Fundraising The Dead

CHAPTER 16

As soon as James left I swiveled in my chair and stared at the computer screen. All right, first things first. I decided I needed to talk with Charles, so I stood up and marched purposefully to the president’s office. Doris was, as usual, standing, or rather sitting, guard.

“Is he in?” I said breezily, without breaking stride.

“No,” Doris replied with a small smirk. “He said he had a meeting to go to, and he won’t be back in the office today.”

Interesting. In his place, the first thing I would have done after an impromptu visit from an FBI agent would be to call an all-hands staff meeting and give them a clue as to what was going on, and ask them to cooperate fully. There was nothing worse than a lot of half truths and rumors floating around a small institution like ours, and it didn’t take much to poison the atmosphere. I wondered why Charles seemed to have beaten a hasty retreat instead.

“If he calls, will you tell him I need to speak to him?”

“Of course. I always give him his messages.” Doris turned away from me and resumed whatever it was she was typing. End of conversation, apparently.

“Thank you, Doris -I know you do.” I made my exit.

I went back to my office and put together a staff list as requested, cutting and pasting until each person had a paragraph or so describing his or her responsibilities, then added a copy of the organizational chart-who reported to whom, oversaw whom. I was just squaring up the stack when James reappeared in my doorway.

“Perfect timing!” I greeted him. “Here’s the material you wanted. Is there anyone else you were planning to talk to?”

“Not at this time. Let’s walk through the place. You can give me a sense of the layout.”

I stood up. “Fine. We can start at the top-we keep collections not accessible to the public on the third and fourth floors…” I kept up a running discussion as we walked to the elevator, got in, and I inserted my key in the fourth-floor slot. We stepped out on the top story. There were no lights on, but James laid a hand on my arm, and we stood still for a couple of seconds as he listened. No sounds of anyone moving around, either. It looked as though we were alone.

“Let’s start at one end and work our way back, and you can tell me what’s kept where,” he said.

“I’ll do what I can. As I’ve said, I’m not a collections person, so I have only a very general idea of how the collections are distributed. Let’s start in the back corner, over there.” I led him to the farthest point on the floor, a dim, dusty corner whose metal shelves were piled with large leather-bound ledger books from long-defunct companies. Then I lowered my voice. “Okay, do you really want the fifty-cent tour, or is there something else you want to talk about? Like why you’re here?”

He leaned back against the wall and broke a smile for the first time. “A little of each. I do want to scope the place out, get some idea of security and who has access to what. But I wanted to talk to you, too. You did well with that little charade downstairs-good reactions. Think everyone heard?”

“Thanks, and probably yes. I assumed that was your intention, when you left the door open. It’s a small place, and I’m sure those who weren’t eavesdropping in the hall will hear soon enough. So Marty got tired of waiting?”

“She told me she set a deadline and she’s sticking to it. By the way, your security sucks.”

I sighed. “I know. But there’s only so much money, and it doesn’t go very far. So we all pretend we don’t have a problem. But we do, don’t we?”

“Oh, yes.” He pulled out a sheaf of papers and waved it at me. “Alfred’s list.”

I nodded. “I bet he was surprised when he finally printed it out-when I first talked to him about it, I don’t think he anticipated the length of the list, or the nature of the items, as a whole. That’s probably why he sent a copy to Marty, too, in the first place.”

“He hadn’t communicated his concerns to anyone else? Before you, that is?”

I shook my head. “Not that I know of, beyond his regular monthly reports to Latoya. Alfred was a very thorough person, and I’m sure he wanted to be certain that the items had not merely been shifted. And he was probably afraid he’d be blamed.” I wasn’t sure if Marty had told James about Alfred’s kleptomania-but if he was a cousin, he probably knew already. “I can’t say when he would have pressed for action on his own, until Marty complained and I came to him and asked him directly.” Did that mean that somehow Marty and I had pushed someone into killing him? I didn’t like that thought.

“Hmm. How would you characterize the items on this list?”

“Remember that this is not my area of expertise. There’s a little bit of everything here. MSS refers to manuscripts. Ephemera are things like advertising flyers, things that were originally made to be discarded. Some of these notations refer to condition or location. But I think you can see what kind of a mess the recording system has been. Alfred had made great strides in imposing order, but there’s still a long way to go.”

James said carefully, “This list goes on for pages, and even I recognize some of the names attached to items here. You’re aware of the cumulative dollar value of the missing items?”

“I did a little research when I first saw the list, but I’m not really sure. We don’t usually think in terms of market value for the collections we own. They’re irreplaceable, for one thing, because many items are unique.”

“Well, I had some of my people look at the list yesterday. They said more or less the same thing you did, but for the purposes of our files, they suggested a total of roughly five million dollars.”

So I’d been right, which didn’t make me happy. Hearing it from an FBI agent made it seem all the more real-and shocking. I still had trouble getting my mind around the concept. Somebody had walked off with several million dollars’ worth of items from our collections? How could that have happened?

James stared over my head at the piles of musty volumes. “Let me review the time line here. Marty came to you on the seventh. You spoke to Alfred that same day, and he set about preparing a list of items he believed to be missing. He left that list on your desk that night, but you didn’t find it until the next day. By then, he was dead. He’d also mailed a copy to Marty. Is that accurate?”

