Fundraising the Dead (24 page)

“Libby, has Marty told you what we’re thinking of doing?” I said.

Libby seemed oblivious to the wonders on the plate in front of her. “I gather you want me to seduce him and wrangle all his secrets from him, after I’ve, uh, softened him up?”

I had to laugh at her turn of phrase. “Well, more or less. Anyway, we’d really like to see if he’ll talk about his assets—financial, that is.”

“And maybe record him,” Marty added.

Libby’s eyes sparkled. “Ooh, does that mean I get to wear a wire? Like on TV?”

“I don’t know the technology, but something like that,” I said, glancing at Marty for corroboration. She nodded enthusiastically.

“And I’d be working for the FBI?” Libby asked.

I frowned. “Well, indirectly. They don’t know about this, and we aren’t exactly planning to tell them, but we’ll turn over anything we find out to them.”

“Don’t worry—my cousin Jimmy is an agent in the Philadelphia office,” Marty added.

“What, little Jimmy Morrison, the one who couldn’t swim?”

“That’s the one.”

“Will wonders never cease. So now he’s a G-man?”

“He grew up.”

“I always wondered what happened to him. Government snoop certainly seems to fit.”

Marty looked mystified. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember that time he spied on me and Arthur, oh, what’s his name? We were exploring the, um, wonders of nature in the boathouse one summer. I must have been about sixteen, which would make Jimmy, what, nine? He got a real eyeful. Maybe that’s how he got started on this FBI stuff.”

Marty laughed. “I’d forgotten about that. So he won’t hear anything he hasn’t heard before, if we tape you and Charles?”

“Ooh, Martha, you are bad. But you’re right. Nothing like keeping it all in the family, eh?”

As I swirled a piece of the excellent crusty French bread around my plate to capture the very last of the extraordinary sauce, I contemplated the bantering women before me. I wondered if they came from another species. Growing up with both money and connections, they seemed to have a different view of the world than I did. Not that they were putting on airs, and they were both being quite open about what had gone on between them and Charles, and that club now included me. I decided that overall I liked them. After all, it wasn’t their fault that they had been born rich. I could deal with that, as long as the fallout included meals like this one.

Dessert arrived, along with excellent coffee. Once again, I gazed in awe at the splendid composition on the plate before me. Was I really supposed to sully it with a fork? What a shame. But I managed. Libby and Marty were talking about various people I had never heard of. Yes, I could get used to this life . . .

Libby gestured imperiously to a passing waiter to refill her coffee cup, then said, “Okay, what specifically do you want me to do?”

Marty took the lead. “You’ve been seeing Charles on a fairly regular basis?”

She nodded. “It’s not like we have a standing date every Tuesday or anything like that, but yes, I’d say once or twice a week, depending on the social calendar.”

“Purely public dates, or have you met in private?”

“I’ve been to his place a couple of times, and he’s been to my place in the city once.”

“Where does he seem more comfortable?”

“His place, definitely.”

“Have you taken off your clothes there?”

Caught by surprise, I stifled a laugh. Libby tried to look outraged but failed, and ultimately gave in to laughter. “Yes, Marty, we’ve done the deed there.”

“You slut, you.” The two old friends smiled at each other. “Well, if you spend time at your place, we could wire the place rather than you. If you have to go to his place,
and
if you take off your clothes, it gets more complicated to hide any microphones.”

“So it’s more than just your prurient interest, I gather. All right. Look, I’m not all that familiar with your high-tech doodads, but I can tell you, since I have reached a certain age, I prefer to preserve a bit of mystery. In other words, I wear a nightgown. Oh, by the way, Nell, that white silk number was yours?”

I stared at her. “Uh, yes.”

“Charles thought he’d hidden it, but I’m a snoop. It’s very nice.”

“Thank you.” I blushed, then decided it was time to divert the focus away from the physical to the technical. “Uh, ladies, what about these listening devices? We can’t exactly call up James and ask to borrow a few.”

