Fire Engine Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “I’m on it.”

  “Thanks, Rich. Of course, I’m sure Marty wants this to happen like yesterday. Use the freight elevator to haul the stuff upstairs, please—we don’t want to tie up the elevator out front.” We had only the one for patrons to use, and quite a few of them were elderly and needed it.

  “Gotcha. I’ll get started getting space ready up here.”

  After Rich left, I busied myself with minor administrative details. I was pleased that we had actually launched a new project, even if it was something as simple as reorganizing. For the last few months the Society had been in turmoil. When I’d been asked to take over, the board had given me a grace period to settle in—and I was aware that they were watching and waiting, since the position wasn’t permanent yet. But it was time to start moving forward. We’d hired Shelby and Eric to fill two of our staff vacancies, and we were actively looking for a registrar now. I had every confidence that we would find one in the next month or two. And as far as I could tell, based on attendance and membership renewals, the problems behind the scenes had gone largely unnoticed by our patrons—and that was good news.

  At ten of twelve I pulled on my coat and headed out for my lunch meeting. Not a date, nope. James and I arrived at the door to the restaurant at the same time. Every time I saw him, I was amused at how well he filled the role of FBI agent. He looked well tailored, strong, and decisive. And he was in fact every one of those things. I had to admit, the combination was really quite sexy.

  He held the door for me. “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Nell.”

  “I assume you wouldn’t have asked unless it was important, James.” My, weren’t we formal? I sneaked a peek: yes, he was smiling, as was I. Business as usual.

  We waited until the maitre d’ had escorted us to a table and handed us menus before resuming our conversation. “So, what’s this all about?” I asked. “Can you release the items from the Terwilliger Collection yet?”

  “It’s not that, it’s about that warehouse fire. You know about it?”

  That was not what I expected to hear. “I do. Don’t tell me there’s terrorism involved?”

  “No, but we do consult with the police on a variety of issues. We’re interested in this particular investigation for several reasons. One, it was a major fire event, and there were materials from a range of owners involved. Two, someone died. Three, we have facilities for arson investigation that the local authorities may lack.”

  I held up a hand. “That’s plenty, thank you. So it is officially arson?”

  He nodded. “Yes, that much was established early, as soon as the local investigators could get into the building.”

  “So why do you need to talk to me?”

  “I understand that the collections from the Fireman’s Museum were housed there temporarily.”

  I saw a glimmer of logic. “Yes, I was told that. By the museum’s president, actually, yesterday morning.”

  “Peter Ingersoll,” James said.

  “Yes. I assume you know him?”

  James’s mouth twitched. “You mean, through Marty? No, I did not know him before the fire. Did you know him?”

  “Not until yesterday.” I didn’t mention that I’d seen him at the luncheon a day earlier; we hadn’t actually met then anyway. I had forgotten to ask Peter, but it seemed likely that the phone call he had taken there might have been his first notice of the fire. “He came to me to ask for documentation about the museum’s collection, since apparently his records burned in the fire. Bad planning, no? When I saw him, I think he was still hoping that something had survived, but that picture in the paper this morning…”

  “The Terwilliger fire engine? That I do remember—we thought it was really neat, when we were kids, and naturally we wanted to climb all over it, but we weren’t allowed—in theory. Of course, we did when none of the grown-ups was looking.”

  Marty had told me about the gang of cousins who’d roamed the various family estates years ago, and I knew that James had been one of them. Sometimes I wondered how much that family network had helped him in local investigations, although I knew he regarded Marty as something of a loose cannon. But then, Marty didn’t have to follow FBI rules.

  “It looks like a total loss, which is really a shame. Does your personal connection to the fire engine mean you have to recuse yourself or whatever?”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s just a fluke.”

  “So, apart from the pleasure of my company, why am I here?”

  “Because you’re officially part of the local museum community, and I appreciate your insights. And any information you might happen to hear. For example, what you find out from Peter Ingersoll.”

  “It sounds as though you don’t trust him. When I spoke with him yesterday, he seemed devastated by what’s happened. Is there something I need to know about the dead man, that wasn’t in the papers?”

  “He was a retired firefighter named Allan Brigham. He retired early—rumor was that he had a drinking problem, but other than that, nobody’s had anything bad to say about him. At least, not yet. He was collecting a pension from the fire department and also working as the night watchman at the warehouse.”

  “Do you think he had anything to do with the fire?” I asked.

  “Nothing jumps out. But the investigation has just begun. By the way, his funeral will be on Thursday. Have you ever seen a fireman’s funeral around here?” When I shook my head, he went on. “It’s a major event—firefighters from the city and even other states show up, and streets are closed for the procession. The department honors its dead, even those no longer active with them.”

  We had to take a break to order our meals, during which time I found I was growing increasingly uncomfortable with what James was saying—or not saying. When the waiter had left, I said carefully, “What is it I’m supposed to find out from Peter Ingersoll? Like, am I supposed to guess if Peter Ingersoll was upset because someone died, or about the destruction of the museum’s collections?” I noticed that James had never answered my question about whether he trusted Peter, and I was sensing that he didn’t.