I nodded.

“All right. What took place next?”

“Alfred died, which was something of a distraction, to put it mildly. And then I went to Latoya and described what he had told me, and then I told Charles. He said he and Latoya would handle it. That was Monday. He and Marty met on Tuesday.”

“Do you have any idea why he did not report this possible theft of significant proportions to the managing board of this institution?”

“I imagine that he wanted to make sure of his facts first.”

“I find it hard to believe that an institution that is based on collections has such a shaky grasp of exactly where its collections are.”

“I hate to say it, but it’s not unusual. I mean, think about it-we’ve been acquiring or inheriting things for over a century. The Society has gone through a lot of changes-the original building we occupied was replaced around 1900, and then there were additions after that, and improvements. It’s an ongoing process. We’ve been trying to put the records for some of the easier materials online, so that both we and the public will have better access to them, but at the rate we’re going, it’ll be about thirty years before we’re finished. And of course by then the technology will have changed again, and whatever we’re doing right now will no doubt be obsolete.”

“That’s what Marty told me.” He still didn’t look convinced.

“I know it seems hard to believe that we could be so careless, but from what I’ve heard, it’s to be expected. Look, we’ve got literally millions of items in our collections, and we’re talking about a tiny percentage that aren’t where they should be. Let me ask you: if you had to find a single piece of paper in your house, one that you hadn’t looked at for, oh, five years, how easy would it be for you? Then multiply it by a factor of a million, and maybe you’ll see our problem.”

He smiled reluctantly. “Point taken. You know quite a bit about this.”

“I know the general outlines. I told you-I write grant proposals to fund this sort of thing. And I know what the competition is like among our peer institutions. There are a lot of us in the same boat.”

“You’re not making my job any easier. All right, let’s look at this from a different side. How do people get access to the collections?”

“Apart from staff, you mean? Well, we have members who pay for a varying number of on-site visits. But they don’t get to use the stacks-they have to request the documents they need, and a staff member brings the material to them, in the reading room. The same goes for researchers, who pay by the day. And there is a paper trail for that; we know who has requested which items, so if they go missing, we know who to ask. That is, if they play by the rules-and we all know there are some people who don’t. But there are also some board members like Marty who pretty much have free rein of the place and can go anywhere.”

“Do you have much of a theft problem, day to day?” James seemed genuinely interested.

“To a small extent, but I don’t think any of this comes anywhere near the scale we’re talking about. That almost has to be an insider, doesn’t it?” I stared at him bleakly.

He ignored my question. “Do you search people or their bags on the way out of the building?”

I shook my head. “We don’t let them take their own bags into the collections areas, just pads and notes, and more recently laptops, but out of the case. We’ve talked about stepping up security at more than one board meeting.”

James changed tack. “What’s your staff turnover like?”

“This place has a good reputation, so a lot of people will work here for a year or two, to put it on their résumé or to help them get into grad school or library school. But they usually leave on good terms.”

“You said earlier that you’ve been here, what, five years?”

I nodded. “Yes, and that’s pretty long for this place. There are only a few people who have been around for any length of time-like our librarian Felicity Soames. And Alfred.”

“And your president has been here two years?”

I nodded again. “Going on three.”

“And he brought in some people when he came?”

“Yes-he did some reorganizing, and he created a couple of positions, but nothing sweeping. He inherited a well-run place, and he didn’t want to make changes just for the sake of putting his own stamp on it.”

“No disgruntled employees who have been dismissed?”

“None that I can think of. Oh, we’re not always one big happy family; there are people who complain, but that’s normal for any workplace, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” he said noncommittally. He pulled himself away from the wall. “Well, why don’t we finish our walk-through? What’s the square footage on each floor?”

We talked of neutral things like shelving and HVAC and lighting, and I realized I knew far more about the building than I had thought. I was happy that he didn’t seem critical, but listened with what appeared to be real interest. Or maybe that was just the official FBI manner, intended to elicit confidences. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t hiding anything.

I wondered if James noticed how empty the floor was. Of course, it was Monday, so there were no patrons downstairs demanding research materials, no staffers scuttling around with their shelving carts collecting them. The downside was that anyone could come up here and pocket whatever they wanted, without being observed-assuming they had access and knew where to look. As I had said: an insider.

I was startled by a scuffling, and then Rich emerged from behind a high tier of shelves, looking sheepish. “Hi, Nell.” His eyes darted to James.

James stepped forward. “Special Agent James Morrison. And you are?”

Rich’s eyes widened. “I’m, uh, Rich Girard. I work here.”

“You’re working on the Terwilliger Collection, right?”

I thought for a moment that Rich’s knees were going to give out, and I couldn’t say I blamed him for worrying. He glanced at me; I looked at James, who nodded. “It’s okay, Rich. Agent Morrison is looking into the problem with the Terwilliger Collection, at Marty’s request.”

Rich looked relieved, which in turn made me feel relieved, even as I wondered just how much of our conversation he had overheard. “Hey, if I can help you at all, let me know,” he said.

