Monument to the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “It’s been known to happen, you know.” I grinned. “Don’t work too late.”

  “I’ll be fine. Good to see you again, Nell, even if it was over the report on a dead woman.”

  “Anytime. You know that.”

  I watched him as he strode off, headed for his office on Arch Street. Definitely worth watching. Then with a sigh, I turned to enter the station and wait for my train home.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next morning it was overcast, as was my mood. A death in the “family”—that is, the small community of museum administrators and all the personnel who kept such places going—was always a sad event, no matter how long expected. Philadelphia was an old city, one that still retained a certain Quaker reserve; a city that had faced down bankruptcy a decade or two ago, and whose interest groups still fought tooth and nail for whatever funds were available. It felt crass to peruse obituaries to see who might have left us something, but “Bequests” was a line item in our annual budget, and we needed to keep our eyes open. It occurred to me that maybe James had been asking indirectly if any museum administrator would be likely to hasten the death of someone who was expected to leave a tidy sum in her will. I sincerely hoped not, although I certainly knew of some presidents or board chairs who spent more time hand-holding high-dollar donors than they did with their own families. If one had a standing date for tea and crumpets at elderly Mrs. High-Dollar’s house, how hard would it be to slip something extra into her cup of Darjeeling? And if an eighty-five-year-old woman dies, apparently in her sleep, is anyone going to do a battery of tests looking for an exotic poison? Not likely. Such grim thoughts occupied me for the balance of my ride into the city.

  And gave me an idea.

  I arrived at the Society feeling more energized than when I had left home. I greeted Eric, nodding at his offer of coffee.

  “Remind me what’s on the calendar for today?” I asked.

  “You have a meeting scheduled at eleven with Phebe Fleming from the Water Works” Eric replied promptly.

  “Oh, right—she wanted to talk about some kind of joint project. Let me know when she arrives.”

  When Eric left for coffee, I went into my office and settled myself at my desk. I picked up the phone to call Shelby.

  “Hey, Nell,” she answered quickly. “You need something?”

  “I’ve got something I want to discuss with you. Nothing bad, just an idea for some forward planning, and I think you can help.”

  “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  Since her office was only twenty feet away, she could have made the trip quickly, but when she walked in I realized that she had intercepted Eric in the staff room and arrived with coffee for both of us. She deposited one mug on my blotter, then asked, “Door open or shut?”

  Here we go again. “Shut, please.”

  She shut the door, sat down, and said, “What’s up?”

  “I was thinking—” I began.

  “Always a dangerous pastime,” she said with a grin.

  I ignored her. “What do you know about how boards at places like ours are put together?”

  “Is this a trick question?” When I shook my head, she said slowly, “Well, I guess I’d have to say there are a few important criteria: members have to know something about and care about the particular specialty of the museum, whether it’s art or history or knitting or teapots; and they have to have money, or at least know a lot of people with money. And they have to be a good fit with the other members of the board—or at least, not actively feuding with any of them.”

  “That’s a pretty good summary. And how do we identify prospective board members?”

  “You really have been busy with that thinking, haven’t you? Okay, to answer you, that’s one reason why we keep good records—we can tell who’s been here for which event, and what they said to who. And we can tell who’s buddies with someone already on the board, so we know who could approach them. We can get a rough estimate of their net worth—things like property values are public information. And if we learn they have a boat bigger than a dinghy, or race their own horses, we can make some more guesses. Why? Are we looking for some new board members?”

  “Not right now, but I wondered if we should be more proactive about it. I think most of us here have a mental short list of who we’d like to see join the board, and there’s probably a good deal of overlap, but we may be missing some strong candidates and not even know it.”

  Shelby cocked her head and eyed me critically. “Nell, what’s this all about?”

  “I’m thinking we might want to put together a matrix of local nonprofit boards, to see who’s already committed or even overcommitted, who’s doing what for who, that kind of thing. With different criteria, like gender, race, estimated worth, location, whether they give money or great-grandmother’s ormolu clock in lieu of cash. I’m just noodling about this, but I think it would help us all focus, and save us wasted effort. I always wanted to do something like this when I was in your position, but I never found the time, and certainly nobody ever asked me. Right now we’ve got a good board, but I want to look beyond their circle of friends the next time a vacancy comes up. Which won’t be soon, I hope.”

  “I guess we’re lucky that most of them are under seventy at the moment. Unlike Adeline Harrison.” Shelby looked at me with a gleam in her eye.

  I met her look squarely, and we shared a wordless exchange. She was asking if this sudden idea of mine had anything to do with the death of Adeline. While I trusted Shelby—a trust she had earned—I didn’t feel comfortable sharing James’s gut feeling that there was something murky going on. I couldn’t tell Shelby that. “Yes. Poor Adeline.”

  “She seemed in good health the last time I saw her, a couple of weeks ago.” Shelby laid her next card on the table. “She was sharp as a tack.”

  “Yes, she always was,” I agreed.

  “That’s why I was surprised that she passed so suddenly.” Shelby made one more try to get me to say something more.