  James sat back in his chair. “You tell me.”

  I sat back, too, and stared at him. “I don’t know the man, so I can’t tell you that. Are you suggesting that he had some involvement in destroying the collection? Why would he do that? I mean, who stands to benefit?”

  James shrugged, which I found unhelpful. “How much do you know about the financial standing of the Fireman’s Museum?”

  “Not much—why would I? Peter said they had gotten some outside funding for revamping the space and the exhibits, but he still wasn’t sure about their insurance status. James, we’re talking in circles here. Why don’t you just tell me what you’re looking for?”

  I was flattered that he’d actually asked for my help, but at the same time troubled that he was asking me to snoop on my colleagues. The Philadelphia cultural community wasn’t all that big, and I was still the new kid, at least among the upper ranks. I needed to keep them as friends, not alienate them. My impression of Peter Ingersoll, albeit based on a brief interaction, was that he wasn’t the type to engage in murder and mayhem, but I’d been wrong about people before. Was there an honor code among administrators? Where did I put that manual? In any event, I didn’t think it extended to covering for a colleague who engaged in major crimes.

  Once again James had ignored my direct question. Was this standard FBI procedure? “Look, I can probably give you some qualitative info on how that particular museum is structured and operates. But I don’t want to sniff around for gossip about whether someone on the inside at the Fireman’s Museum is up to something shady.”

  “Nell, that’s really all I’m asking. Nothing devious.”

  “Don’t you guys have an art theft unit? Why can’t they do it?”

  “We do, and they’re good, but they’re a small group and spread kind of thin. And they don’t know the local scene as well as you do. You k
now the players, the relationships, the history of the institutions around here. You don’t have to snoop—just tell me what you know, and what’s in your files. Is that fair?”

  It seemed simple enough. And I did want to help. “All right, that I can do. And I can let you know what records we have about their collections, especially since Peter has already asked that I pull them for him. Now can we just enjoy lunch?”

  “Of course.”

  It was, in fact, an enjoyable lunch. It was hard to look on my sporadic meetings with James as dates, but clearly we enjoyed each other’s company. And since we weren’t in the first flush of youth, we weren’t rushing anything. I was glad he had asked for my help, but was that because he respected my professional expertise or because he wanted an excuse to see me again? I wasn’t about to ask. And I was kind of tickled to have access to the machinations of the FBI, even if only a little.

  After we’d eaten, we strolled out of the restaurant onto Broad Street. “Thank you for lunch, James,” I said demurely.

  “Thank you for agreeing to join me on short notice. I appreciate your assistance.”

  “I’m happy to be of service.” I couldn’t take it any longer and burst out laughing. “Okay, which nineteenth-century novel are we imitating? Good to see you, James. I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting. And I’ll tell Marty to stop prodding us.”

  “Like that’ll work. Thanks, Nell.”

  And we went our separate ways. I walked back to the Society feeling, for once, a small sense of control over circumstances. I was still feeling good when I got back to my office.

  “Have you eaten yet, Eric?” I asked.

  “No, I was waiting for you to get back.” He handed me my sheaf of messages. “And Felicity left some stuff on your desk for you.”

  “You go ahead and find lunch. I’ll deal with this stuff.” I waved the messages. Maybe my elevated status dictated that I should have an underling place calls for me, but I thought that was nonsense: I was perfectly capable of dialing a phone by myself.

  Felicity had deposited a stack of folders and documents maybe an inch thick in the center of the desk. I wondered briefly if this was everything we had or only as much as she could find in an hour—I suspected the latter. I settled into my chair and began reading. Much of the information consisted of clippings about Philadelphia firefighting history, going back to Benjamin Franklin, and articles about fire insignias and insurance company charters. Felicity had made some annotations about which of those might have found a place in the Fireman’s Museum collections. All that was straightforward. A second folder moved on to nonpaper items, like buckets and fire axes and helmets. A third, slimmer folder included images, both pre and post the invention of photography, of fire engines. The early models were endearingly primitive, and I had to wonder if they were really much better than a line of guys passing buckets. But they quickly grew in size and elaboration, and morphed from horse-drawn hand pumpers to steam-belching monsters. The file stopped short of modern engines, as expected.

  Felicity had added some clippings about the acquisition of the showpiece engine that had perished in the fire, mainly because of the mention of the Terwilliger name. We even had some eight-by-ten press photos. It might have been an early model, but it was unquestionably elegant, down to the lush detailing of the decorative images on the sides. What a lovely thing it had been, and what a waste its loss was for the historical community.

  But…something was not right. On a hunch I pulled out the paper I had read in the morning, and opened it to the page with the warehouse spread, including pictures. I laid the two images side by side.

  I heard Eric return. “Eric, can you come in here a moment?”

  “Sure, Nell. What is it?”

  I gestured him closer. “Take a look at these two pictures and tell me if I’m crazy.”

