Fundraising the Dead (28 page)

Libby spoke in her lazy drawl. “Why, Charles, what do you mean?”
Come on, Libby, don’t overplay it.

“Darling, I’ve never met a woman like you. You are amazing—smart, funny, and sexy. Damn sexy.” There followed another interlude of inarticulate sounds. Then Charles’s voice again, heavy, rough.

“Marry me, Elizabeth. We could have a wonderful life together.”

“Oh, Charles. There’s nothing I’d like more. But . . .”

Slither—the sound of silk. And was that a zipper?

“But what? You’re free, I’m free. We love each other. What more is there?”

“Oh, Charles, I do love you. But . . . I’m afraid. Of what other people might think. That you’re marrying me for my money. You know—you’re so handsome and successful, but I’m . . . a little older than you are, and I know what my mirror tells me. People will talk. I know I shouldn’t care what they think, but I do.” I looked at Marty again, and I think we both would have burst out laughing if we weren’t afraid of missing something. Libby certainly had a flair for this.

“Let them talk. You know what you feel, and what I feel. It’s no one’s business but our own. Who are they to matter?”

“Oh, but, Charles, they do. You haven’t been here very long—you don’t know what a provincial town Philadelphia can be. And it’s my home—they’re my friends.”

A brief silence. Was Charles weighing his chances? Would he play the next card? I didn’t dare breathe.

“Elizabeth, I know it’s in poor taste to talk about such things, but I want to assure you that I’m not without resources. You wouldn’t have any reason to be ashamed.”
Come on, Charles, come on. We want details!

“Well, darling,” Libby began, with just the right note of skepticism, “I know you have a nice home and nice things, but . . . that’s not the same as
money
. After all, you work.” The contempt in Libby’s voice when she said “work” was perfectly calibrated.

A silence that seemed somehow colder. Maybe Charles wasn’t used to meeting any resistance to his wooing. Finally he chuckled—an odd sound from him. “You’re perfectly right, my dear. I must be honest with you. I don’t flaunt it, but I assure you that my net worth is in the seven-figure range. Do you need to see documentation?”

Ah. Well, there we were. He had the money.

“Oh, darling. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to imply that you were taking advantage of me. And I’m so relieved. But a girl can’t be too careful. I had to ask.”

“And I respect you for it. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Thank you, Charles.” Another interlude as Libby soothed Charles’s wounded pride. Marty studied her nails. I refolded my napkin several times and wondered if I still remembered how to make an origami swan. After a few minutes, I broke the silence.

“Well, we’re halfway there,” I whispered. “Charles is claiming to have a lot more money than James seems to think. Do you think Libby is going to get any more, or will she get swept away by passion?”

“Don’t worry about Libby—she’s very focused. She’s just paving the way.”

Right. From what I was hearing, that part was going very well. No words emerged for a while, although I wouldn’t say things were silent. Finally Charles spoke.

“Wouldn’t we be more comfortable upstairs?”

“Brilliant idea.”

The settee creaked as it was relieved of the weight of two bodies. Footsteps padded away, presumably toward the stairs. Then the sounds faded . . . and resumed again, from the bedroom transmitter. I hoped Libby planned to do a little talking before launching into any other activities.

There was a squeak as they sat on the bed. “Oh, Charles, marriage . . . it’s such a big step. I’ve been there before, as you know, and so have you. So many details—children to tell, houses to sell. My place in the city, this place, my country house. That house might be much more comfortable for the two of us. Unless, of course, the commute would be too much for you? But then, you wouldn’t need to keep working at all, would you? At that tatty little place?”

Another silence. From what I could hear, Charles was removing his clothes, one piece at a time, and hanging up each piece. Shoes neatly aligned in the closet, pants on their hanger, shirt and socks in the hamper. Libby, on the other hand, was not moving.

Charles spoke again. “Darling, you have on far too many clothes. Here, let me help you.” Which he proceeded to do, stopping to hang up Libby’s dress along the way. “There, much better.”

“Oh, Charles.”

“Darling.”

Marty signaled the hovering waiter. “Could you get us, uh, some ice water?” She looked at me, and I nodded emphatically. “And some coffee?”

