Fundraising the Dead

by Connolly, Sheila

  I smiled sweetly at her. “He’s free now, Doris.” Back at my desk I mulled over what Charles had just said. He was right, at least according to his perspective: any appearance of concealment might send up red flags at the FBI, which none of us wanted at this point. But, I had to add, if he was trying to cast blame on me, his distancing himself would be a strategic move. I supposed I could be disappointed that he hadn’t decided to side with me more openly, but had I ever expected that?

  The next surprise of the day was a phone call from Marty.

  “You have time for dinner?” she began abruptly.

  “What, tonight?”

  “Yup. I want to run something by you.”

  “You’ve got a plan?”

  “Maybe. You coming?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll be there at six thirty.”

  I survived the day by immersing myself in busywork. Ileft work a little past six and walked over to Marty’s house. She answered the door with a look that I swear contained more than a hint of amusement. “Come on in. Want a drink? Sounds as though you’ve had an interesting few days.”

  “Thanks to you. I take it you’ve talked to James? And yes, I will have that drink.”

  “About what you found at your house? Yup, he told me. What did Charles do today?”

  I took the full wineglass she held out to me. “Okay, Marty—who’s running this show, you or Cousin Jimmy?”

  She stared at me innocently. “Why, he is, of course. Or the FBI, anyway. Look, I had a legitimate complaint, and when nobody at the Society seemed interested in doing anything about it, I went to Jimmy. All quite aboveboard. But we’re all working together on this, right?”

  “Of course we are. But is everybody telling everything?”

  She grinned. “I’d say it’s on a need-to-know basis right now. I don’t tell Jimmy everything.”

  “Did you tell him about Charles and me?” I demanded.

  She had the grace to look ashamed. “Um, yes. I had to make sure where your loyalties really lay. And once I figured that out, I didn’t want you to get caught in the crossfire, if Charles was involved. I thought Jimmy should know. Sorry, Nell. That is, if there’s any reason to be sorry? I didn’t think Charles would throw you under the bus.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Marty. I thought we had more between us, but obviously I was wrong. And now I’m mad. I take it Charles doesn’t know you’re related to James?”

  “Of course not. Why should he? And I don’t think he realizes that I was related to Alfred, either. But I may have underestimated Charles.”

  We’d drifted to the living room, so I threw myself into a chair (without spilling my wine) and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “James says you found items planted at your house not long after Charles had visited you, right?”

  “Yes. What are you saying? You think Charles did it?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. But there’s something that’s been bothering me, and I’m trying to figure out how your little discovery fits with it. I’ve been to Alfred’s place more than once, maybe a couple of times a year. He was a very meticulous person, orderly, methodical—that’s what made him good at his job. Same at home: everything had its place. Now, Alfred did have a few nice things, and he was proud of them. Some of them came down through the family, and some of them he probably bought himself, since he didn’t spend money on much else. Definitely not stolen. Since I knew about his little weakness, I made sure everything he had was on the up-and-up, and he kept his word to me. Anyway, since I’m just about the nearest relative Alfred had, when he . . . died, I had to go to his apartment that Friday, find his papers and stuff.”

  “And?” I wasn’t sure where this was going.

  “I didn’t recognize half the ‘good’ stuff I found there.”

  “So what does that mean?” Although I thought I could guess.

  “The stuff hadn’t been there the last time I visited Alfred, so I’d bet it was planted there, just like at your place. Problem is, there’s no way Charles could have been at Alfred’s place. He was working the crowd throughout the whole gala, and then I gather you saw him not long afterwards.” She paused, waiting for me to nod confirmation. How had she known? “There is no way that he could have gotten into Alfred’s apartment, planted the stuff at his apartment, and made it to his own house in time to welcome you. It’s just too tight a schedule, and I don’t see Charles running around like that.”

  I definitely didn’t like the sound of that. “So you’re telling me you think that there was someone else who was planting evidence? And who might have killed Alfred?”