  “It certainly was unexpected.”

  Shelby stood up. “I don’t have anything pressing on the calendar. I can get right on this today. In case anybody else wants to take a look at it.” She raised one eyebrow.

  I kept my eyebrows firmly under control. “That’s great, Shelby. It would be good to have it soon.”

  “Of course. I’ll let you know what I come up with, Nell.” She left and headed down the hall to her office.

  Who belonged to which board was not secret—it was usually available on an organization’s website, or if they were a nonprofit, through a publicly available IRS Form 990. The issue was taking the time to assemble the information and line it up so we could see the big picture—and so I could share it with James.

  I was pleased that James had come to me with his suspicions. At the same time, I was pretty sure we both hoped that the similarity in the two deaths was nothing more than a coincidence. Why would anybody kill off aging board members or elderly members of the local upper crust? In most cases, board members didn’t get paid by institutions, and they didn’t wield a whole lot of power. Some of them had little active participation in the institution they governed—they might have joined a board because it gave them some social standing. They got their names in the paper now and then, and maybe a picture in the society section in the local papers. As far as I could remember, Adeline Harrison had been a thoroughly nice person who had done no harm to anyone. Maybe she was hiding a deep dark secret or two, but in recent years her life had been blameless, or so it appeared. Who could possibly want her dead?

  I assumed I would be hearing from Marty Terwilliger about Adeline’s death, and I didn’t have long to wait: she popped up in my doorway a few minutes later. She came and went as she chose, and Eric had given up trying to stop her from “dropping in” at will.

  Her mission was obvious when she shut the door behind her. “I’ll cut to the chase: Jimmy told me about Adeline.”

  “He called you?�
�� I said, stalling.

  “Nope, I heard about it and I called him. I saw her recently, and she was in fine form. I wondered if there was something more going on.”

  “Why would you think that? After all, she wasn’t young.”

  “Maybe I’m just naturally suspicious. I wondered if Jimmy had heard, and when he said yes, he sounded kind of funny.”

  “What did he tell you?” I countered cautiously.

  “That he’s suspicious, too. He tried to duck the question, but Jimmy’s never been able to lie to me, not even when we were kids. I don’t like it when Jimmy is suspicious, because he’s usually right. What are you doing about it?”

  I contemplated her for a moment before answering. Marty could be a steamroller, and she had no patience with evasions. She usually got what she wanted, and it saved time (at least for me) if I just went along with whatever that was.

  “James wanted to know what we have in our files about Adeline, which I’ve already given him. He mentioned an earlier death that he thought might—repeat, might—be connected, and said he’d send me what information he could on that one as soon as he received it. You have anything more?”

  “Apart from being ticked off that he didn’t come to me first? He knows I know everybody, and I know about a lot of the details they hope they’ve buried. I probably know more of the good stuff than your crowd here does. Not that I’d ever use it for anything crooked, but it comes in handy when I’m asking for a substantial contribution.”

  “So it’s not really blackmail, eh?” I said, and when she started to protest, I held up a hand. “Now, I’m not complaining, since the Society is on the receiving end of most of those contributions. Are you saying you have dirt on Adeline?”

  Marty dropped into the chair that Shelby had vacated, looking deflated. “Nope. She was exactly what she appeared to be—a good and decent person, the type they don’t make many of these days. Not a smudge on her reputation, not a blot on her record—nothing.”

  “So you think she died of natural causes?”

  Marty shrugged. “She was getting up there, goodness knows, but her father was ninety-six when he died, if I remember correctly. Question is, what’s got Jimmy’s knickers in a twist?”

  “Does that expression apply to men?” I asked innocently.

  Marty glared. “You know what I mean. Why is Jimmy even looking at this?”

  “It could be the FBI’s investigation if this other death he’s heard about in New Jersey is related.”

  “What, Freddy Van Deusen? Lifelong smoker, diabetic, and lazy to the bone. I knew him for forever. Why would his death be suspicious?”

  “Why am I not surprised that you knew that guy, too? I have no idea what makes James think his death is suspicious—maybe the pricking of his thumbs. He mentioned the case to me and said he hadn’t seen the file yet. You’re betting on natural causes? If that’s true, then the whole thing would go away. Which would be for the best.”

  “Of course,” she said crisply. “The Society has had enough bad press over the past few months without going looking for trouble, and if Adeline’s death is suspicious, we’ve got a problem. But, heck, if someone is going after the people who run nonprofits around here, I might be next on the list.” She looked remarkably cheerful at the idea.

  “Like that old book Someone is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe? Just substitute regional philanthropists for the chefs?”

  Marty gave a short bark of laughter, then looked away. “I liked Adeline,” she said, her eyes on the corner of the room. “If her death was natural, I’ll go to the funeral and I’ll mourn her. But if it wasn’t, something should be done about it.” She was silent a moment, then swiveled back to me. “So we wait to see what Jimmy turns up?”

  We? “Sounds like a plan. Are you headed back to the processing room?”

  “Yup. I need to keep an eye on Rich.”

