Fire Engine Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  Jennifer laughed politely. I noticed she was keeping a watchful eye on Peter, who indeed looked like he needed support. His complexion was greyish, his hair was greasy, and there was a reddish blotch—ketchup?—on his silk tie. As I had suspected, under normal circumstances Jennifer would not have been included in an august gathering such as this, but either Peter had dragged her along for companionship, or she was there to make sure he didn’t do anything unforgivable in front of a major philanthropic organization as well as his peers.

  As I watched, Peter pulled an inhaler from his pocket and breathed in a puff. He noticed me watching and said apologetically, “The stress has been awful. And I hate events like this, but I have to be here.”

  Jennifer laid a hand on his arm. “Gary could have handled it, Peter.”

  He shook her off. “I know, but it’s important that I show my face here, Jennifer. You understand, don’t you, Nell?”

  “All too well.”

  At the dais at the far end of the room, it appeared that the Bench people were preparing to launch into their spiel. Time for me to work the crowd. “Peter, let me know if there’s anything else I can do. Jennifer, nice to see you again. Call me if I can help with anything.”

  “Thank you, Nell. I may take you up on that,” Jennifer replied.

  “Bye, Nell,” Peter said, his tone dismal.

  I dove back into the crowd. I waved at a couple of Society board members, wondering which of their institutions they were there to represent. The Old Guard of Philadelphia tended to sit on multiple boards, and I hoped they didn’t have to wrestle with conflicts of interest too often. Still, sometimes their names on our letterhead were enough to spur giving, and I wasn’t going to complain.

  I recognized quite a few other faces, not that I could put names to them all. For all that Philadelphia had a population of one and a half million, we moved in small circles within it. This was my tribe gathered here. Was one of them capable of murder, arson, and fraud?

  Probably. I knew full well how invested people became in their collections, both the getting and the keeping. I looked at the near-empty wineglass in my hand: better stop with one, if I wanted to keep a clear head.

  I listened with one ear to the doughty representative of the mighty foundation, who outlined what sounded like a fairly reasonable plan for allocating scarce resources among so many worthy candidates. I noticed that one fiftyish man stopped to talk to Peter, while Jennifer stepped back and watched them, looking anxious. I didn’t recognize the man, but as the speaker wound down, I edged in his direction, at the same time that Peter and Jennifer made their farewells and drifted toward the door.

  The man stayed behind, giving perfunctory attention to the speaker, and more attention to the highball glass in his hand. It took him a moment to focus on me, even when I stood in his line of sight. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Nell Pratt, president of the Antiquarian Society. You know Peter Ingersoll? Terrible thing about the collection.” My words came out in a rush, because I didn’t want to give the man an opening to brush me off.

  Finally he focused, noticed my hand, and gave me a brief handshake. “Walter Barnes. Yes, it’s an awful thing. I’m on the board.”

  Score! I knew him by reputation: he managed a major real estate development company in the area. “I understand from Peter that people have been providing a lot of support in rebuilding the collections?”

  He looked at me more sharply, and I wondered if he wondered how I knew, so I enlightened him. “Peter asked me to see what records the Society had about your collection. I was happy to help him out.”

  Walter seemed to relax just a bit. “We appreciate it. Yes, people have been very helpful.”

  “So you’ll be able to reopen on schedule?”

  Walter’s eyes were roaming the crowd. “What? Oh, yes, I think so.”

  “Are you associated with the fire department?” I thought I’d get in one last shot, before he found an excuse to move on.

  He turned his full attention back to me. “Why do you ask that?”

  I smiled innocently. “I’m kind of intrigued by the museum’s corporate structure. Unusual, isn’t it? But it seems to have worked well for the Fireman’s Museum. I wish we had that kind of enthusiastic involvement.”

  “Yes. Thank you. Excuse me—there’s someone I need to talk to. Nice to meet you.” He moved away quickly. If I’d been the sensitive type, I might have been offended at being dismissed so summarily. As it was, I wondered why I made him uncomfortable. I made a mental note to tell Shelby to check him out thoroughly in the morning.