I didn’t know whether I should remove the earbuds, out of respect for what we knew was going on, or whether to worry about missing something crucial. After a couple of minutes, I was convinced that they were beyond words, at least temporarily. I dangled the earpieces around my neck and looked at Marty.

“Maybe she’s waiting until . . . after?”

Marty nodded. “That makes some sense. Men’re a lot more likely to talk then, don’t you think? All their defenses are down. Unless, of course, they just fall asleep.” She looked at her watch. “How long ...”

“Fifteen minutes,” I said promptly. “I’ll put a five on it.”

“I’ll take twenty minutes,” Marty snapped back. “You may know Charles, but I know Libby.”

“We’re awful, aren’t we?” I giggled. She smiled her agreement.

It was, in fact, eighteen minutes before the rhythmic noises of the bedsprings ceased. There was heavy breathing again, and then it slowed until it approached a normal rate. I handed Marty a five-dollar bill. “You were closer.”

“Oh, Charles,” Libby cooed, “that was wonderful.”

I swallowed a laugh.

“You bring out the best in me, darling,” he replied, his voice rough. “And we could be doing this much more often, if you marry me.”

“Oh, Charles, I’m so tempted. But wouldn’t you be bored?”

“Sweetheart, you could never bore me. I’d love to grow old with you. But ...”

“Yes, Charles?” I wondered if it was possible to hear eyelashes fluttering.

“May I be honest with you?”

“Of course, Charles.”
That’s right, Libby, don’t overdo it. Nice restraint.

“Elizabeth, I want to be worthy of you. So I want to share something with you, something I’ve never told another woman. I don’t believe my career is over—I never pretended that being president of the Society was the highest pinnacle. No, I want something more. I want to leave my mark in a bigger way.”

Marty and I exchanged a glance, and she cocked one eyebrow at me.

“And I’m sure you could, Charles, but whatever do you mean?”

Marty and I stopped breathing.

“Elizabeth, I have a plan, something dear to my heart, something I’ve been thinking about for a long time, since the beginning of my career. I’d like to share it with you, and I’d like you to be a part of it.”

“Tell me, Charles,” Libby purred.

“I want to create something new, a multidisciplinary center for the study of American history—sort of a nexus where all the resources come together: museum-quality artifacts, original sources, modern references, state-of-the-art technology, the best academic minds, young scholars in training. Nothing like this has ever been done. Each discipline has been locked into its own narrow concerns, afraid to step outside of their box. I want to break out of the box, create something new, bold, exciting. Can you see my vision?”

“You make it sound wonderful, Charles. But—what does this mean?”

Charles’s voice swelled with a different kind of passion. “A new center, combining the best of the old and the new. Right here in Philadelphia. And where better? This is where our country was born, and the great leaders walked our streets, talking together to shape this nation. We have everything we need right here—but it will take someone with vision to pull it all together, and I believe I am that person. And you can be part of it. We would be an incredible team, darling. What do you think?”

“Charles, I think that’s a wonderful idea. And I can see how excited you are. Mmmm, very excited. Come here.”

I pulled off my earphones again and inhaled deeply, as did Marty.

“Oh . . . my . . . God,” I breathed. I had known that Charles was ambitious. He was, at least once upon a time, a good historian, an honest scholar. He never falsified anything on his résumé—the search committee checked his academic degrees and his references, of course, and some of the board members asked around. But this? I certainly hadn’t seen this coming. “We were right, but we didn’t see the big picture. Charles isn’t doing this just for the money—the money is a means to an end. He’s doing it to build a national shrine to Charles Worthington. Is this even possible, or is he crazy?” I looked at Marty in appeal.

“It looks to me like Charles wants more than the leadership of a small and fusty place like the Society,” Marty began slowly. “He wants a bigger stage—an institution that would shape the direction of modern historical interpretation, with himself at the head. And, as you well know, that would take money. Lots of money. That explains a lot.” She stopped and looked at me to see how I was reacting.

Actually, I felt as though my head was full of Jiffy Pop. Little kernels of doubt that I had nudged out of the way when Charles and I were seeing each other now started popping, expanding rapidly. “So he’s got whatever money he collected along the way, from all those objects he stole and sold at his last few jobs, not to mention some or all of the five million dollar’s worth of items he’s skimmed from the Society’s collections. But five million plus whatever won’t be enough, so he’s going to marry the rest of it.”

