you need to see here.”

“All right. Address?”

I gave him the necessary information and hung up. I supposed that I should be flattered: I call an FBI agent after hours and he takes me at my word that what I have to say is important. Now I didn’t know whether to hope it actually was or not.

He arrived fifteen minutes later, which left me wondering just where he lived. He rang the doorbell and I let him in. “Thank you for coming. Would you like coffee?”

“Whatever. What is it you wanted to show me?”

I guessed that coffee was out of the question. He was a very direct man. “Okay, as you see, I’m not the world’s greatest housekeeper, and I don’t always look too hard at this place. But tonight I noticed something, some items scattered here and there that don’t belong to me.”

“What kind of items?” I had his interest now.

“Nice, small antique items. Items that would fit neatly in a pocket. Items that might have come from the Society’s collections.”

“Show me.”

I pointed at the collection assembled on my table, noting where I had discovered the items. Or at least the ones I knew about. For all I knew, if I dug any further I might find lots more.

James gave them a cursory look, then said, “Maybe we should have that coffee now.” He watched me with unnerving silence as I brewed coffee and poured two mugs.

“How do you take it?”

“Black.”

It figured. I handed him one mug, added sugar to mine, then nodded toward the living room. He turned and sat down at my dining table, and I joined him. Without preamble I said, “I had two visitors last weekend: Rich Girard and Charles Worthington. It’s the first time either one has been here.”

James nodded, once. “I thought it might be something like that.”

“Then you’d better tell me why.”

He sipped from his mug as though he had all the time in the world. “Good coffee.” He took another sip. “I think someone’s trying to set you up, and that someone is going to drop a little hint suggesting that we should take a closer look at you. And you know, if we hadn’t had our little chat at Marty’s, I think that could have been a real problem for you.”

I laughed incredulously. “Has somebody also deposited a million dollars into my bank account? Just to make me look really guilty?”

He shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

“You mean you already checked? Then maybe I used my ill-gotten gains to buy a lot of gold and buried it in the backyard. Want a shovel?” I was really steaming now.

“Nell, calm down. I don’t believe you had anything to do with the thefts. We’ve been checking everybody’s records as a matter of routine.” He paused as if searching for words. “If, say, your employer, whose record is spotless, suggested that you might have a motive for taking valuable and easily sold items from the collections, we would have to take that seriously. You certainly have had opportunity, and, surprise, we would have turned up suspicious items in your possession.”

I was stunned. Charles? If he was trying to set me up, that meant that
he
was the one stealing things from the Society . . . which was ridiculous. He was the leader of a prestigious institution; he made a healthy salary; he had come with glowing recommendations from his prior places of employ. Why would he do it?

“Can you tell me about your relationship with Charles Worthington?” James asked.

Oh, hell. No way was it going to look good if I said I’d been sleeping with my boss. But covering it up wouldn’t look good, either—somebody was bound to know something, or guess. Doris had. Even Marty had hinted at it. “We’ve been, uh, involved in a personal relationship since shortly after he arrived in town.”

James nodded once, and I guessed that he had already known or figured that out. “Thank you for being honest. I had reason to believe that, but you’ve saved us both a lot of time.”

“Thanks, I guess.” I wondered if Marty had tipped him off. “Look, he was new in town, I offered to help him learn the ins and outs of the Philadelphia community, and things just sort of went from there. Apparently we aren’t as close as I thought we were, though, if he’s the one who planted the items. But why implicate me, and why now?”

“Because you know about the thefts, and he knows you weren’t going to let it go easily. That’s probably a compliment.”

How nice of Charles to recognize that I had some moral fiber. “But if it was Charles, what did he hope to gain?”

James sat back in his chair and swallowed some coffee. “Let’s look at this hypothetically. The thefts have been discovered and acknowledged in-house, but it’s hard to pinpoint what has disappeared and when it happened. You’ve been there a few years, you’ve had plenty of opportunity, and your salary’s not terrific. That makes you a good scapegoat. Absent any real proof, it’s unlikely that there would have been any charges made—the Society has its reputation to consider, and they wouldn’t want the publicity. But you would probably have been fired, security would have been beefed up, and the thefts would have stopped.”

I could see his point. “But then Marty got pushy, so we had to go public, or semipublic, anyway, which meant Charles had to move quickly. So he tried to set me up to take the fall by planting this stuff. Is that what you’re saying?”