Let's Play Dead (18 page)

I sat back in my chair, mildly baffled. If this was about the Society, he could have met me here, but his tone suggested it was not about the two of us, whatever
we
were. Something about the missing collection items? But again, he wouldn’t be coy about that. Ergo, it had to be something about the Let’s Play problem. Had something changed since the last time we had met? At that point I ran out of deductions and resolved to wait until we got together to think about it further. I turned my attention back to the agenda for the Executive Committee meeting.

Collections: acquisitions were on indefinite hold, both because of a shortage of funds and because we didn’t have a registrar to catalog anything right now. Membership: holding steady for the moment, but would members renew when the time came? Fundraising: on hold. Shelby seemed competent, but she wasn’t yet up to speed on the inner workings of our organization, and that would take time. Right now I felt like a nurse, trying to soothe everyone and keep them calm. Not to mention, keep our name out of the press, at least in any negative way.

So I did what I knew I could do—ran numbers, assembled information, talked briefly to staff members, and tried to cobble together reports that were accurate, short, and as optimistic as I could make them. I’d only roughed out a few before I had to leave to meet James—luckily he’d picked a spot just down the street.

James was waiting at a table and stood when he spotted me. I tried to gauge his expression: I was reading
cautiously welcoming
. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he said.

“Thank you for picking a convenient location.” He held out my chair and I sat. “So, what’s this about? And why so formal?”

A waiter appeared. James ordered coffee, and I followed suit. When the server had left, James began, “I know I told you that there was no way I could involve myself or the agency in what happened at Let’s Play.” He sighed. “Turns out, there may be a reason for the FBI to take an interest after all.”

“Oh really?” I racked my brain for a list of the FBI’s responsibilities and couldn’t find
children’s museums with electric hedgehogs
there.

“What do you know about Arabella’s husband?”

Only what Marty had told me, but I wasn’t going to mention that. “Next to nothing. I know that she was married a long time ago and had one child—in fact, I’ve met her daughter, Caitlin. She’s head of exhibits at Let’s Play. The husband’s been out of the picture for years, I gather. All that was long before my time. Why do you ask?”

James stared pensively over my head. “Arabella’s husband, Nolan Treacy, was Irish-born. He was active in raising funds in Boston for the IRA, back in the eighties. And he was a member of the local electrician’s union.”

I sat back, somewhat stunned. It took me a few moments to line up the pieces: IRA meant terrorism, which is why James finally had reason to be sitting in front of me talking about it. I decided to start with the simple stuff. “I thought the IRA was dead, or at least dormant.”

“Yes and no. The leadership in Ireland has backed off the violence, but there are still some Irish-Americans who have had a hard time letting go. Things were very heated in the eighties, when Nolan was living here. Problem is, we don’t know where he stands now. It could be that he’s one of the ones who don’t want to give up the fight.”

“Isn’t it kind of a stretch, to connect Irish extremists with an accident at a small Philadelphia museum?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. In fact, probably. But the connection is there—a straight line from Arabella to a subversive group with Philadelphia ties. We have to at least consider it. That’s our job.”

“So you’re on the case?” This time I smiled.

“Looks like it.” He smiled back.

This was encouraging, except for one troubling fact. “Why are you telling me this?”

“For one thing, I’m telling you that I’m involved, so you don’t trip over me.”

“But I’m not involved!”

“But you know Arabella.”

“Are you going to talk to her?”

“Of course. In fact, we already have. She says she hasn’t heard from her ex in years, and that’s fine with her. I gather their parting was less than amicable.”

“He walked away and left her to pick up the pieces, including financially.” I spoke before I had time to think.

James was quick to react. “And how do you know this?”

“Marty.”

He sighed again. “Of course my cousin would stick her nose in. Why am I not surprised?”

“Hey, all she knew about was Arabella’s side. She didn’t say anything about Irish radicals.”

“I suppose not. If it’s not a Philadelphia family, she’s not interested.”

“Do you doubt what Arabella told you? About a clean break?”