  “That’s the only way I can see it.”

  I fell silent, trying to make sense of what she had told me. “Or, if it was Charles, he had an accomplice?”

  “That’s a possibility.”

  I had one more question. “Did you tell James about the stuff you saw at Alfred’s?”

  “Yes, I told him when I told him about the Society thefts. I said before, I knew about Alfred’s problem, but I wasn’t sure if Jimmy did, and I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. I knew something was off the minute I walked into Alfred’s place, and that’s what I told Jimmy.”

  So James Morrison had had reason to believe that someone was setting me up before he arrived at my place. I wasn’t sure whether I was reassured or disappointed.

  “In case you’re wondering,” Marty went on, “I saw nothing in Alfred’s apartment that I thought was relevant to his death, and I can’t say whether the things came from the Society, although I’d say the chances are good they did. I don’t want to see the Society get trashed publicly any more than you do. Question is, what now?”

  I wished I knew. I was suddenly starving; I wasn’t sure I was thinking well at all these days, but food wouldn’t hurt. “Marty, do you have anything to eat? I don’t think well on an empty stomach.”

  “Oh, right. I got Chinese. A lot of it. Come help me schlep it to the table.”

  I did, and then we concentrated on eating for a while. Everything tasted wonderful, and I kept helping myself until I had to undo the button of my trousers. Finally I sat back and sighed. “Much, much better. Thank you. Now, why don’t you tell me about this plan of yours.”

  Marty grinned. “Tell me, how much faith do you have in the FBI to solve this?”

  “A reasonable amount—I’ve never worked with them before, though. Or are you asking about your cousin? You know him better than I do.”

  “Jimmy’s a bright guy, and he works hard. But he’s also a government official, and that means he has to play by certain rules. He’s already bending a few by talking to us, but I don’t think he’d go much further.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I believe that the FBI will ultimately track down the thief, and maybe even some of the missing stuff. That’s their job, and it’s what they’re good at. I’m just worried that it won’t be fast enough. The thief—Charles or whoever—may see what’s coming and dispose of the evidence before the FBI can gather enough proof to act, and we’ll never recover a lot of what’s been taken.”

  “I agree, but what are we supposed to do about it?” I wondered how long our window of opportunity would stay open once the thief realized that his efforts to cast suspicion on other people had failed.

  “I’ve got an idea.” There was a curious gleam in Marty’s eye. “First of all, do you agree that Charles is behind this, at least in part?”

  For a moment I felt regret for all the lovely times I had shared with Charles—and then I remembered what he’d done today, deliberately putting distance between us and casting doubt on me to others. “Maybe not the murder, but yes, I do.”

  She raised her glass to me. “All right, this is how the story goes ...”

  CHAPTER 19

  Marty settled back in her chair for what I suspected would be a long session. “You were around when the Society was looking for a new president?”

  I nodded. “I was on
the search committee, although I didn’t have a vote.”

  “And Charles was by far the best candidate, right?”

  “No question. We thought we were lucky to get him.”

  “Right. Well, it worked both ways. Charles found the perfect niche here. He was certainly in a position to know how lousy our cataloging was and how trusting the Society has always been.”

  “Well, that’s hardly unusual. Besides—why would he care?”

  “Because he knew what we had, and he knew he could get his hands on it and sell it without anyone noticing.” Marty looked very pleased with herself. “I think he got himself the job here specifically so he could plunder the collections.”

  It took me a moment to process what she had said. “Marty, I’m not following this. You’re saying that Charles planned to rip the place off when he applied?”

  “That’s my guess. Oh, he’s done it very well—nothing obvious, and so far not much that’s traceable, thanks to our crappy records. But, think about it—he’s been in the business for most of his adult life. He knows who the rabid collectors are, including the ones who lie low. He can sell the good stuff without it ever going public, and nobody would know where it went. People can ask for a specific signature, document, whatever, and he can go shopping in the Society’s collections and fill the order. But he knows his handy cash cow will go away as collections management improves. Sure, some of the missing items we can attribute to lousy record keeping, but I’d be willing to bet that the better part of that five million worth of stuff has disappeared from the Society’s collections within the last two years. He’s done really well for himself.”

