Fundraising the Dead (12 page)

Turning back to the piles on my desk, I took care of several small business items, like writing thank-you notes to the committee members who had helped put together the gala—even those who had done nothing except make sure their names were spelled correctly on the program. I also wrote thank-yous for Charles’s signature to the people who had sent particularly nice (that is, four-figure) checks or bought a table. I reviewed the calendar for grant application deadlines. I checked the status of the agenda for the next board meeting and made a mental note to ask Carrie when she would be mailing the meeting reminder.

That took care of most of the busywork. My mind kept creeping back to Alfred’s list. Many of the items on it looked like high-dollar pieces—but what did that really mean? Not being a collector myself, apart from a few flea-market finds, I wasn’t really tapped into the historic artifacts market, so I decided to do some homework on the Internet. Calling up Google, I started trolling for information on Americana, manuscripts, auctions, dealers—whatever looked promising and included real-world prices.

At the end of an hour, I sat back, a bit stunned. Looking only at the
name
items—things associated with dead presidents, for example, or other known and noteworthy historical figures—it was clear that the market was booming. And some single letters were going for five and six figures at auction. The Society’s list of items known to be missing was over five pages long, and most of them appeared to be highly desirable, if what I was reading was an accurate view of the market. Take each of those missing pieces and multiply it by, conservatively, twenty-five thousand dollars, and . . . the total ran into the millions. Oh my God. We had a
big
problem here.

I allowed myself a moment of panic. The dollar value of the collections was one thing, but I also had to consider the Society’s reputation. Hadn’t there been a recent spate of news articles about someone stealing maps from multiple collections and getting away with it for years? If pieces from our collections were walking out the door, we would look like incompetent fools. And that wouldn’t exactly encourage people to contribute money to us—money we depended on and sorely needed just to stay open. All my hard work, all the small advances we had made since Charles arrived—all trashed, if Marty went public with her suspicions about the Terwilliger Collection, which would lead to more scrutiny, which would lead to . . . disaster.

Reluctantly, I realized that there was another area I needed to think about: the legal aspects. I didn’t feel like I could go to the Society’s official legal counsel just yet because he was a board member, and I didn’t want to let the board in on this until I was sure of my information. On the other hand, I certainly didn’t want to contact some outside attorney, not only because that would cost money I didn’t have, but also because it might tip off the wrong people that we had a problem, and I didn’t want to bring that down on my head, either. So once again I turned to the Internet.

I had in the back of my head that there was a special category for the theft of items of historical significance, so that was where I started. Aha: Title 18, United States Code, Section 668: Theft of Major Artwork. “Makes it a federal offense to obtain by theft or fraud any object of cultural heritage from a museum. The statute also prohibits the ‘fencing’ or possession of such objects, knowing them to be stolen.” From another source, “an ‘object of cultural heritage’ means an object that is over 100 years old and worth at least $5,000.” Well, there we were, in the thick of it. I knew for a fact that we were legally defined as a museum in the Society’s bylaws. And we could easily classify
all
of the missing pieces as at least a century old and worth over five grand.

I plowed on, glued to my screen. According to the FBI, ninety percent of all museum thefts turned out to be inside jobs. Not surprising, but not reassuring. There were sounds from the outer offices now, people arriving, exchanging greetings, bustling around. I sighed. I really didn’t want to think that anyone on our staff had been systematically ripping off the Society. Most of them did have the expertise to choose what to take, and all of them had free access. But I’d worked with the people here for years. They were good people, knowledgeable, committed to history and its preservation, and to helping other people share their interest. They were willing to work for pathetic wages simply because they did care. And then that little voice inside me said,
Maybe somebody’s gotten tired of the low pay and equally low respect, and decided to do something to make up for it. After all, it would be so easy . . .