“
And
give himself an entree into top society in town—the ones with money. That matters, too, around here.”

“Hell and damnation. He certainly took a long view when he planned. He’s smart, but he’s also rotten. Do you think we’ve got enough on tape?”

“I know I don’t want to listen to any more, that’s for sure. I’ll give the guy credit—he’s got imagination.” She paused. “And stamina.”

I started giggling and then gave up and laughed out loud. “I do hope Libby is enjoying this as much as we are.”

“Libby always manages to get what she wants. Good person to have on our side. From what we’ve heard, I’d say she’s having a wonderful time.” She punched the Off button on our little box and sat back. “Well, I’m starving now, but I’m pretty sure they closed the kitchen down a while ago—they only let us stay because I gave the staff a whopping tip. What say we adjourn to my place and call Jimmy?”

“Marty, it’s midnight!”

“Oh, fine, you wet blanket. I guess it can wait until morning. I don’t think Charles will have the energy to do any more harm tonight.”

I went home, but I couldn’t sleep. I hated the Charles
we had uncovered—user, thief, and apparently megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur.

I still couldn’t see where Alfred Findley had fit in. The stakes were higher than I had thought, and Alfred’s meddling would certainly have been a threat to Charles’s grand plans. But Charles had a good alibi; I was even part of it. And Alfred’s murder seemed carelessly planned. Unlike everything else Charles had done for, what—decades?—it seemed almost spontaneous, although the murderer had gotten away with it so far. Of course, Charles had enough money to hire whatever muscle he needed . . . and there were the pieces that Marty had seen in Alfred’s apartment—somebody had to have planted those.

Marty called at eight Saturday morning. “Jimmy’s coming by at ten. Can you get here by then?” She sounded subdued. Maybe she hadn’t slept, either.

“Sure. I’ll meet you at your place.” I was already ensconced in one of Marty’s armchairs when James arrived. Marty went to fetch him at the door, and they were talking intently as they came down the hall to the back of the house. He stopped dead when he saw me, sprawled comfortably.

“James, how nice to see you again,” I said amiably, raising my coffee mug in salute.

“Nell,” he said neutrally, his eyes wary. “Marty, you didn’t mention Nell would be here.”

Marty laid a hand on his arm. “Now, Jimmy, don’t get huffy. We have a little surprise for you. Here, I’ll take your coat. Get yourself some coffee and sit down.”

He gave me an enigmatic look, then finally shrugged and took off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, poured himself a cup of coffee, and draped himself on one of Marty’s chairs. “Good boy,” Marty said. She glanced briefly at me before beginning. “We have something we want you to listen to. A recording we made, of Elizabeth Farnsworth and Charles Worthington together.”

James put the cup down and sat up straight again. Uh-oh, Mr. Agent Man was back. “Wait a minute. That’s your old pal Libby, with Charles Worthington? You recorded them?”

“Yes, we did. Charles didn’t know about it, but Libby did. She’s been dating Charles for a while, and she was happy to go along with this. Yes, I know that it will never be admissible in a court of law. Don’t give me a lecture, Jimmy—we’re trying to help. And I think we’ve got something pretty big.”

He stared at us, one at a time, then shook his head. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I do know you’re messing with a federal investigation. That is
not
a good idea.”

“Jimmy, just shut up and listen, will you? You can figure out what you want to do to us later.”

She pushed the Play button on the recorder, and the familiar sounds of Libby and Charles issued forth, loud and clear. I watched James’s face as he listened intently, albeit with a growing look of distaste. His expression brightened when we got to the part about Charles’s net worth. As the happy couple decided to go upstairs, Marty pressed Stop.

“So, what do you think?” she asked brightly.

He thought for a moment before speaking. “I think that you have some excellent sound equipment there. I think this is all entirely illegal and I shouldn’t be listening to it. And I think we’d better look a little harder at Charles’s financial records—there must be a dummy organization or an offshore account, or something where he’s been hiding the extra money, because it’s not in any of his regular accounts.”