  “But”—I stalled as I tried to wrap my head around this idea—“how could he get away with that? Wouldn’t somebody blow the whistle on him?”

  Marty shook her head. “Did they? No. I suspect that Charles knows his market, and he’s bound to have been careful. He just exploited the Society’s weakness. And I think you underestimate the collecting lust. There are some people who want something, and they really don’t care where it comes from as long as it’s theirs in the end. They aren’t about to tell anybody. Problem is, I think that Alfred figured it out. After all, he was closest to the collections, hands-on.”

  “But then what? Did Alfred confront Charles? He had only just told us, and we know he didn’t go to the authorities. Would he have tried to blackmail Charles or ask for a cut of the proceeds? And if Charles didn’t kill Alfred, who did?” If anyone, I reminded myself. We had nothing that resembled proof, and maybe it was only a tragic accident.

  Marty shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know that Alfred ever had the nerve to talk to Charles, and anyway, I’d swear he was honest. He wouldn’t think of blackmail. I think Alfred waited until somebody came to him—that would be you, Nell—and then he nudged you in the right direction. I bet he figured that if other people knew officially, then he wouldn’t be at risk. Poor Alfred.”

  “Wow.” I was stunned as I considered the ramifications of what Marty had said. Then another thought percolated to the top of my reeling brain. “But, Marty, why would Charles do this? He’s at the top of his profession, he’s got a solid reputation, a good income. What’s his motive?”

  Marty looked smug. “Money. And I don’t mean personal gain—sure, he’s got enough for himself. But I’ve got a theory. Want to hear it?”

  I nodded. I was in too deep to stop now.

  Marty draped her legs over the arm of her chair, making herself comfortable. “There’s something else about Philadelphia that’s tailor-made for his needs: a good supply of wealthy and unattached women. Charles wants money—more than the Society or any other institution can pay him. And I figure he wants to marry it.”

  I could only imagine the expression on my face as Marty continued. “So Charles arrives in town, settles in at the Society, and starts scoping out potential donors—particularly female donors. I know, that’s what you do—but somehow I don’t think you go so far as trying to seduce your targets.”

  “Of course I don’t! Marty, how do you know all this?”

  She looked at me with embarrassment “He tried it out on me, when he first arrived. Oh, he’s smooth, isn’t he? Very charming, very polite. Takes you out to dinner, invites you to highly visible public events—exhibit openings, that kind of thing. Then he invites you to his oh-so-tasteful home and cooks for you—that’s a sure-fire winner. He’s very patient, and he waits until the right moment to make his move.”

  I stared at her, horrified. “And did you . . . ?” I was scrambling to remember when he and I first connected—and what I hadn’t noticed. Or hadn’t wanted to notice.

  “No, we never got that far. Oh, I was flattered at first—I mean, I’m unattached, we shared common interests, he’s good-looking, and I’m human. But, you know, I didn’t really trust him. He was just too good to be true, too polished, too suave. So I started pulling back, and he got the message and withdrew gracefully. But ...”

  “What?”

  “I suspect he might have looked into my finances, somehow. I don’t have the kind of money I think he wants. So if I hadn’t said no, I bet he would have found some other reason to retreat.”

  “But, Marty, maybe he actually was interested in you at first, and it just sort of faded naturally.” I was clutching at straws, and I knew it.

  “Nell, you really are an innocent. Once he’d tried it out on me and then dropped me, I started paying attention. You know—checking the society column in the paper to see who he took to which party, and so on. Thing is, I knew some of the other women, so I could ask around, at least a little. He made a little more headway with some of them, then backed out, always gracefully.”

