Fundraising the Dead (20 page)

“That’s what I’m guessing.”

“What about Rich?”

“As a suspect? Not a likely candidate—he hasn’t been there long enough. Although someone could have pressured him into doing their dirty work, at least where the Terwilliger Collection is involved. He has a juvenile record for theft.”

“I know—he told me when he was here.” Did that make Rich honest, or was he just being devious and trying to throw me off? “But don’t juvenile records get erased or something?”

“We can access those records,” James said bluntly.

“What about Alfred?” I whispered. “Did Marty tell you . . .”

“That she thinks he was murdered? Yes, she told me. I took it with a grain of salt. The police dismissed it, and no matter what you want to think, they’re good at their jobs. They found no evidence that his death was anything but an accident. I know, the timing is pretty suspicious, but there’s no way that the investigation will be reopened, based on the physical evidence, or that the FBI would get involved in it now. The FBI’s responsibility is the thefts.” James looked at me with something suspiciously like pity. “But, Nell—if it’s any consolation, based on what I’ve heard, Charles’s whereabouts are pretty well covered for the time of Alfred’s death. If it was murder—and I stress the
if
—he couldn’t have done it.”

I resumed breathing. “I really can’t see Charles doing anything as messy as killing someone. I mean, I saw him that night, after the event, and he didn’t act like someone who had just killed someone—at least as far as I know. It’s not like I’ve met a lot of killers.” I straightened my back and looked Agent Morrison in the eye. “All right, what do we do now?”

James grinned. “Good for you. I didn’t think I’d have to hand you a box of tissues.”

I managed to smile back. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Do you have a plan?”

“The barest outline of one. Look, I’ll be honest. It keeps coming back to the fact that we have very little hard evidence that any thefts have actually occurred, beyond a list put together by a man who is now dead, whose information is locked up in a computer system nobody else has figured out yet.”

“Have you looked at his computer?”

“Not yet—our computer whizbang is working on another case at the moment. In any event, even when we do get to it, from what I’ve learned about your operations, it’s going to be hard to prove anything. Now, don’t overreact—we’ve only been looking at this for a few days, and it takes time to follow up some of these trails.”

“But you’ve got to do something! The thief, whoever it is, could be looting the collections as we speak, especially if he thinks we’re on to him. It’s his last chance.”

“We are doing something, Nell. Listen, I’m breaking about every rule in the book by telling you any of this, but frankly, I need your help—I need you on the inside.”

I pondered that. “You mean, you want me to go back to work and wait for someone to drop the dime on me? Is that the right term?”

His mouth twitched. “Yes, it is. And yes, that’s exactly what I want you to do. We wait and see. Look, I don’t know how long he’s been at this, or how good he is. Maybe he thought if the FBI found incriminating evidence in your house, we’d leap to the obvious conclusion and that would be the end of it. Certainly it would take the heat off of him and send us looking in another direction, which could buy him time.”

“Time for what? To get rid of the evidence? To cover his tracks?”

“That’s getting harder to do, thanks to you and Marty. And now we’re watching for stolen goods that might have come from the Society, so he might lie low for a bit.”

I was not convinced. If no one had noticed items from the Society on the black market by now, what would have changed? All I could imagine was more of our priceless collections disappearing, never to be retrieved. “I’ll do whatever you think is best for your investigation—and for the Society.”

“Thank you. Just hang tight. The fact that you found those items here in your house means that our thief is getting nervous, and that’s good to know.”

Well, at least I’d made someone happy. It sure wasn’t me. “So how are we supposed to communicate? I can’t exactly phone you from the office or even talk freely there—you’ve seen that. You want to call me here?”

“We can meet at Marty’s, as long as you’re discreet about it.”

“Sir, I can be the soul of discretion.”

“I’m banking on it.” He stood up. “Thank you for telling me about this, Nell. A lot of people might have been afraid to say anything. I’m glad you trust us.”

“And I’m glad you believe me.”

“Don’t worry. If we’re lucky, we’ll get this sorted out in a few days.”

“Right.” I stood, too, and followed him to the door. I knew perfectly well that it was going to take more than a few days to sort out what was missing and where it might have gone, but nabbing the culprit and stopping the hemorrhage was at least a start. “So I’ll wait to hear from Marty about getting together? Or I’ll let her know if I need to tell you something?”

“Exactly. Good night, now.”

And he was gone, leaving me confused. And hungry—I went back to the kitchen and rummaged in the freezer until I found a half-empty container of ice cream. I ate it all. It didn’t help.

I slept badly: too much to worry about, too much caf
feine too late. Wednesday morning I dragged myself out of bed before the alarm went off, and in the shower tried to scrub myself back to life, with little success. I dressed carefully, hoping to look like a responsible grown-up who couldn’t possibly engage in felonies, just in case anyone was watching, and I fled for the train station to catch an early train. I had my orders from the FBI, and I was going to go to work.

Could Charles actually have planted stolen goods at my home? Could the man I had admired and respected—and slept with—do something like that to me, and I hadn’t seen it coming? How was I going to be able to look at him today? Much less be nice to him?
Argh.

I let myself into the building and made a beeline for my office. Once there, I scuttled behind my desk. I looked around at the familiar clutter—odd souvenirs, framed prints, posters, hanging calendars, and stacks of things to be done, and things that had been done but needed to be filed.

I jumped three feet when the phone rang. It was Doris.

“Mr. Worthington would like to see you. Now.”

Damn, he’s in early.
“I’ll be right there,” I said sweetly.

