Fire Engine Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “Like who gave what to whom?” Shelby asked. “Wouldn’t that be in collections?”

  “Probably, but we would have copies, too, in the personal files.” I didn’t want to keep going back to Latoya. I wrestled for a moment with the ethics of telling Shelby the whole story while giving Latoya the edited version, but I trusted Shelby more than Latoya. Plus I had a feeling the answers lay somewhere in the development files rather than the collections files.

  “And might this have something to do with that real nice fire engine that went up in smoke?”

  “Can’t get a thing past you, can I?” I smiled. “It would. I understand Marty’s grandfather gave it to the Fireman’s Museum, in the seventies, maybe? I’ve already got some pictures, but I wondered if any additional information had sneaked into the development files. Uh, about that fire engine…” I pulled out the two photos and laid them on Shelby’s desk, side by side. She looked confused at first, and then I could see the light dawning in her expression.

  “Something funny going on here?” she asked.

  I nodded. “I’m thinking insurance fraud gone wrong. Keep this quiet, will you?”

  “Of course I will. So why don’t we take a look at those files? You going to help? Because you’ve got to know the records better than I do.”

  “Sure.”

  It took us a couple of hours to wade through the extensive Terwilliger files, since Marty was the third generation of the family to be involved with the Society. It appeared that all members of that family had been exceedingly thorough in their documentation, which shouldn’t have surprised me after what I’d seen of the historical collections. It was almost as though they knew that future generations would be looking at them. For all of that, we didn’t come up with much more than I already knew. Since the Society had not been the recipient of the fire engine, most references to it were tangential. There was, however, a copy of Marty’s grandfather’s will (which included substantial bequests to the Society) and inventory, which described the fire engine in broad terms. It confirmed the story but didn’t provide much more information.

  When I looked at my watch, I realized that it was nearly five and James might be arriving at any moment. “Thanks, Shelby. I think we’ve found whatever there is to find here. I’m sorry to leave you with all the mess, but I’m expecting someone at five.”

  She laughed, unruffled. “That’s right, leave it for me to clean up. But to tell the truth, I was glad of the chance to go through it all. The Terwilligers really were something, weren’t they? The best kind of mix—wealthy but not pushy about it, and definitely civic-minded.”

  “The current generation isn’t too shabby, either, if Marty’s any indication. You can leave it until tomorrow if you want.”

  “I might as well finish up now.” Shelby began gathering up the scattered files, and I left her to it.

  At five fifteen Front Desk Bob, a former police officer who manned our reception desk while providing a small measure of security, called to say that a Mr. Morrison was in the lobby. I went down to escort James upstairs, and we maintained a professional demeanor as we took the elevator to the third floor and then walked to my office. Shelby looked up as we passed, and gave me a thumbs-up, which I ignored. Eric looked startled by James’s unheralded appearance after hours, but I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile and told him he could go home. Finally I closed the door behind us and pointed to the chair in front of my desk.

  “So, what’s this about, Nell?” he asked.

  “There’s something I think you should see. I’m not going to say anything more—you can make your own judgment.”

  I retrieved the folder with the pictures and, with a show of ceremony, pulled out, first, the high-quality black-and-white photo of the Fireman’s Museum engine from the Society’s files. I laid it in front of him. Then I pulled out that day’s newspaper, still folded open to the story of the fire, and laid that alongside. I sat down silently and waited.

  He looked at me, then at the photos, clearly bewildered. And then I enjoyed watching the light dawn as he compared the two, once, then again, his eyes darting back and forth. Then he sat back and exhaled. “They aren’t the same,” he said flatly.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “The one that burned was not the Terwilliger engine.”

  “Nope.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Damn. How? When?”

  “They moved the collections into storage, what, eighteen months ago? It could have been then, or any time since.”

  “Somebody would have to have paid off somebody else to get it out of there. Nights, there was only the one watchman around—Allan Brigham, the one who died. Hell, could be the swap was made the night before the fire, and Brigham was killed because he was in on it and knew too much.”

