Fire Engine Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “Thank you,” I whispered into his chest. “For everything.”

  CHAPTER 26

  I awoke to full sunlight, and it took me a moment to orient myself. Unfamiliar bedroom. Just me in the bed. Sound of running water from the bathroom. Okay, I deduced: James’s apartment, the morning after, and any fireworks involved only the dead arsonist at the Society, not a night of passion. Scott was still dead, and the police were waiting to talk to me. And James came out of the bathroom wearing nothing more than a towel, looking quite comfortable in his skin. I gulped.

  “Good, you’re awake.” He smiled. “Marty’ll be here in half an hour. There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

  “What time is it?” It came out a croak again, my clogged throat a reminder of last night’s events.

  “Just past eight. How do you feel?”

  “Better. Coffee should help. What did you tell Marty?”

  “I told her you needed a complete change of clothes ASAP. Nothing about the rest. She’ll probably hear about it on the news and be mad as hell when she gets here, but I wasn’t in the mood to explain.”

  Belatedly I took in the fact that I was not wearing the soggy, smoky clothes from yesterday, but rather a nice, plush terry-cloth robe with the logo of an expensive hotel. I had no idea when and how the switch had happened. I could imagine how Marty had taken James’s request. And did she have a clue what size anything I wore? “I bet she was thrilled.”

  “I can’t say—I hung up on her.”

  Marty was not going to be a happy camper. “Tell me you came by this honestly?” I said, holding the lapels of the robe.

  He didn’t answer but just grinned. He grabbed up some clothes and went out into the other room to dress, allowing me some privacy. I hoped Marty would come up with something wearable. James was right: there was no way I could brave a police interview wearing yesterday’s clothes. I wandered barefoot out to the kitchen. James, now fully dressed (sigh), wordlessly handed me a mug of coffee. I perched on a high stool and sipped, studying the kitchen, which was as neat as the rest of the place. Verging on spartan, actually. “Do you spend much time here?” I asked innocently.

  “I like to live simply, and I don’t need much.”

  “Well, if your FBI career bombs, you can always hire out as a house cleaner.”

  He sat on a stool on the other side of the small kitchen island. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “So, what happens now?”

  “You tell your story to the police. If he’s up to it, Peter will tell his story to them. If all went well last night, someone will have picked up Jennifer and then we’ll have her side of things. Or not, if she clams up. If we’re all very, very lucky, all the stories will match up and the case will be closed. Finding the missing fire engine would be icing on the cake.”

  I realized that I still held out hope that Peter would not face any legal issues, probably out of misguided pity. What had he known, and when? What had he ignored out of denial? “How much of this do you think you can pin on Jennifer?”

  “Depends on how much she was involved. Will she play dumb?”

  “She will if she’s smart enough, and I think she is. She’ll probably use Scott as her fall guy—she’s already setting that up with the alibi confusion. I can’t say I knew Scott very well, but I’d bet Jennifer was the brains behind the whole operation—he didn’t seem bright enough to have thought through a plan like this, although he certainly seemed angry enough to carry it out. Sad to think of her, though—all those years doing the lowly stuff at the museum, feeling bitter about the whole thing. Scott said it was about the money for her—not enough money from her late husband, and then having to accept what amounts to a handout in the form of that museum job. I wonder how and when she and Scott connected. Peter told me that Scott used to work security at the museum.”

  “We’ll find out, I’m sure, now that we know what we’re looking for. More coffee? Food?”

  “Please, to both. And it seems pretty likely that Scott was behind those other fires. He said something about Jennifer making sure that Peter didn’t have an alibi for those times. I’m sure Scott enjoyed the practice.”

  We were sharing fresh cups of coffee and toasted bagels when Marty banged on the door. James went to open it, then stood back as she barged in, looking like the proverbial wet hen, but blessedly carrying a garment bag. She took one look at us—particularly me in my fluffy robe and not much else—and said acidly, “You called me out at dawn because Nell here needed a change of clothes after a nice roll in the hay?”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that, Marty,” James said. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, and an explanation. Good morning, Nell. Did you have a nice evening?”