I marched into Charles’s office, shutting the door behind me. We stared at each other for a long moment. I didn’t have a clue what was going on in his head, but I could feel my view of him shifting moment by moment. Before, I’d seen him as an attractive man, an able administrator, a considerate lover; now I was wondering if he was a felon and a liar. I hated it.

“Nell, I’ve had a rather disturbing conversation with that FBI agent this morning,” Charles began. “I have to conclude that the FBI is looking at staff members’ possible culpability in this theft matter.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me, Charles.” I considered elaborating but decided to see how Charles would play this out.

In the end he opted for doing the right thing. His face softened. “Nell, of course I don’t think you would steal anything from the Society. I know how much this place means to you.”

“It does, Charles. I just hope this gets sorted out quickly. I wouldn’t want to see these losses continue.”

“I agree. But I think it’s important at this juncture, while we are under such scrutiny, to be as circumspect as possible. It’s not a good idea for us to meet behind closed doors—it might give people the wrong idea. The fact that we’ve enjoyed a relationship and concealed it might send the wrong message.”

“Of course, Charles. After all, you never know who’s watching or listening.” Although I had a pretty good idea that Doris had very sharp ears. “If there’s nothing else, I have a lot to do today.” I stood up and took a fast two steps toward the door and yanked it open, in time to surprise Doris hovering nearby. She immediately turned away to shuffle some folders on her desk.

I smiled sweetly at her. “He’s free now, Doris.” Back at my desk I mulled over what Charles had just said. He was right, at least according to his perspective: any appearance of concealment might send up red flags at the FBI, which none of us wanted at this point. But, I had to add, if he was trying to cast blame on me, his distancing himself would be a strategic move. I supposed I could be disappointed that he hadn’t decided to side with me more openly, but had I ever expected that?

The next surprise of the day was a phone call from Marty.

“You have time for dinner?” she began abruptly.

“What, tonight?”

“Yup. I want to run something by you.”

“You’ve got a plan?”

“Maybe. You coming?”

“I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll be there at six thirty.”

I survived the day by immersing myself in busywork.
Ileft work a little past six and walked over to Marty’s house. She answered the door with a look that I swear contained more than a hint of amusement. “Come on in. Want a drink? Sounds as though you’ve had an interesting few days.”

“Thanks to you. I take it you’ve talked to James? And yes, I will have that drink.”

“About what you found at your house? Yup, he told me. What did Charles do today?”

I took the full wineglass she held out to me. “Okay, Marty—who’s running this show, you or Cousin Jimmy?”

She stared at me innocently. “Why, he is, of course. Or the FBI, anyway. Look, I had a legitimate complaint, and when nobody at the Society seemed interested in doing anything about it, I went to Jimmy. All quite aboveboard. But we’re all working together on this, right?”

“Of course we are. But is everybody telling everything?”

She grinned. “I’d say it’s on a need-to-know basis right now. I don’t tell Jimmy everything.”

“Did you tell him about Charles and me?” I demanded.

She had the grace to look ashamed. “Um, yes. I had to make sure where your loyalties really lay. And once I figured that out, I didn’t want you to get caught in the crossfire, if Charles was involved. I thought Jimmy should know. Sorry, Nell. That is, if there’s any reason to be sorry? I didn’t think Charles would throw you under the bus.”

“Don’t be sorry, Marty. I thought we had more between us, but obviously I was wrong. And now I’m mad. I take it Charles doesn’t know you’re related to James?”

“Of course not. Why should he? And I don’t think he realizes that I was related to Alfred, either. But I may have underestimated Charles.”

We’d drifted to the living room, so I threw myself into a chair (without spilling my wine) and asked, “What do you mean?”

“James says you found items planted at your house not long after Charles had visited you, right?”

“Yes. What are you saying? You think Charles did it?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. But there’s something that’s been bothering me, and I’m trying to figure out how your little discovery fits with it. I’ve been to Alfred’s place more than once, maybe a couple of times a year. He was a very meticulous person, orderly, methodical—that’s what made him good at his job. Same at home: everything had its place. Now, Alfred did have a few nice things, and he was proud of them. Some of them came down through the family, and some of them he probably bought himself, since he didn’t spend money on much else. Definitely not stolen. Since I knew about his little weakness, I made sure everything he had was on the up-and-up, and he kept his word to me. Anyway, since I’m just about the nearest relative Alfred had, when he . . . died, I had to go to his apartment that Friday, find his papers and stuff.”

“And?” I wasn’t sure where this was going.

“I didn’t recognize half the ‘good’ stuff I found there.”

“So what does that mean?” Although I thought I could guess.

“The stuff hadn’t been there the last time I visited Alfred, so I’d bet it was planted there, just like at your place. Problem is, there’s no way Charles could have been at Alfred’s place. He was working the crowd throughout the whole gala, and then I gather you saw him not long afterwards.” She paused, waiting for me to nod confirmation. How had she known? “There is no way that he could have gotten into Alfred’s apartment, planted the stuff at his apartment, and made it to his own house in time to welcome you. It’s just too tight a schedule, and I don’t see Charles running around like that.”

I definitely didn’t like the sound of that. “So you’re telling me you think that there was someone
else
who was planting evidence? And who might have killed Alfred?”

“That’s the only way I can see it.”

I fell silent, trying to make sense of what she had told me. “Or, if it was Charles, he had an accomplice?”

“That’s a possibility.”

I had one more question. “Did you tell James about the stuff you saw at Alfred’s?”