Let's Play Dead

CHAPTER 18

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.”

“How did you manage to smooth things out?” I asked, honestly curious. If Arabella was the businesswoman Marty made her out to be, she must have applied her skills to this problem.

“We did a lot of haggling, but eventually we agreed on most things. I know our audience, I told her-better than she does, apparently. She may write charming books, but she has no idea how to translate them into an interactive display. I think she wanted the children to file through and admire her works silently, but that’s not our style at Let’s Play. We want the kids to handle things, play with things. Sure, it’s hard on the exhibits sometimes. But children are wonderful-they don’t see the chips in the paint, they see a character they love. Not that we haven’t made provisions for freshening things now and then, over the life of the exhibit.”

“Are you considering making it a permanent exhibit?” I asked.

“Not if I can help it!” Arabella replied vehemently. “I don’t want to deal with that woman any longer than I have to. Besides, we’ve already made commitments for the space for the year after next.”

I marveled at how fast things moved in the world of children’s museums, compared to our staid institution. It usually took us the better part of a decade to change anything.

I looked at my plate to find that all my food had mysteriously disappeared, save for a lonely french fry lurking under a piece of lettuce. I promptly snared and ate it. There was a line of impatient lunch seekers waiting by the door, and the waiter had long since tossed our bill on the table. “Shall we settle up and walk around a bit? Maybe we can find something tasty for dessert along the way.”

“Wonderful. There’s so much to see here. I even enjoy people watching, especially children-too bad there are so few children here during the day, and I don’t get over here much on weekends. Oh, and we have to go see the pig! It’s a tradition of mine.”

Even I knew about Eric Berg’s sculpture of Philbert the pig, the Market’s mascot. He was located roughly in the center of the Market, sitting on his cash box, mouth eagerly open. Philbert attracted a lot of donations, which went toward supporting healthy eating programs. “Sure,” I said, sticking some cash in the bill folder and gathering up my coat.

We strolled through the crowded market aisles, pointing out the interesting and exotic goodies we passed. Arabella’s enthusiasm was refreshing. She made no effort to act like a serious grown-up but instead responded like the children she so enjoyed, all but squealing with glee when she spied something absurd like a giant ear made out of chocolate. The Market offered plenty of inspiration.

We reached Philbert and stopped to pay him homage as people swirled around us, intent on their lunch-hour errands. Philbert sat next to one of the main seating and eating areas, although he turned his back to the throng. Arabella approached him to rub his snout, fishing with her other hand in her roomy bag for a contribution. She fed him with a pleased smile, then looked up-and froze, her pink cheeks turning parchment white in seconds.

I followed her gaze but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Most of the tables were filled, primarily with ones and twos. People were leaving and being replaced in a steady stream, their purchases clustered around their feet. At the far end was a table of four men, who had no purchases and only soft-drink bottles on their table; they appeared deep in conversation. But they did not look out of place in the rich ethnic mix of shoppers. I touched Arabella on the arm, and she jumped. “Arabella, are you all right?”

She turned to me quickly. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Maybe I just overdid it a bit. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, as you can guess. Perhaps I’ll just catch a cab back to the museum. Please, you go on shopping. I’ll be fine once I get off my feet.”

“If you’re sure…” I said dubiously.

Her color was already returning. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll talk to you soon. And thanks for coming out to lunch with me!”

She turned on her heel and headed straight for the side exit, where I knew cabs lined up waiting. I watched along the long aisle until she left the building, then turned back to the cluster of tables. The four men had dispersed without a trace.

After making a few purchases of vegetables, I walked slowly back toward the Society. What could have startled Arabella so? I had a sneaking suspicion that she had unexpectedly recognized someone among the lunch goers. One of the men at the table? On the sidewalk I stepped aside, pulled out my cell phone, and hit a number-James’s private line. I didn’t have time to go through all those receptionists.

“Nell?” James’s voice at last. “What’s up?”

“Do you have a picture of Nolan Treacy?” I said without preamble.

“Of course. Why?”

“Could you email me a copy to my office? I’m on my way back there now.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain when I get to my office. Please?”

“Okay.”

“Thanks.” I hung up before he asked for more explanation.

Back at the Society I hurried to my desk, nodding briefly to Eric as I passed. I sat down at my computer, logged into my email, and found James’s message, with an attachment. When I opened the attachment, it was a single image. I printed it out, then studied it. It clearly wasn’t recent, and the quality was poor-it was badly pixilated.

Was this one of the men I had seen at the Market? I couldn’t say for sure, but neither could I rule it out.

As I sat with the picture in my hands, the phone rang. Eric appeared at the door and whispered, “It’s that FBI agent,” not that James could possibly hear Eric if he was on hold. Or maybe he could: I had no idea how far the capabilities of the FBI stretched.

“Thanks, Eric. I’ll take it. Oh, and could you close the door behind you?”

When he was gone, I picked up the phone. “What’s this about, Nell?” James demanded.

I took a breath. “I just had lunch with Arabella Heffernan, at her invitation. We went to the Reading Terminal Market. After lunch we were strolling around and she stopped suddenly and looked like she’d seen a ghost.”

“And?” James said impatiently.

“It occurred to me that she might have seen her ex-husband among a group of men sitting at a nearby table. That’s why I asked you for the picture.”

“Was it him?”

“Hard to tell. This is an old picture, right?”

“Yes, maybe fifteen, twenty years ago. Nobody’s had any official reason to photograph him since, not here in the U.S. at least-and he’s a foreign national, so it’s not like we have access to his driver’s license or anything. What did you see?”

“A bunch of ordinary-looking guys having a soda in a busy place. Seriously. That’s all I can tell you. But Arabella went white and hightailed it out of there as fast as she could. She took a cab back.”

“Hmm. I’m going to have to talk with Ms. Heffernan.”

“James, don’t chew her head off, please. She looked honestly surprised, and none too happy. If that was what she was even looking at. She claimed not to feel well-it’s possible it could have been the smoked eel or something else that turned her off.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Talk with you later?”

“I’ve got that meeting tonight. Call me when I get home?”

“Will do.”

And he was gone. I felt bad about siccing the FBI on Arabella. Of course, if she had seen Nolan Treacy, they needed to know. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but if so, it had to be verified that it was nothing more. Maybe Nolan had turned into a sober, upright citizen and renounced his activist ways, but the FBI needed to be sure. So why did I feel so bad?

With a sigh, I turned back to the reports on my desk.