  “Not exactly. I take it you haven’t seen the paper yet this morning?” When Marty shook her head, James and I exchanged glances, and he nodded at me to continue. I began, “Peter Ingersoll’s brother Scott broke into the Society last night. He tried to start a fire, and he was planning to kill Peter and me so we could take the blame. I managed to trap him in the vault, and he died when the halon system kicked in, triggered by his own fire.”

  For once Marty was rendered speechless. She looked at James, who nodded. Then she looked at me, her eyes wide, and bounded toward me and grabbed me in a hug. I was startled, to say the least—I had never seen Marty hug anybody—and half my coffee sloshed over the countertop. Marty finally released me and stepped back. “Are you all right? Well, of course you are, because you’re sitting here in front of me. What happened? What are you doing here?”

  “Slow down, Marty. I have to be at the police station by ten thirty, and I have to shower and get dressed, but I think that leaves time to give you the short version.”

  Once again I explained why Peter had been at the Society last night, and what had happened once Scott arrived. Marty’s face grew grimmer and grimmer, and lines I didn’t realize she had grew deeper. “So he died? In that room?”

  I swallowed. It was going to take me awhile to get used to that. “He did. I hadn’t realized how quickly halon could act, and how toxic it could be.”

  “Thank God we moved the Terwilliger Collection out of there!”

  I took one look at James, and we both burst out laughing, leaving Marty staring at us in bewilderment. “What?” she said.

  I finally managed to say, “I’m glad to see your priorities haven’t changed. But I know what you mean—at least the papers that were in the room are safe. I can’t say as much for the books in the reference room.”

  “Oh, crap—I hadn’t even thought of that,” Marty said. “We’re going to have to do something about that ASAP. I don’t suppose you have a disaster plan for this kind of thing?”

  I stared blankly at her until she said, “Yeah, right. No plan—why am I not surprised? The most important thing is to stabilize whatever got wet, and the Society hasn’t got any space left to handle that, much less any space that’s got the right temperature and humidity controls. So, that means we need professional help, and fast. I know somebody at the Northeast Document Conservation Center—I’ll give them a call and see how fast they can get here. We’ll have to get a rough inventory of what’s in the room, but it’s more important to get them treated. Too bad Nicholas isn’t up to speed on the catalog so he could tell us what should be in that room, but I think we can manage. Thank goodness it wasn’t the best stuff. And it’s lucky that we’re closed today, so we’ll have today and tomorrow to sort things out. Do you think we’ll be able to open on schedule?”

  “Marty, I don’t know. I wasn’t paying much attention to the damage to the building at the time.”

  Marty looked contrite. “Of course you weren’t. I’m sorry, again.”

  “It’s okay—you only just found out. Actually I don’t think the structural damage is that bad, but once we get the books sorted out, we’ll have to get a crew in to clean up. And replace the halon system in the vault with something newer.” And less deadly.


  “Oh, damn, you’re right. And we’d better call the rest of the board and let them know what’s going on before they hear it on the news—I assume there will be news? Shoot, of course there will—a fire and a death. And we’d better put our own spin on it for the next round in the press today. At least Saturday’s usually a slow news day. Can you handle an emergency board meeting today? Tomorrow?” She was off again, barely stopping for breath.

  I had to break in. “Marty, right now I need to get dressed. You call the board, so at least they’ll know what’s happening. If we can get a majority together tomorrow, we can meet then. I’ll leave all the rest in your capable hands. If you’ll be at the Society this afternoon, I’ll come by after I’m done with the police. But, James? I’d like to talk to Peter, if I can. Can you arrange that?”

  “I think so. You go shower, and I’ll check on all the other stuff.”

  I fled to the bedroom, taking with me the clothes Marty had brought. I had no idea where they’d come from, since I outweighed her and there was no way her clothes would fit me, but she’d guessed well as far as sizes went.