“I have no reason to doubt it,” James said carefully. “But her profile at the place might have planted an idea in our boy Nolan’s head.”

“Why? He wants to heat things up again for the IRA? Why here, why now? Or he’s got a long-standing grudge against Arabella? Marty said he dumped her, rather than the other way around. He envies her success? It all seems kind of far-fetched. Wait—are there hedgehogs in Ireland? Maybe he can’t stand to see them exploited.”

James did his best to suppress a smile but finally gave up the effort. “I hadn’t considered the hedgehog angle, but I’ll take it under advisement.”

“You do that. Or, wait—maybe he had an affair with Hadley, years ago, and gave her the whole hedgehog idea, and she wouldn’t give him credit and now he’s taking revenge.”

James shook his head. “Nell, I know stranger things have happened, and we have to look at all sides of this, but remember that someone died at Let’s Play.”

My laughter drained away quickly. “I know, and I don’t take that lightly. But the whole thing seems so odd. Why go after a beloved and harmless institution?”

James sat back in his chair. “From a political perspective it makes sense. People expect attacks on major institutions, like government or the military. But hit them where they don’t expect it, go after the safe, ordinary places, and it really rattles them. It’s effective and simple.”

“I hadn’t looked at it like that, but you’re right. What a sad commentary. And if it had been a child who was injured or killed, it would have been so much worse.”

“Exactly.” We both fell silent for a few moments.

“Was there anything else?” I’m not sure what answer I hoped for.

“Not right now. Nell,” he began, fumbling for words, “I’d like to get together with you again, but can we get through this thing first?”

“The electric hedgehog case? All right. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, too—there’s an Executive Committee meeting tonight, the first since I took over, and I’m still looking for a registrar so we can get back to reviewing our collections.”

“I see you’ve filled a couple of positions.”

“How do you know that?”

“For one thing, a young male voice keeps answering your phone. And I assume, since you’re a competent fundraiser, that you made it a priority to fill your empty position ASAP?”

“Right on both counts, although it was the other way around. Shelby Carver is the new me—she came through a human resources ad. And she found Eric Marston—he’s the voice on the phone. So far, so good, although it’s only been a week or so. I’m more worried about filling the registrar’s position. That requires a different level of skills, and I’m not sure how far news of our recent troubles have spread.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, in this job market.”

“Marty said she’d help. I hope it’s not another relative, but I guess I can’t complain if she comes up with a good candidate. And I know she cares about the Society.”

“It’ ll all work out.” James stood up. “I’ve got to get back to the office.”

“So do I. Let me know if you learn anything else.”

“If I can.”

Back at my desk, I dug into those reports again. Luckily
most of the Executive Committee members were busy people, and they appreciated brevity. I hoped it would be a short meeting, and at least I had no catastrophes to report, no crises to resolve. Just business as usual, as we slid into the new calendar year.

I had just gotten my head back into report mode when Eric called out, “Ms. Heffernan is on the phone for you.”

“Thanks, Eric. I’ll pick up.” I lifted my handset. “Hi, Arabella. Is everything all right?”

“No new disasters, if that’s what you mean. Can you come out and play for a little while?”

For a moment I wondered if I’d heard her correctly. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m just so tired of dust and paint smells and noise, and I need to get out of my office because the pesky phone keeps ringing. How does lunch at the Reading Terminal Market sound?”

My mouth started watering immediately. I was torn, but I knew that the reports would still be sitting here after lunch. “Wonderful. Can I meet you there?”

“Noonish? I thought I’d walk over—I can really use the exercise. How about we meet at the corner by the tunnel?”

“Sounds good to me. See you then!” I’d walk over, too, which would let me feel less guilty about indulging in lunch. And maybe I could pick up some good stuff to take home with me. Even though it was only a few blocks away, I seldom went to the Market, and I missed it. I welcomed Arabella’s impromptu suggestion.