  I had a sneaking suspicion that Marty’s presence there slowed things down rather than speeding them up, but I wasn’t about to interfere. “If Nicholas is there, could you send him to me?”

  “Sure thing. By the way, how’s he working out?”

  “Fairly well, I think. So far he’s lived up to his own billing—he really does know his software, and he picked up right where the former registrar left off.”

  “Glad to hear it. If I see him, I’ll let him know you want him.”

  “Thanks, Marty.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I started sorting through the correspondence on my desk and had barely gotten into drafting a reply to one letter when Nicholas rapped on my door. “Marty Terwilliger said you wanted to see me?” He stood, waiting, until I beckoned him in.

  “Yes, I did. Please, sit down. How’s the work going?”

  He sat and regarded me gravely. “I’m still importing some of the existing data into my system, and I’m more or less splitting my time between that and cataloging the new material that came in. Is there a problem?”

  “No, not at all. I think you’re doing a great job. I’m even beginning to think we’ll see the end of it during my lifetime.” I waited for a response to my mild joke, but he just stared at me blankly. Nicholas did not have any sense of humor that I could identify. I sighed inwardly. “I wanted to enlist your help on a special project. I know it’s kind of a digression from what you’ve been doing, but I’d like you to find the time. You’re familiar with the Water Works?”

  “On the river? Yes, the place is hard to miss. What about it?”

  “One of my colleagues at the Interpretive Center there is coming in for a meeting in about five minutes. She requested the meeting—she said they want to do an updated history of the Water Works, with an emphasis on how the river has been cleaned up in recent years, and they want to know what we have in our collections about past efforts. Not just about the site itself, but maybe reports on the state of the river, or waterborne illnesses, that kind of thing.”

  “Surely they’ve been through our materials before?”

  “No doubt, but you know what staff turnover is like, so assume we’re starting from scratch. Do you think that would be a good demonstration of your software?”

  “Of course, not that it’s a particularly difficult search. When do they want it?”

  “Phebe and I didn’t get into the details, but probably soon. She did mention that they want to take the project to the city for funding, and of course the deadline is only a few weeks away, at the end of the budget year. Nothing unusual there. Sound good to you?” Since I was his boss, although not his direct supervisor, I asked purely out of courtesy. I thought it would be a good chance for him to show off what he’d accomplished in the few months he’d been working with the Society’s collections.

  “I’d be happy to do it.”

  “Great—she’ll be here any minute. Sorry to dump it on you without warning, but she didn’t give me much, either.”

  Eric called out, “Ms. Fleming is here. Should I bring her up?”

  “Thanks, Eric—go right ahead.”

  Eric returned quickly, and Phebe walked briskly into my office. “Hi, Nell—thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Somebody up the line got a bee in his bonnet and decided this was a great idea and we should do something with it, like, immediately.”

  “Hi, Phebe.” When I was development director, we ran into each other periodically at various events and conferences around the city, and I’d always enjoyed her company. I was pleased that she’d reached out to the Society for this project—it never hurt to earn some goodwill from a city department. “I know how that goes. I hope we can help. Let me introduce you to one of our newer staff members, Nicholas Naylor.”

  Nicholas took a step forward and extended a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Fleming.”

  “Phebe, please.”

  “Nicholas is overhauling our electronic cataloging system and database,” I said, “which, as you might guess, is a huge task, and we’re glad to have him. I thought he could use your reques
t as a kind of test case. So, what are you looking for?”

  Phebe leaned forward in her chair. “Confidentially, the Water Department has had an offer from a large local corporation, which shall be nameless, to give us a nice contribution to support this project. They’re trying to polish up their public image. What they want is to retroactively present themselves as ecologically sensitive, or if that’s not possible, then they want to look proactive now. There may be a good case to be made, but we want to be able to back it up with documentation, so this doesn’t come back to bite us. What do you think, Nell?”

  “I can see where they want to go with this, but I can’t speak for what’s in our collections. Don’t you already have a scholarly history for the Water Works?”

  “We do, but it’s kind of dated. And now we want to take a different slant, pushing the health and safety aspects.”

  “Nicholas, what do you think?” I asked.

  “How detailed do you want this to be, and when do you need it?” Nicholas didn’t beat around the bush, I noted.

  “The good news is, the city is willing to give us a break—it’s already past the deadline for submitting requests for funding, but they want to keep this corporation happy so they’re bending the rules for us. The bad news is, they want the information and proposal by the end of the next week. Is that doable?”

  Nicholas glanced at me briefly before replying. “Let me see what I can pull quickly. I can give Nell a summary of what I’ve found, say by the end of this week, and then you and she can confer. Would that suit you?”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ve got my people working on the rest of the proposal. Nell, do you approve?”

  “Sure. We can talk when Nicholas has had a chance to pull some things together. Actually I’d like to know more about the Water Works, so I’ll look forward to seeing what we have in our files.”

  Phebe bounced up. “That’s great! Thank you so much—I know it’s a pain to have things dumped on you unexpectedly, but we only just found out ourselves. I’ll owe you one.”