  Showered, dried, and even wearing makeup—Marty had been remarkably thorough, so I wouldn’t have to face the police looking like a ghost—I returned to find them bickering amiably right where I’d left them. James caught sight of me first and stopped talking. Marty eyed me critically and said, “I chose well, didn’t I? Shoes okay?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine, Marty, and thank you. Where on earth did you come up with the clothes on such short notice?”

  “A friend of mine runs a high-end consignment shop near Rittenhouse Square. I borrowed her keys. You’re getting some great bargains there.”

  I cringed at the thought of having to pay her back for what she’d brought—definitely a cut above my usual wardrobe. Maybe I could write it off as a business expense. Or bill it to the FBI? After all, my clothes had been destroyed in the line of duty, sort of. “Any updates while I was in the shower?”

  James got in the first word. “Jennifer is in custody—the police found her before the news got out and brought her in for questioning. They have enough to keep her for a bit while we sort out the details. Peter is holding his own, but he’s still in the hospital. He’s asking to talk to you.”

  “And I’m meeting the cleanup agency at the Society at noon,” Marty added.

  “I’m impressed. You two work fast,” I said. “What’re you going to tell the board, Marty?”

  “That the Society’s intrepid leader valiantly fought off a vicious attack by an arsonist and saved the day.”

  “A bit over the top, don’t you think?” I protested.

  Marty sobered. “Maybe. But it’s true, you know—if you hadn’t done what you did, things could have been a lot worse.”

  Except for Scott, I thought, but didn’t give it voice.

  “Nell, we should leave now,” James said. “We don’t want to keep the police waiting.”

  “You’re still coming with me?” I asked.

  “If you want me there—not that I have any doubt that you can handle them yourself.”

  “I want you there.”

  We exchanged smiles, until Marty snorted. “Time for that stuff later. Now we need to get moving.”

  James drove to police headquarters at the Roundhouse and accompanied me in, then shepherded me through the ranks of officialdom until we reached the interview. His badge dispelled any issue of his presence, although he stayed silent in the background as I told my story. And told it again. I had nothing to hide, and since I had actually been an invited participant in the investigation, thanks to James, it was easy to stick to the facts. I refused to guess why anyone had done anything; I was certainly curious myself, and I hoped that Peter could fill in some of the biggest holes. But the basic outline of events was simple enough: I had asked Peter to meet me at the Society at Jennifer’s request; his brother Scott had broken in (the police had found the broken window at the back of the building); and Scott had tried to burn down the Society, or as much as he could, and had planned to kill Peter and me along the way. I had to include the story behind the fire engine switch, although I regretted that Peter would have to deal with that, too. In the end, the police detective thanked me and asked that I come by to sign a statement in a day or two. He escorted me out to a waiting area, but James stayed behind to exchange a few words with him. It looked as though things went smoothly, because they parted with hearty handshakes. As well they should, for together—with my help—they had just solved both the recent string of arsons and the suspicious death of Allan Brigham, plus a few crimes they hadn’t even been looking for. A good day all around for Philadelphia law enforcement.

  I felt drained by the time we made it back to the street, but I wasn’t done. “Can we talk to Peter now? Will the police mind?”

  “Nell, I’m beginning to feel like a mother hen here. You need to get something to eat before you fall over. Then you can talk to Peter—I’ve fixed it with the police.”

  “And I need to see what Marty’s up to at the Society. Then I promise I’ll go home and sleep for a week.”

  He guided me to a small restaurant just off Market Street, and we ate a pleasant if forgettable meal. Our minds were not on the food, and we seemed to be wandering through a minefield of things we didn’t want to talk about right now, including murder and mayhem and…us. But I found I was curiously content letting him take charge, which surprised me. I had always fancied myself the independent type.

  “Which hospital?” I asked as I finished my coffee.

  “Jefferson—it was the closest ER. We can walk.”