I shook myself. I was almost afraid to look, but I needed to know what the proper procedure would be to report such a theft. The FBI was kind enough to provide just such an outline on their website. One, do not let staff or visitors into the area to disturb evidence. Well, it was a little late for that. Two, notify the local police department. That clearly hadn’t happened yet. Three, determine the last time the objects were seen and what happened in the area, or to the objects, in that time. Like that was going to happen—although, I realized, Marty could give specifics for the Terwilliger Collection. One more reason to keep her happy. Four, gather documents, descriptions, and images of the missing objects and provide to the police. Well, we had a start on that, thanks to Alfred. Five, follow up on police actions and investigations to ensure that everything possible is being done. Yeah, right.

So it looked like the police were the first line, and then they would call in the FBI, since this was clearly a federal offense. What wasn’t clear was who from our end was supposed to report the problem to the police. Me, who had first discovered it? Latoya, as head of collections? Charles, as the president? The board, as the official managing body for the institution? Or Marty herself, as an interested outside party as well as a board member?

I felt sick. I felt scared. Right now I was sitting on a guilty little secret that Alfred had shared with me, but he couldn’t help me now. Oh, and the thief—if there was one—probably knew about it, too. But I didn’t see what I could do about it.

Charles. When should I tell Charles? This would devastate him. He had worked hard to identify himself with this institution and to make his way into the local historical community, and he had done it well. A theft like this, under his aegis, would be a serious blow to his professional standing, both locally and in the broader museum community.

OK, Nell, slow down
. I gripped the edge of my desk and took a deep breath.
Take this one step at a time.
I believed the Society had a problem, thanks to what Alfred had told me. I had reported Marty’s complaint to the next person in the chain of command: Latoya. She had dismissed Alfred’s reports as trivial, or as a normal part of his cataloging procedures—of course there would be a few misplaced items among the thousands he had looked at. Maybe we could just make it go away, hush it up, save our reputation. Why didn’t I believe that?

Maybe she hadn’t listened to him, but she was going to listen to me.

I stood up and headed to Latoya Anderson’s office.
She was on the phone, but I summoned up my patience and waited. Finally she managed to extricate herself from the phone call and gestured for me to come in. I closed the door behind me, and Latoya’s eyebrows went up a notch. She must have picked up on my unease—not to mention the fact that I’d closed the door. “What’s going on now, Nell?” She folded her hands on her pristine desk blotter and waited.

I took a deep breath. “You remember I talked to you Saturday about the problem with the Terwilliger papers?”

She nodded, then said contritely, “Oh, and I promised to get you the files—it slipped my mind entirely. Let me hunt them up for you.” She started to rise, but I held up a hand to stop her.

“Latoya, that’s not the immediate problem. There’s something bigger that we need to talk about. Something that Alfred told me about the collections.”

She sat back and said, “All right. What’s the problem?”

Here we go
, I thought. “When Marty came to me with her question, I realized how little I knew about the maintenance of our collections, in hands-on terms. So I talked to Alfred, since he was more directly involved in the day-to-day management.”

Latoya’s expression was wary. “Go on.”

This was the difficult part. “Alfred told me that there are a number of other items he had not been able to locate.”

She sniffed. “I know—that was in his reports. That’s to be expected in an organization of this size and age. You should know that.”

“Yes, I do know, and that’s what Alfred told me.” I pressed on. “I think the problem is bigger than that. Alfred gave me a list of the items he knew of, that he hadn’t been able to find. I looked at the list, and even to my untrained eye it appears that most of them are both historically significant and valuable.”

“What are you suggesting?”

I drew myself up and said deliberately, “I think there is good reason to believe that there has been systematic looting of the Society’s collections.”

There was silence in the room. I could almost see the wheels turning in Latoya’s mind: where did her responsibility lie? “Alfred never mentioned anything like that to me. That’s a very serious allegation,” she said slowly, buying time.

“I understand that Alfred gave you regular reports on the status of his cataloging—and on the numbers of items that he has been unable to locate?”