  CHAPTER 17

  The next day I had hoped once again for a peaceful morning, but as usual, that didn’t happen. I arrived at my office and stopped at Eric’s desk to say hello.

  “How’d the event go?” he asked.

  “Good. Make sure you get a copy of the foundation’s new guidelines—they should be posted on the Bench website today.”

  “Anything for us from the foundation?”

  I was tickled that he used the term us. He hadn’t been at the Society very long, but apparently he’d taken it to heart. “I’ll have to read through the details, but it’s possible. Oh, and give Shelby a copy, too, will you?”

  I had barely settled myself behind my desk with my coffee when Marty appeared and threw herself into a chair. “Good morning to you, too, Marty,” I said. “Please, make yourself at home. What can I do for you?”

  “What you can do for me is tell me what you and James are doing about the Fireman’s Museum.”

  I should have known she wouldn’t stay out of it. “What makes you think we’re doing anything?” I asked innocently.

  Marty saw right through me. “The FBI’s been invited to the party. The museum community is involved. I just put two and two together.”

  “What has James said?”

  “He’s trying not to say anything, and he wants me to mind my own business. I reminded him that this is my business. You willing to share?”

  Was there no way to keep a secret here? I contemplated my options: bring Marty up to speed and risk annoying James and the FBI, or shut Marty out and tick her off. Definitely a lose-lose proposition. But James had assigned me to the museum side of this investigation, and he couldn’t deny that Marty was in the thick of that, so I’d have to go with Marty.

  “Marty, let me remind you that James considers you”—I searched for a term that wouldn’t offend her—“somewhat unpredictable,” I began. Marty’s mouth twitched. “He asked me to see if I could pick up any talk among my colleagues, but I really haven’t had a chance to do that yet. I asked Shelby to check our files and see what she could find out about the museum’s staff and board members.”

  “You could have asked me,” Marty muttered.

  “I know.” I thought about trying to defend my choice and gave up. Marty was a straight shooter and knew everybody, but she had no patience for tact. “But if you want to help, do you know anybody associated with the museum? Or the board?”

  “My cousin Selden Pepper.”

  Why was I not surprised? “Who’s he?” I didn’t recognize the name.

  “Well, he’s more like a second cousin, and before you ask, I’m not sure James remembers that he exists, and you know he doesn’t socialize much with the family. Or maybe they don’t socialize with him. Anyway. Selden’s the token starving artist in the family—he paints. The museum asked him to do a painting of the place a few years ago, for some fundraiser. It was a raffle prize. That meant he had to spend some time there, inside and out.”

  “Okay,” I said cautiously. “Have you talked to him?”

  “Of course. And don’t worry—he has nothing to do with them these days, so he can’t tip anybody off. Besides, I’m one of his biggest patrons, so he’ll be careful.”

  “I get it, Marty. Did he have anything useful to say?”

  “He got kind of chummy with Jennifer, because he was in and out at all sorts of odd times—he likes to work from life,
rather than from photos, but he doesn’t like to work when there’s a crowd around. So he’d check with her to see what the foot traffic looked like or if there was a school group scheduled—in other words, when the coast was clear. Naturally they got to talking. Anyway, you wouldn’t believe how incestuous that place is—everybody’s involved with firefighting somehow. Even Jennifer—she used to be married to a Philadelphia fireman, but he died on the job. The pension kind of sucked, so she was offered the job at the museum to make up the difference.”

  “Interesting. But isn’t it hard for her to be there, and to be reminded about her husband’s death?”

  “Her choice. I’d guess she needs the money.”

  “I’ve met her, and seen her with Peter. Are they close?”

  “You mean, like, involved close?” Marty thought for a second. “Huh. Selden didn’t say anything about that, but it was a couple of years ago. Or maybe he never saw them together. Besides, so what? They’re both unattached.”