  Clearly James was thinking out loud and didn’t expect an answer from me. I was content to cheer him on. “Maybe.”

  His eyes focused on me. “Inside or outside job? What’re these things worth?”

  “How would I know? You’ll notice we don’t have anything quite that big here, and I don’t follow that market. But I’ll remind you that to a true collector, price is no object—he’ll pay what it’s worth to him.” And I was willing to bet that there were a lot of people who were passionate about firefighting, including some collectors with money.

  “Thanks a lot. I know I asked you to help, but I really didn’t think you’d open a can of worms like this. Now we’ve got to look at fraud and murder, in addition to arson. And art theft.”

  “I do my best. After all, my tax dollars pay your salary.”

  “Does Marty know any of this?”

  “Not from me—I just figured it out this afternoon. I don’t know what she’s going to think when and if she sees the news photo. She did seem to know the original pretty well, as you did, so it’s possible she might come to the same conclusion. What’s more to the point is, what would she be likely to do about it?”

  “I’ll talk to her. I don’t need her muddling this up.” He stood up. “I guess I’m going back to my office. Can I get copies of that stuff?” He pointed toward the pictures.

  “Sure. Follow me.” I led him down the hall to the communal copy machines and made copies. “There you go. I’ll have to let you out—Bob should have left by now.”

  “Fine.” He trailed obligingly down the hall to the elevator, and then I led him to the now-dark lobby. Before he left he turned to me and said, “Nell, I’ll take it from here. You don’t have to do anything more.”

  “My, that sounds familiar. You do know I’ll be talking to Peter, right?”

  “Just give him what he asked for about the collections, okay?”

  “No problem. But what do I do if Marty comes tearing in and starts demanding action?”

  “Send her to me. Period. All right?”

  “Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.” I refrained from saluting.

  “Nell, I’m serious. One man is dead, and now I’m not so sure that was an accident.”

  My flippant mood evaporated. “I know. You take care, too, James.”

  “I will. Good night, Nell.”

  CHAPTER 6

  When Marty came stomping into my office the next morning, brushing past Eric without even looking at him, I had a pretty good idea what she was mad about. Of course, the crumpled copy of the Inquirer crushed in her fist was a solid clue. She threw herself into a chair, her face flushed. “Somebody pulled a fast one!” She glared at me.

  James had told me not to talk to her about this, but as I had anticipated, she’d figured it out all by herself. At this rate, it was going to be difficult to keep a lid on things, but luckily I didn’t think many people would look very hard at the picture and put two and two together. I thought briefly about playing dumb, but Marty deserved better, and I wasn’t very good at it anyway.

  “Shut the door, please, Marty.” I waited until she had complied. “I think you’re right. But think of it this way—that means the Terw
illiger fire truck is probably alive and well somewhere.”

  “Yeah, but my grandfather gave that to the museum so people could enjoy it! And now some jerk has made off with it and destroyed the museum’s collection at the same time.”

  “And possibly killed somebody in the process,” I added quietly.

  Marty seemed to shrink just a bit. “Right. Sorry. I’m being selfish.” She stopped ranting long enough to realize what I’d said. “Wait—you knew? When did you figure this out?”

  “Yesterday.” I waited for her wrath to descend and was not disappointed.

  “Yesterday? When were you planning to tell me?”

  “I haven’t seen you since then. And it’s not as though you’re responsible for doing something about it. That’s up to the police.”

  She eyed me critically. “Does Jimmy know?”

  I nodded mutely.

  She jumped out of her chair. “What? You told him before you told me?”

  “Marty, he’s law enforcement. This is arson and maybe murder and fraud. What do you think you can do that he and the police can’t do a whole lot better?”

  She deflated again and dropped back into her chair. I was getting exhausted just watching her. “I know, you’re right. Official business and all that crap. What’s Jimmy’s take?”