Marty waved a hand dismissively. “My sister’s eldest son is into that high-tech stuff. I’m sure he can set us up with what we need. I’ll give him a call later.”

I was not convinced but decided to wait and see. Then another thought struck me. “You know,” I began slowly, “I’ll bet
I
could get the bugs into Charles’s place.” I liked the idea. I could kill two birds with one stone: plant the bugs and break it off with Charles.

Marty stared at me. “I hadn’t thought of that. But what’ll you say to him to get you in the door?”

“Oh, I guarantee it’ll be a conversation he won’t want to have on the stoop.” I gave a moment’s thought to falling into Charles’s bed again and gagged. No, not after what I had learned over the last few days; not after what he’d done, or tried to do, to me. But I could go and tell him that whatever we’d shared was over. “I think I deserve one grand farewell scene. Besides, Libby reminded me that I want my nightgown back. That way I’d have the perfect excuse to get into the bedroom—to collect the stuff I left there. I could probably stick a bug somewhere in there.”

“What if he doesn’t let you in?”

“Well, it’s worth a try, isn’t it? If he won’t let me in, then Libby can take a shot at it. But I think he would be polite, at least. He’s never been deliberately rude. And I’ll bet he has a great farewell speech drafted already.”

“Might work. But it’s got to be soon. I’d better get those bugs, so we can figure out how they work.”

Libby faced us. “Assuming we get the thingamajigs to work, what is it you want to hear him say?”

Marty grinned at her. “Well, it’s going to look a bit odd if you drag him straight into bed and start trying to wheedle information out of him. String him along a little—turn up the heat bit by bit, let him think he’s making progress. Then turn the tables and ask him about his intentions—which should lead right into discussing his financial standing. He’s not stupid, he’ll have done his homework, and he’d expect you to ask that kind of question. Get him to lay out his portfolio. Think you can handle that?”

“Not a problem.” Libby stared over our heads, thinking. Finally she said, “But can I keep the heavy-breathing part to a minimum? I don’t want to become a legend at the local FBI stag parties. You do trust Jimmy, don’t you?”

“Oh, he’s the real deal,” Marty replied complacently. “His mother was horrified when he went to work for the government rather than his father’s brokerage firm. But he’s done quite well, from what I hear.” She looked at her watch. “Well, ladies, I have to go help Cousin Althea start making her infamous fruitcake for Christmas—it has to be soaked in rum and mellow for a couple of months, which is the only reason anybody will eat it. Libs, I’ll talk to you as soon as I get a line on the bugs.”

I stood up, uncertain. “Marty, I need to talk to you—can you wait a minute?” Then I turned to Libby. “Libby, thank you for being willing to play along with this. We’re both worried that the FBI may not find enough to nail Charles for the thefts, and this gives us some extra insurance.”

Libby laughed. “Hell, I wouldn’t miss it. This will be the most fun I’ve had in a long time. And we girls have to stick together, right? Marty, give me a call when you get the doohickeys. Nell, good to meet you, and I have a feeling I’ll be seeing more of you.”

Marty and I left her to deal with the check, although I had to wrestle with my conscience. Unfortunately my meager wallet trumped my heavy conscience. I hurried out after Marty. “Listen, I remembered what you said about talking to colleagues. I’m going to try to talk to some of my counterparts at the other places Charles has worked and see what I can find out. I figure they might be more likely to talk to me than to an FBI agent.”

“Brilliant! Nell, I’m beginning to think you have a real talent for conspiracy. Well, I’ve got to run. I’ll call you when I’ve got the equipment lined up, and we can go from there.”

I watched her pull out of the parking lot. It was nice that she thought well of my skills, but I was beginning to wonder just what I had gotten myself into. How would
bugged a romantic tryst to solve a felony
look on my résumé?