  “I don’t know. I’m just collecting facts at the moment. Do you know Gary O’Keefe?”

  “Everybody in Philadelphia knows Gary. Maybe Peter’s name is on the letterhead, but Gary’s the face for the museum. Nice guy.”

  “Is he hurting for money?”

  Marty shook her head. “Personally? Not that I’ve ever heard. He had to leave the department because of a work-related injury, but that was in the old days, and I think they looked after their own better back then. But like Jennifer, the city found a place for him at the museum, and he’s been there ever since. You haven’t met him?”

  “I did, first at Allan Brigham’s funeral procession and then when I gave Peter the copies of the information from our files, right after the fire. I had the impression that he invited himself along because Peter really needed someone to keep an eye on him. Of course, if Gary’s curator he should be concerned about the collections. He seemed like a really nice guy. Is there something more I should know about him?”

  “If you say one bad word to him about the fire department or anyone in it, he’ll bite your head off. So he hasn’t said anything about the fire engine?”

  “Not to me. You’d think the curator would notice the discrepancies, wouldn’t you? James said nobody from the museum had mentioned it to the police or the FBI. So that’s all Selden gave you?”

  “Just about. Like I said, he was involved there for a short time maybe three or four years ago, and he hasn’t been back. Is Shelby in the know about what’s going on?”

  “Yes, she is. I’m only one person, and I can’t talk to everyone and do research for the FBI and run this place single-handed. I’m not worried about Shelby spreading this around.”

  “I believe you. But James is going to have a fit.”

  “Listen, he asked me to look into things from our side. He didn’t say how. He’s going to have to trust me.”

  “Hey, I’m just saying. I know he thinks I’m the world’s biggest blabbermouth, but I can keep my mouth shut when it matters. Well, I told Selden, but that was because I knew he could help. Besides, he’s family.”

  “Okay, you told Selden and I told Shelby. Let’s hope it ends there. And let’s hope we learn something useful soon!”

  “Amen.” She sprang out of her chair. “Well, I’ll leave you to…whatever you’re doing.”

  No sooner had Marty left than Shelby walked in, clutching a stack of papers and looking very pleased with herself. “Don’t tell me you’ve finished already?” I said, nodding at her to close the door as she came in.

  “Not finished, no, but I’ve got the basic outlines, and I want to run this stuff by you before I dig any deeper.”

  “Sit and speak.”

  Shelby sat. “How much do you know about the Fireman’s Museum? Just so I don’t end up repeating myself.”

  “It’s small. The nonprofit was created back in the seventies, I think, to manage it. Generally well regarded. That’s about it. You want to pick up from there?”

  “Sure will. You’re right about small, or at least partly. I pulled up their 990.”

  I interrupted. “Good job!” All nonprofits were required to file 990 tax forms with the federal government, and the submitted forms were accessible to the public online. They provided a good snapshot of each nonprofit institution: management, finances, funders, et cetera. I was happy to hear that Shelby knew how useful they were.

  “Hey, I may not have your wealth of experience, Madame President, but I’ve been doing this for a while.”

  “Points for you. Go on. What did you learn?”

  “Management: tiny. I make it six or seven employees—the president, who you’ve met. A secretary, who I’d guess doubles as development person, public relations director, and about anything else that comes along.”

  “You’ve met her, remember? At the event at the Marriott? And she was at the Bench Foundation event last night—Jennifer Phillips. She and Peter Ingersoll seem tight.”

  “Well, despite her multiple titles, the job pays diddly-squat. Then there’s a couple of vice presidents, the curator, and one or two other employees—the 990 doesn’t explain what they do. The pay is uniformly pathetic.”

  “Interesting. I’ve heard that the fire department provides a lot of the staffing on a volunteer basis, but the actual employees must be making money somewhere, if what you say is true.”

  “Or not—which might give somebody a good motive to make off with a fire truck.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “You have anything else?”

  “The board listing. Funny—the board is huge. The fire commissioner is a member of the board, no surprise. But there are like thirty people total.”