  “Oh, damn,” I spit out. “That’s why my nightgown disappeared into a drawer—he was hiding it from . . . whoever the lady of the week was.”

  “Probably. He’s discreet that way.”

  “Where did I fit in, then? It certainly ain’t the money, and it ain’t love.”

  “You were useful to him. He was the new kid in town, and he could use you to bring him up to speed on the Society, plus you had that useful donor database. He could pump you for information. Let me ask you—how many significant male donors has he cultivated in the time he’s been here?”

  I thought for a moment, then laughed ruefully. “None.” I was furious—and embarrassed. How could I have been such a pushover? “I feel like an idiot.”

  Marty looked at me with sympathy. “Oh, come on, Nell. You knew he was dating other women. Didn’t you?”

  She had me there. I had to admit, I had known, at least as much as I’d wanted to know, which wasn’t much. Sure, I’d seen the society-page photos that Marty had mentioned, but I’d told myself those evenings out with other women were part of his job, an opportunity to charm new donors. Charles and I had even discussed them on a few occasions. The truth was, though, that I had deliberately ignored Charles’s other dates because I hadn’t wanted to believe that those relationships were anything other than social, unlike our more intimate association. But Marty had seen right through him. “Well, . . . We didn’t . . . I mean, we weren’t . . .”

  “Right. No strings. Now wasn’t that convenient for Mr. Worthington?”

  I didn’t know whether to cry or to rage—and I was damned glad we’d been careful about protection all along. I gave up and laughed. “You are so right. And I thought I was being so casual about the whole thing.”

  “Do you care?” Marty asked carefully.

  I considered that. “No, not about him. I think I was at least honest with myself about that. It’s my pride that’s suffering. I don’t like to be made a fool of. But, Marty, I still don’t understand why he did this. Okay, he stole so he could court women with even more money?”

  “I think so, at least in the beginning. It takes money to woo the kind of woman he wants. You know, all those theater tickets, expensive meals. He’s got a great house—with a big mortgage. And he has high-dolla
r tastes. Maybe in the beginning he did it just enough to give him the ready cash to impress his targets. But maybe once he discovered how easy it was, he got hooked. I mean, come on—at the Society he must have felt like a kid in a candy shop, with so many easy pickings. Plus he could thumb his nose at the institution. You must’ve noticed that Charles thinks he’s smarter than everyone else? He kept proving it to himself, over and over.” Marty laughed. “Don’t beat yourself up. He’s very, very good at this. Just not quite good enough for us.” She had a wicked gleam in her eye.

  “What do you mean?” I had to ask.

  “You think we’re going to let him get away with this? Where’s your gumption, girl? He’s been using you, in more ways than one. As for me, when he went after the Terwilliger Collection, he made it personal. He thought I wouldn’t notice? And then he has the nerve to try to pin the rap on you and poor Alfred, who never hurt a fly and who’s dead so he can’t defend himself. Are you going to let him get away with that?”

  “No way.”

  Marty looked pleased. “All right, then, here’s the deal. Let Jimmy and the FBI track down the artifacts and the money. That’s what they get paid to do. But you and me, we can launch our own, sort of parallel, investigation.”

  “What, snoop around and see what women he’s wooed? What’s the point?” The idea struck me as vaguely repellent.

  “Motive. Okay, maybe the law doesn’t care about that, but without it, as you pointed out, Charles has no obvious reason to be stealing, and I’m sure the FBI has gone over his records by now. He’s got a good life by most people’s standards.”

  “And,” I said slowly, “we’ll be sparing some other woman the embarrassment, right? Because he’s not going to stop now, is he? As long as he thinks he’s getting away with it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How do we do this?”

  “You can talk to your professional colleagues; I can talk to Philadelphia society. That should cover all the bases. He’s got to have been doing this for a while. And this is the kind of thing no woman is going to admit to the police or the FBI, even if they knew enough to ask.”