The Reading Terminal Market is one of Philadelphia’s most enduring institutions. When the Reading Railroad became the largest railway in the country in 1892, the Market opened next to the imposing bulk of the arched train shed. The above-ground trains are long gone, and the train shed is part of the Pennsylvania Convention Center now, but the Market continues to thrive, providing a magnificent array of vegetables, meats, fish, prepared food, and a whole lot more. There are quite a few Amish vendors, mixed in with Asian ones now, and a smattering of names that have been in place for decades. The place is almost always crowded, as both urban and suburban shoppers pass through on their way to and from home and work. Why did I always forget how much I loved the place?

Arabella was waiting on the corner when I crossed Market Street and scurried down the block. Despite the pale sunshine and brisk breeze, she looked warm and happy, her cheeks glowing like apples. “Hi, Nell!” she called out gaily as I approached. “I’m so glad you could make it! I know you must be busy.”

“I am, but I needed to get out and clear my head as much as you do. Where shall we eat?”

“Ooh, I love the Down Home Diner.”

One of my favorites, too. “Sounds good to me. Let’s get inside before my ears freeze off.”

We made our way quickly to the nearest door in the tunnel and ducked inside. A young waiter held up two fingers; we nodded and followed him to a booth, where we sat and shrugged off our winter coats. After we’d given our orders—chunky sandwiches and some of their outstanding fries, along with coffee—I sat back and sighed with anticipation.

“I’m so glad you thought of this. How are things going? Will you be able to open the exhibit on time?” I hated to cast a damper on Arabella’s mood, but the problems at Let’s Play had to be weighing on her mind.

Arabella didn’t appear too upset at my question. “I think so. We were just putting on the finishing touches when the . . . incident occurred, so I think the schedule is holding.”

“That’s good news. Do you think people will be reluctant to visit, given . . . what’s happened?” I noticed that we were both talking in euphemisms.

“I doubt it. You don’t have children, do you?” When I shook my head, she went on. “Many of our visitors are too young to have any grasp of what’s happened.”

Not so their parents, I thought, but kept silent. Arabella seemed very matter-of-fact about a death in her building, but she did have a business to run. “Hadley Eastman stopped by the other day,” I said.

Arabella made a face. “That woman! I’m sorry I ever agreed to work with her. What did she want from you?”

“Somehow she got the idea that I’d pointed a finger at her for this accident.”

Arabella sighed. “I’m sorry—that’s probably my fault. She came in and started yelling at me, and I just said whatever I could to make her stop. I might have mentioned that you thought Hadley could have been the target.”

Having faced the wrath of Hadley, I wasn’t surprised. “I forgive you. So she’s not easy to work with?”

Arabella gave a ladylike snort. “I won’t say what I’d like to, but to put it politely, she’s demanding, arbitrary, and self-centered. I could go on, but I won’t. It’s funny, in a way—she’s the complete opposite of a hedgehog, shy little creatures that they are. And Harriet is so sweet!”

“But Hadley
is
prickly.”

That brought a laugh from Arabella. “That she is.”

Our sandwiches arrived, and we dove in with enthusiasm—particularly for the accompanying fries, which were best eaten hot. When I slowed down, I asked, “How did you two connect in the first place? Did you approach her with the idea of an exhibition?”

“I did not! Of course, you know how long exhibit planning takes. About two years ago her publisher approached us.”

“Really?”

Arabella nodded. “We set up a meeting, and her editor and the publisher’s publicist were there. They said they wanted Hadley to do more outreach to children, and they thought we’d be a good match, since she’s from this area. I knew
of
her, of course—we even carried her books in the gift shop—but we’d never met. So I said, sure, let’s do it. I thought it would be a good draw, and I loved the books. Harriet’s such an appealing figure.”

“And then you met Hadley?”

“Looking back, I think she was on her best behavior the first couple of times we met. She was pretty quiet and let her editor do most of the talking—at least until we signed the contracts. Then she showed her true colors. She wanted this, she wasn’t happy with that, everything should be bigger—particularly her name.”