I didn’t hear from Marty over the weekend. Monday
morning in the office, I took a look at the plan I had come up with, decided it still made sense, and started to put it into effect. Armed with a large mug of coffee, I logged on to the Internet and reviewed the staff lists at organizations where Charles had spent time in the past twenty years or so. I remembered details of his CV from his interview, and I knew that he had been a busy boy, climbing steadily up the administrative ladder and then hopping from one place to another (bigger, better) one as soon as it was seemly. He had apparently done it very well, and the progression led quite naturally to the top post at the Society. I focused in on the places he’d worked within the last decade. High staff turnover in development is normal, so people I might have known in the past had moved on to other places, and I had to do a bit of tracking.

In the end, after an hour or so of trawling websites, I identified two women whose paths had crossed mine, either at fundraising conferences or at museum or library functions, and who I could legitimately contact with business questions. For the moment, I was going to assume that the word of the Society’s troubles was not common knowledge, especially beyond the Philadelphia community. And I had a perfect cover story: I wanted to know about how our sister institutions handled their security measures. I was researching various state-of-the-art security systems, with the view of writing grant proposals to fund a new system for the Society, and I had heard that they had installed a blah, blah, blah. It would do to get my foot in the door, and it had the added benefit of being almost true.

The ones I knew best, and thought I could glean the most information from, were in Boston and in Washington, DC. I started with Diane Carpenter in DC. “Diane? This is Nell Pratt, from Philadelphia? I’m the development director at ...” And so on.

And we were off and running. Five minutes of polite chitchat later, I had a date with Diane for the next day—on my tab, of course. DC was a two-hour train ride away, but it was worth meeting her in person, rather than trying to do this over the phone. I wasn’t sure how my budget was going to stand for this, but maybe the FBI would reimburse me. Oops, the FBI didn’t know about my own investigation. Well, maybe they would reimburse me if our little plan worked out. Boosted by my first success, and no less by the apparent viability of my cover story, I tried the second name on my list, Gail Wallace, and set up a meeting in Boston for later in the week. Surely one or the other would have some good dirt to dish. Otherwise I’d run out of time and money pretty fast this way.

I sat back in my chair and reviewed my strategy. It seemed likely to me that Charles might have done a little harvesting at various collections, sort of a dry run before tackling the Society. But what if he’d been going after the patronesses there, too? My contacts were both women, and who better to fill me in on the nonpublic aspects of Charles’s activities? The ones that never made it to the personnel file; the ones that made the institutions very glad to give him a glowing endorsement, hoping fervently that he would become someone else’s problem. This was one part of the investigation that I could handle much better than Agent James. I knew what I was looking for and how to ask the right questions. It felt satisfying to know that maybe I could pull my own weight and do some good.

The next morning, I caught an early train to Washington. I suppose I could have driven, but it would be easier to just get there, see Diane Carpenter, and come back again without worrying about parking or getting lost. I doubted she’d be willing to let down her hair to a comparative stranger, so the meeting would probably be short. I just hoped it would be sweet.

I didn’t know Diane well. We’d chatted at various meetings over the past few years, but we were more acquaintances than friends. I knew she was about my own age and, like me, had worked at a variety of places in her career, but I couldn’t recall any other personal data to save my life. Children? Pets? Hobbies? I spent the train trip trying to figure out how to steer the conversation toward in-house thefts and Charles Worthington’s girlfriends, official or otherwise.

From the station I grabbed a cab to Georgetown. Diane was my counterpart at a small but exquisite library, whose collections and massive endowment made many of us in the business green with envy. Once inside, I made the appropriate reverent noises about the handsome building and impressive collections; it was easy to be sincere, since both were wonderful. She gave me the full behind-the-scenes tour, including the basements and the elaborate electronic control room that ran their security system, and I dutifully asked her to join me for lunch, which she accepted with tepid enthusiasm. I let her pick the place, and when we were settled and had ordered, I started my oh-so-subtle probing.

“If I may be direct,” I began, “can you tell me if you installed your system as a precautionary measure or because of a specific incident?”

Diane fixed me with a cold eye. “Does this have anything to do with the call I received this morning from the FBI office in Philadelphia?”

I stared at her, hoping I didn’t look like a deer caught in the headlights. I could play ignorant, or I could tell her the truth—or a modified version of the truth. I decided on the latter.