  I shrugged. “He didn’t tell me. Since he only just found out himself”—I thought I wouldn’t mention that I was the one who had pointed it out to him—“I don’t know if he’s had any time to get balls rolling or wheels turning or whatever it takes. At least the police were smart enough to ask the FBI for help.”

  “Yeah, for once.” She thought for a few moments. “What do you think the point was? Money? Or maybe the fire was the main purpose, to cripple the museum, and whoever set the fire couldn’t bear to destroy the engine? Oh, but that would mean the person had to know it was there, which points to an inside job.”

  I sat back and stared at her. “Marty, why are you assuming that the museum and its collection was the primary target? It was a big warehouse, and there were others involved. James said they had to look at everybody.”

  “Unless this was one of those creepy arson-for-fun crimes, do you know of anything else there worth destroying? The fact that the prize fire engine has gone missing kind of points straight at the museum, don’t you think?”

  She had a point—trust Marty to connect the dots. Interesting that she’d gone straight to motive. “At the museum, or at the warehouse? The night watchman knew it was there—it’s kind of hard to miss an antique fire engine. It’s not small.”

  “And the night watchman is dead. Was he careless, or did somebody else make sure he ended up that way? You know anything about him?”

  “Just that he was a retired firefighter, so he shouldn’t have been careless. The police don’t talk to me, and there’s no reason they should. James came to me to ask what I knew about the museum and their collections. Period.”

  “He didn’t come to me?” Marty grumbled. “I probably know more than you do about who’s who and what’s what around here.”

  She was right about that, but I wasn’t about to tell her that her cousin didn’t trust her to keep her mouth shut. “Granted. But this investigation has just begun, and things are changing fast. It started out as a simple fire, and then the firemen found the body. The death could have been an accident, or it could have been deliberate, but the police have to investigate both the arson and a possible murder. Now it looks like there’s also been a theft, which complicates things. The FBI were already involved informally, and they’re just waiting to be invited to the party. Who knows where things will go from here?”

  “Hey, don’t forget that the Fireman’s Museum has ties to the city. We could throw municipal corruption into the mix while we’re at it.” Marty’s usual good humor appeared to have been restored. She had little respect for the current administration.

  “Yes, there is that.” I’d have to understand that connection a bit better before I could guess how the city would benefit from any of this. “But none of it is really our business, is it?” I waited to see how she would respond. Based on her long and intricate history with the city and its citizens, Marty seemed to feel entitled to meddle in affairs at all levels.

  She cocked her head at me curiously. “Why not? You’re part of the collections community, and so am I. You’ve said it before: what harms one local institution reflects on all of us. If it’s proved that somebody died because of whatever might be going on at the Fireman’s Museum, then we all suffer—we don’t need those kinds of headlines. And you and I, we have insights that the police and even the mighty FBI lack. I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to sit on the sidelines and watch, not if I can do something.”

  I sighed. That was exactly what James had been worried about. In some ways Marty was right. But James was also right, about keeping civilians out of the mix. I was caught in the middle. “Okay, I’ll give you that. But I don’t know what to do next.”

  Marty sprang up. “I’m going to go give Jimmy a piece of my mind.” When she saw the look of dismay on my face, she said, “Don’t worry, I’ll leave you out of this. I figured out the switch all by myself, didn’t I? And I can find out if there’s anything new today, like autopsy results. See you!” And with that she was gone, leaving me feeling drained.

  Eric peered cautiously around the door. “All clear? What was that all about?”

  “Come in and shut the door,” I said wearily. When he had, I said, “You might as well know this, because there’s a chance you might get some phone calls from the press or the police, and you should be prepared. That warehouse fire? Remember the pictures I showed you? Both Agent Morrison and Marty believe that there was a robbery involved—the fire engine that Marty’s family gave the Fireman’s Museum seems to have been removed before the fire and a different one put in its place. Which means that the fire may have been deliberate, and it’s not clear whether the death was related. And we shouldn’t be talking about any of this.”