  And so we did, and I stood back and watched as James flashed his badge and got us past the reception desk and the nurse’s station and into Peter’s room, where he was lying with his eyes closed, looking like a medieval effigy, even to the grey color of his skin. The plastic oxygen cannula snaking around his head kind of spoiled the image, though.

  I approached the bed and said softly, “Peter?”

  He opened his eyes, and his expression lightened when he saw me. “Nell! You’re all right?”

  “I’m fine, Peter.” I patted his hand.

  “And your building?” he asked anxiously.

  “Minor damage. A few books lost. Nothing irreplaceable.” And then I was struck by the awful realization that he might not know what had happened to his brother. “Peter, do you know about Scott?”

  Peter nodded. “He’s dead, isn’t he? I guessed as much. Every time I’ve asked a nurse about anything, they’ve put on a smile and told me not to worry. It’s all right, Nell—there was nothing else you could have done. He brought it on himself.”

  He looked past me and saw James, and his face fell. “I’ve talked to the police, you know, but I thought Nell deserved to hear the whole story from me,” he told James.

  I intervened quickly. “Peter, James is here for me, not in any official capacity. If you want him to leave, that’s okay.”

  He waved a weak hand. “No, it’s all right. I want to get this out, even though it makes me feel like a fool. I should have seen it coming.”

  “Are you up to it? I was worried about you yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry—it was pretty rough. Everything that’s gone wrong at our museum, and then Scott showing up like that, and the fire—it all just hit me at once. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you. When I got here, they gave me some heavy-duty medication to get my lungs open again, and I feel much better. Please, sit down.” I pulled the only guest chair—a hard and slippery plastic number—closer to the bed and sat down. James elected to lean against a wall.

  Peter seemed to be fumbling, now that he had his audience. “I don’t know where to start,” he said.

  “Can you explain why Scott…did what he did?” I prompted gently.

  Peter nodded. “I told you, my—our father was a firefighter, and a good one—you know, lots of heroic rescues and that kind of thing. Loved giving statements to the loc
al press, clutching a wet kitten. I thought he was God when I was growing up, and more than anything I wanted to be like him. Unfortunately I couldn’t—this damn asthma. Dad pretended to be understanding, but then he pinned his hopes on Scott.”

  “Scott was younger?”

  Peter nodded again. “A couple of years. But he was everything I never was—strong, athletic, cocky, great with girls. The thing is, no way did he want to follow in Dad’s footsteps. He had his own ideas. He and Dad had some really nasty fights, and sometimes Scott moved out of the house for a while until Dad cooled down. Dad would just look at me and shake his head.” Peter stopped, his chest heaving.

  “Peter, you don’t have to do this now,” I said. “Let me guess—everybody hoped that things would work out between you when you two grew up, but Scott couldn’t let it go?” Peter nodded. “When you were growing up, did you ever think Scott liked to set fires?”

  Peter shook his head vehemently. “It never occurred to me. I mean, Scott wasn’t stupid, or even destructive. Sure, it would have pissed Dad off, but Scott did that just fine by making what Dad would have called inappropriate lifestyle choices. He refused to go to college. He wouldn’t get a steady job—he even mooched off some girlfriends. He got into fights, a lot. He had a minor criminal record.”

  “And you lost contact with him?”

  Peter shrugged. “For a while. I cut him out of my life. I had to—he wasn’t changing, and I was moving on. I couldn’t help him, and he didn’t want me messing with his life. Then at Dad’s funeral a few years ago, he showed up late, wearing jeans. It was kind of insulting, but he didn’t make a scene or anything, and I appreciated that he’d come. Then I realized that he was all I had—our mother’s had Alzheimer’s for years—and we needed to reconnect.”

  From what Peter had just said, Scott sounded like an average guy gone wrong—stuck forever in some adolescent phase. Whether he was an arsonist was another question, one that I couldn’t answer. Maybe Celia could figure it out.

  “It must have worked, if he ended up working at your museum,” I said.