  He came around to my side of the desk and looked at the pictures. “That’s from the warehouse fire, right? What a mess. And this other one’s what it looked like before? But…” His eyes met mine. “It’s not the same one?”

  I nodded solemnly. “That’s what I thought. Even allowing for shrinkage and warping and whatever, the burnt one is simply the wrong shape. I think somebody pulled a switch.”

  “Oh my,” Eric breathed.

  “Exactly.”

  “What’re you going to do?” he whispered.

  “I’m not sure. But I think I’d better call Agent Morrison again.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Maybe I was seeing things, or maybe I was looking for problems where none existed. Could there have been two engines in the collection? I tried to recall the one visit I’d made to the museum, and I was pretty sure there wasn’t room for more than one in the tiny space they had. But I knew I’d feel better if I passed my suspicion on to James, who would either tell me I was hallucinating, or he’d take it and run with it, letting me wash my hands of it. I dialed his office number.

  “Morrison,” he barked when we finally connected.

  “It’s Nell,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said in a milder tone. “You’ve got something already?”

  “I’m not really sure, but I have something I think you need to see. Can you stop by my office?”

  “I’m tied up this afternoon, but I can make it later. After five okay?”

  “Sure.” That would give me time to do a little more digging. If the picture in the paper showed what I thought it did, I needed to find out more details about the museum and its collections. Latoya would be more useful than Felicity in that arena. Heck, maybe Shelby, too—the files in the development office probably had organizational information for the place; hadn’t we held some sort of joint event with the Fireman’s Museum at the Society a few years back? Before my time, but I remembered checking the file for the promotional materials and table arrangements for the event when I was planning a later event here. So I’d talk to Latoya first, then Shelby. I’d have to bring Shelby up to speed about what was going on—or what I suspected might be—but I trusted her, and she had a good sense of social connections. And Eric already knew—I hadn’t considered all the implications when I showed him the pictures, but now the cat was out of the bag. I didn’t think either of them would blab, but I shouldn’t spread my suspicion any further. I felt a pang of guilt about keeping Latoya in the dark, but James might need this information kept quiet, and I’d have done enough in telling Eric and Shelby.

  I carefully marked the photos with sticky tabs, added my newspaper to the file (making a mental note to myself to ask Eric to see if he could print out a higher-quality photo online), neatly stacked the pile—and slid it into my drawer. Then I stood up and went down the hall to Latoya’s office again.

  She looked up from whatever she was working on, reading glasses perched on her nose, clearly not happy to see me. “You wanted something else, Nell? Apart from your request yesterday? I’m working on that.”

  “Yes,” I said, sitting down across from her before she could invite me. “Tell me what you know about the Fireman’s Museum.”

  “Can it wait, Nell? I’d really like to finish this.”

  I was getting kind of tired of her superior attitude. I had a work-related question, and damn it, I was her boss. “No, it can’t wait. This is part of a criminal investigation, and the FBI has asked for our help.”

  She gave me a long, unreadable stare before she folded the journal in front of her. “What do you need to know?”

  “If I remember correctly, there’s something unusual about the organizational structure of the museum. What can you tell me?”

  She leaned back and stared at the wall over my head. “As I recall—and don’t hold me to it—the Fireman’s Museum was first suggested by a bunch of fire buffs in the 1960s, in advance of the 1971 centennial of the Philadelphia Fire Department. They put together the core collections from fire stations all over the city. The fire commissioner at the time offered them the use of a retired firehouse, but it took a couple of years
of work before it could open as a museum. The original staffing came from the fire department and volunteers. Still does, more or less—members of the fire department still volunteer time to provide tours, which saves a lot in staff salaries.

  “They’ve gotten some funding from the city and from local insurance companies. They created a nonprofit corporation to manage it, with a volunteer board of directors.”

  I was impressed by her knowledge. “Interesting,” I said. “I hadn’t realized it was such a homegrown institution. Thank you, Latoya, that’s exactly what I needed to know. How do you know so much about the place?”

  “I used to date a fireman.” She didn’t elaborate.

  “Do you know if they’ve continued collecting, after that first effort? I know it’s not a large place, so space for exhibits must be limited.”

  “In a small way, as I understand it. And of course, there was that fire engine, given by the Terwilligers.”

  “Of course. Marty filled me in on that. Was that the only one they had?” She nodded. I stood up. “Well, I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.”

  As I was leaving, she said, “Nell, what’s the FBI’s interest in this? I thought it was a case of arson, according to the press.”

  “The FBI has a lot of arson resources, and there is a lot of information to wade through regarding whatever was stored at the warehouse. Plus the Fireman’s Museum is a public institution.” I didn’t think I should say any more, and I didn’t want to voice my suspicions about the fire engine to Latoya. “Thanks.”

  While I was at it, I decided I might as well dot my i’s and cross my t’s, and sought out Shelby, stopping by my office first to retrieve the file of photographs.

  “Hey, lady. You need me?” She greeted me.

  I dropped into a chair in front of her desk. “I need to pick your brain, and your files. Do we have any Terwilliger wills or inventories in our files?”