Fundraising The Dead

CHAPTER 15

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.

“Your title is director of development. Is that correct?”

I nodded.

“What exactly does that mean?”

“I am responsible for raising funds to support the activities of the Society, through grants-government, foundation, corporate-and individual contributions. I also supervise the membership coordinator and the database manager. And I manage the public events, such as the gala. We hold a couple of major events each year, and a number of minor ones.”

“And you have been here how long?”

“Just about five years.”

“Who do you report to?”

“The president-oh, and the board, at least indirectly. If you look at our organizational chart, I’m below our vice presidents, but I am a department manager.” This whole thing felt weirder and weirder. I was playing a role in a play, pretending this was the first time I had said anything about this, much less met Agent Morrison. If I were really clueless, what would my next line be? “Am I allowed to ask any questions here?”

James looked at me directly. “You can ask. I’ll answer if I can.” He didn’t smile.

“Do you have reason to believe that there actually are things missing? That it’s not just our own confused filing system?”

He stared out the window behind me, mulling over my questions. At least, I hoped he was mulling them over. For all I could tell, he was doing the times tables or trying to remember if he’d picked up his dry cleaning-his face certainly didn’t reveal anything. Finally he spoke.

“I’d have to be more familiar with your internal workings to make a judgment about that. At this time, I am responding to a formal complaint from an interested party who appears to be credible.”

“What happens now?”

“I’ll speak with the staff, check for any criminal records among them, and review your collections management procedures. If I identify any items that are not where they should be, I would investigate beyond the confines of this institution.”

“You, or a whole herd of agents?” The idea of expanding the search made me nervous. I wondered whether I should say something about Rich’s disclosure to me about his past, or Marty’s disclosure about Alfred’s record, but I decided not to stir anything up. If he was a good agent, he’d already know about both, or would find out soon enough.

“Just me, for now. If I think I need help, I can call in others.”

An awful thought struck me. “Is this public information? I mean, do you have to announce that we are under investigation?”

He looked at me curiously. “Why?”

“Because it would make my job a whole lot harder. I’m supposed to be raising money, remember? People have to believe that we’re doing our jobs preserving their history-not letting it walk out under our noses or misplacing it.” I restrained myself from saying losing it.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” he said. “Actually, until we determine that a theft has occurred, it isn’t actually news. We’ll just have to see.”

I gave him a weak smile. “I guess that will have to do, right? Anything else you need from me?”

He stood up. “Thank you, Ms. Pratt. You’ve been most helpful. Your president suggested that you could provide me with a staff list and perhaps a brief sketch of individual responsibilities-who has access to what, for instance.”

“Our VP of collections, Latoya Anderson, would have a better handle on that end of things.”

Imperturbably he said, “Mr. Worthington thought you might have a better overview of the institution as a whole, and what roles various staff members play.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, but it was true. Since I wrote grants for all and any purposes, from building repairs to scanning equipment to staff salaries, I talked to almost everyone in the building on a regular basis, and I prowled the halls and the stacks. Far more than Charles ever did-he seldom ventured from his elegant office to mingle with the hoi polloi.

“Certainly. Will you be around for a bit longer? I can call up a staff list and add the sort of detail you might find useful. And do you need a tour of the building?”

“I would appreciate that. Why don’t you take care of that while I speak with the collections person?”

“Of course,” I said graciously. “I’ll have it ready when you finish with Latoya.”

He made a silent exit, and from the hurried scuffling outside my door I wondered just how many people had been listening to our conversation. But I had to assume that was Agent James’s intent-and that word of the investigation would spread throughout the building with lightning speed.