“I’ll do that. Ms. Pratt, shall we go down to the next level?”

“Of course. Let’s take the stairs.”

We ended the behind-the-scenes tour on the third floor, where Alfred had died. My steps faltered, and James was quick to notice. “I’m sorry-this was where it happened?”

I nodded, fighting to control my voice. “Yes. He was lying against that door there. I couldn’t open it from the other side.”

James said nothing, merely looking at the space-the high ceiling, the tiers of shelves. It was peculiarly silent, and dust motes danced in the few shafts of light that penetrated the protective paint-and dirt-on the high windows. Finally he said, “Thank you. I think I’ve seen enough. We can reach your office through that door?”

“Yes, it opens onto the hallway.” After another moment’s hesitation, I moved forward and opened it, stepping over the spot where Alfred had lain. After James had followed me, the door swung slowly, heavily shut. We were back in the realm of lights and noise and people, and I sighed in relief and turned to him. “Is there anything else you want to see? The reading and catalog rooms?”

“Not at this point. I may be back. Thank you for your help and for the list of employees.” He patted his jacket pocket.

“Then let me see you out. Security, you know.” I laughed weakly at my own pathetic joke. Talk about shutting the barn door after the horse had escaped.

“Of course.”

We didn’t speak as we were going down in the elevator, through the dim catalog room, the brighter and shinier lobby. As he reached for the door I looked furtively around before saying, “I can’t think of anyone here who acts like they’ve come up with an extra five million dollars over the past few years, or however long these thefts have been going on. I mean, we’re a pretty low-key group-no fancy cars, no flashy vacations.”

He considered that. “Maybe this person isn’t doing it for the money or doesn’t realize what the stuff is worth-he, or she, could be dumping it on the market for a fraction of its value. Or he could be a rabid collector, someone who just wants to have it, take it out, and look at it now and then.”

“Do people do that?”

“Sometimes. Do you remember the Isabella Stewart Gardner job, up in Boston, twenty years ago? High-value artwork was taken, and it hasn’t been seen since. Nobody could sell it openly, so you’ve got to figure that somewhere someone is enjoying a nice Rembrandt-very privately.”

I digested that for a moment. “That doesn’t make it any easier for you to find this person, does it? If the missing items are not going through traditional channels, or not being sold at all?”

“I’m not worried. We’ve just begun to investigate. Thanks for your insights-you’ve got a pretty good handle on the place.” He hesitated a moment, then asked, “You like working here?”

I tried to answer honestly. “Yes, most of the time. There are a lot of good people here who work here because they love the job, not for the money or the glory. And the collections are extraordinary. I’ll admit to visiting the stacks, just pulling out a letter from a president or a Civil War general or a Pennsylvania author, just to hold it. It’s an eerie feeling, you know-making that direct connection to history.” Then I was struck by a sudden thought. “But that doesn’t mean I want to take it home and gloat over it-I want other people to be able to share that experience,” I added defensively.

“Hmm. Well, I need to be going. Thanks for the help.” As James held the door open, he paused. “Nell, be careful.”

I looked up at him. “Why? Isn’t it a little late? After all, the word is out-lots of people know. You know.”

“That may be true, but don’t say any more than you have to, to anyone. All right?”

“Fine. Let me know if you think of anything else you need.”

“I will. And here’s my card, in case you think of anything else that might be helpful.”

I took the offered business card, and then he was gone. I closed the heavy door behind him and walked slowly back to the elevator, lost in thought. I was still reeling about the dollar figure that he had confirmed. That was serious money-and that meant serious motive. I shivered-what was going on beneath the slightly shabby surface of the Society?

Word of James’s visit spread fast, and since a number of people had seen me with him, quite a few of them stopped by to find out what was going on. Carrie came first, plopping herself down in the chair in front of me. “So, dish. What did that yummy agent want with us?”

Yummy? “Marty Terwilliger asked him to look into the disappearance of some papers from the family collection.”

Carrie’s eyes widened. “You think they were stolen?”

“I don’t know. I’ve asked the right people to look for them, and I’m hoping they turn up in the building somewhere.” I didn’t dare say more.

“Wow. Marty didn’t have to panic, though. I mean, really-the FBI? Isn’t that kind of over-the-top?”

“She cares a lot about her family’s collection,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess.” Carrie stood up. “Is there going to be any formal announcement?”

“That’s up to Charles.”

“Got it. Thanks, Nell.” Carrie went back toward her desk, and I wondered if she’d be able to keep this secret. Or if anybody could, for that matter.

Felicity was my next visitor, rapping on my door frame. “Do I gather Marty has, shall we say, turned up the heat?” she asked without preamble.

I sighed. “I’m afraid so. And right now I can’t say any more. I’m sure Charles will make some sort of statement.”

Felicity sniffed. “I do wish she had given us a little more time. Ah, well, too late now. Let me know if I can help you in any way.”

“Thanks, Felicity. I appreciate it.”

As the day dragged on, several more curious staffers stopped by, asking questions of varying directness, but I couldn’t tell them much, and I was heartily glad when I could make my escape to the train station.