  That really was quite a lot for a small institution. “Any names you recognize? People who overlap with our board?”

  “Nope, but you’d probably recognize some.”

  “I met one of the board members last night, Walter Barnes. Do you have anything on him?”

  “Just the name. Nothing much in our files. Want me to find out more?”

  “Please. He didn’t seem to want to talk to me and ducked out as fast as he could.”

  “And you of course assumed he had a dark and dirty reason. Sure, I’ll see what I can find.”

  “How do the museum’s overall financials look?”

  “Okay, I guess. They haven’t had any outside grants lately. They sell a couple of publications, and the gift shop makes a little money. Nothing jumps out at me, except that I’m not really sure how they stay in business. Or why anyone works for them, unless they’ve got other sources of income.”

  “I’m not sure how the museum’s relationship with the city works, but I hear what you’re saying.” I sat back and thought for a moment. “So basically what we’re seeing is a nice, simple nonprofit organization that plenty of people like. I don’t think it’s appropriate that we do in-depth profiles of all the board members, aside from the twitchy Mr. Barnes, apart from what you can pull from our own files. Besides, if the FBI really cares, they’re better equipped to do that. And thanks for checking. Anything else?”

  “Oh yeah. I checked what we had in our files on their current employees.”

  “Shelby, how late did you stay last night?”

  “Late enough that my hubby actually made dinner for himself. Don’t worry about it—I was having fun. Besides, I like looking through the files here. People have collected such weird information, like what kind of dog someone has.”

  “Hey, it’s a good way to get a conversation started at an event. Don’t knock it—you never know what might be useful. It’s all about making a connection with people before you hit them up for a contribution.”

  “Hey, I’m from Virginia, remember? I learned all that at my mama’s knee.”

  “Well, you’re way ahead of where I was when I started. Okay, what’ve you got on Peter?”

  “Forty-three. Undergrad degree from Kenyon, and a master’s in public administration from Yale. Grew up in New Jersey, lives in Center City
now. He’s been involved with the Fireman’s Museum for about six years, and had a couple of museum jobs before that, in New Jersey and Delaware. Divorced, no kids. A couple of minor publications. That help?”

  “Not really. Anything on the curator, Gary O’Keefe?”

  “Oh yeah, there’s plenty of information on him, because he gets lots of press. Everybody loves him—if you want to set up a tour of the museum or check out the archives, or if you want information about anything relating to firefighting from Ben Franklin on, Gary’s the go-to guy in Philadelphia.”

  “I know—I’ve met him. He seems to be one of those people who truly loves what he’s doing. Oh, and you might add a note that he retired from the fire department several years ago because of a work-related injury. I wonder if Latoya knows him? She told me she once dated a firefighter.”

  “Speaking of Latoya, does she know what you’re—we’re doing?”

  “No, and let’s keep it that way. I think she’d disapprove. She’s very by-the-book, even though the FBI did ask for our help, so we have a legitimate reason to be asking questions. Sort of. And you’re just doing your job—donor research—at my request.” I had a feeling James hadn’t expected me to be doing this kind of digging. He’d probably assumed I’d have some nice lunches and network with my peers, trying to work in a discreet question here and there. But that wouldn’t necessarily be easy, because (a) it was hard to know who knew what about the extent of the Fireman’s Museum losses, (b) I hate to gossip, and (c) at the moment I had no time to make the rounds having lunch with the spectrum of Philadelphia administrators. I figured the Society’s prospective donor files, some of which dated back decades, were a pretty good proxy. Couple those with what was available online these days, and we could find out a whole lot about people, without anybody even noticing. “Anything else interesting in his background?”

  “Firefighter through and through. Joined the department straight out of high school. You’re right—he got sidelined by an injury about the time the museum administration was being formalized. He signed on, and he’s been there ever since. I couldn’t find one bad word about him in the press, and he’ll give an interview to anyone who asks, from high school newspapers on up.”