She stared at me. “Yes, that’s part of his job description—he provided monthly summary reports.”

“And,” I went on, “did you never see any reason for concern, in the reports that he gave you?”

“No,” she replied stiffly. “He did not give me any indication that there was anything out of the ordinary. As I said, misplaced items are a fact of life in institutions like this.”

I wasn’t going to let her brush me off. “I understand that. But you were not worried about the extent or the nature of the disappearances?”

She waited before answering, even more stiffly, “No. And Alfred never made an issue of it. Perhaps I should have questioned him more closely, but I had no reason—”

I interrupted her. “Latoya, Alfred was a very careful man, and I’m sure he didn’t want to make any claims until he felt they were substantiated. He was also rather shy and didn’t like to make waves. That’s probably why he never said anything to you. But I think the number and the quality of the missing items had really started to bother him. The question is, what do we do now? If you ask me, I think we need to get to the bottom of this very quickly, for all our sakes.”

“Of course. Providing there is any substance to his concerns.” Latoya looked as troubled as I had ever seen her. Maybe the message had finally hit home? “Who else have you talked to about this?”

“I asked Rich and Felicity specifically if they knew if any part of the Terwilliger Collection had been moved recently—they both said no. But I haven’t spoken to anyone about the larger issue, the other things that might be missing. Alfred left the list on my desk before he ...” I stopped, swallowed, then plunged on. “And now I’m bringing it to you. So, no one else knows—yet.”

Latoya looked over my head, thinking. Finally she said, “Nell, thank you for bringing this to my attention and for being discreet about it. This certainly deserves a closer look. Let me handle it from here.”

Was she dismissing me? Well, I wasn’t done. “Latoya, Marty Terwilliger wants an answer about her collection in the next few days. She’s not stupid, and I think she’ll see through any phony excuses we might come up with. She’s not afraid to make public noise about something like this, and she’s extremely well connected in Philadelphia. She can make a lot of trouble for us, if she wants to.” I paused, then looked her straight in the eye. “What do you want me to tell her?”

“Let me deal with Marty,” Latoya said. “And I’d prefer it if you refer any more questions from her directly to me. Okay?”

Her request was reasonable, at least on the surface. After all, it was a collections issue, right? But Marty had come to me rather than to her, and I felt a personal responsibility to follow through. And I had a strong feeling that Latoya would act to cover her own derriere. Which most likely meant dumping the blame on Alfred. I wasn’t going to sit here and let that happen.

“I’ll be happy to let you deal with her, but she did come to me first. And what about the bigger issue?”

“You have a copy of the list that Alfred gave you?” she said finally.

“Of course.” I handed Latoya a new photocopy.

She scanned it quickly. “Let me look this over and think about it, and then I can decide what to do next.”

I summoned up a smile. “That’s all I ask, Latoya. Please let me know what you decide.” I stood up. As far as I was concerned, the meeting was now over.

But Latoya was not finished. “You will keep this between us, won’t you?”

She gave me another long look, and I felt a small chill. Who else did she think I would tell?

“Latoya, it would be unprofessional of me to do otherwise.” With that, I swept out of the room, before things could get any more complicated.

All right, I had done what I was supposed to do about the institutional problem of the missing items. What next? No matter what Latoya thought, I felt I should talk to Charles; he shouldn’t walk blindly into this situation, and he would need some time to consider all the ramifications, plan for a defensive strategy if necessary, to nip the issue in the bud, as it were. Maybe Charles would have some insights into how best to deal with this, too—after all, he was hardly a novice to administration, and he must have encountered difficult situations like this before. I felt a small lightening of my burden: maybe he could help. Heck, he
should
help—that was why he got paid the big bucks.

I squared my shoulders and took a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. I was just going to give him a friendly warning—nothing in writing, nothing inflammatory. I was taking advantage of our relationship to slip him this piece of information so that he could work out how he wanted to handle it. And, oh, how I looked forward to sharing the responsibility!