  “Wow,” Eric said. “And here I thought the museum world was supposed to be kind of stuffy.”

  Poor Eric—he was learning fast. “All this is off the record. James has asked what I know about the museum and their collections, and the director, who I had never met until this week. Look, if you do get any calls, pass them on to me. But I hope it won’t come to that.”

  I managed to get some more work done before Latoya knocked on my door frame. “A moment, Nell?”

  “Sure. Come on in.” This was unusual. Somehow Latoya always made me come to her.

  She sat gracefully, tucking her long legs under the chair before beginning. “I’ve found a candidate for registrar that I’m rather excited about, and I wondered if you’d have time for an interview?”

  “Of course.” I knew how important the position was to the smooth running of the Society, and how badly we needed to fill the vacancy. “Tell me about…him? Her?”

  “Him. His name is Nicholas Naylor. He brings an interesting mix of skills—he was a history major as an undergraduate, but he’s also done a lot of software development, particularly for cultural applications.”

  I settled back in my chair. “That does sound interesting, not that I know much about that side of things. What brings him to us?”

  “It’s not that he needs the job—currently he’s working at Penn. But he’d like more autonomy to work on his software programs. I’ve told him what Alfred was using as software, and he said he could improve on it. And it wouldn’t cost us anything above his salary. I see it as a win-win situation.”

  I wasn’t so sure. We’d paid dearly for that state-of-the-art system not long ago, and the late Alfred Findley had barely begun to explore its possibilities. He was the only one who had really understood the system, which he had quickly dubbed Cassandra, because she was always spitting out reports filled with doom and gloom. Still, we’d invested in it, and I was leery of starting over so soon, especially with someone
I didn’t know. “Does he expect to market this software? Because I wouldn’t want him to use the Society as a stepping-stone and then leave us in the lurch after a year or two. I’d rather see someone who is willing to make a long-term commitment to this place.”

  Latoya nodded once. “Of course. I don’t think this is about the money or selling his program. From what he’s told me, it sounds as though it’s pretty closely tailored to each individual institution and its needs. Can you at least give him an interview and let me know what you think?”

  “Of course. His skills sound intriguing, even if he doesn’t work out for the position here. Any other likely candidates?”

  She shrugged. “A few, but nobody who impresses me as much as Nicholas, at least on paper. I’ve already met with him.”

  “When can he come in?”

  “Tomorrow? As I said, he’s currently employed, but he’s in the city, so he could meet with you early in the morning before he goes to work. Does that work for you?”

  I thought it might, but I needed to check with Eric first. I walked over to the door and stuck my head out. “Eric, do I have anything on my calendar for tomorrow early?”

  He punched a couple of keys on his computer. “No, ma’am. It looks open. Do you want to add something?”

  “Yes—pencil in an interview for the registrar position first thing in the morning. I’ll confirm with you once it’s set up.” I turned back to Latoya. “Give this Nicholas a call and tell him coming in before he goes to work will be fine, then let me know if he can make it and what time.”

  Latoya stood up. “Thank you, Nell. I’ll do that and get back to you. Oh, and I’ll have that information on the Fireman’s Museum collections later today.” When she left, I went back to my desk, sat down, and thought.

  I hadn’t had any part in the hiring of our last registrar, and even if I had, the nature and demands of the position had changed substantially in the years Alfred had worked here. The Society was a collections-based institution, and those collections had been growing for well over a century. Unfortunately the tracking systems had failed to keep up, from the beginning. It was easy to imagine the very early days, when one curator/librarian could probably keep all the information in his head. Then had come the era of handwritten cards and the arrival of the first card catalog. Some order had been imposed, but as the collections expanded, classification systems had changed, and the physical distribution of the collections had changed even more often. By the later twentieth century the whole thing was all but out of our control. And then the digital age had arrived.