Fundraising the Dead (7 page)

“Right. Sure, fine.” My mind spinning, I hurried out. Once I escaped from the stacks, I took another deep breath and tried to figure out what I had to do next. The detective had said stay put, but there was no way I could do that just yet. The staff would be arriving at any minute, if they hadn’t already. Step one, rig up a sign to keep the public out. Step two, figure out where to put the staff members. The old conference room on the ground floor would do; the police might want to talk to them, so I should keep them there. Step three, talk to Charles, who should be on his way here now.
Right, Nell. Make a sign, then go downstairs and herd the staff aside, and then let Charles deal with the rest.

Officer Johnson was down in the front hall, looking
bewildered. I took pity on him. “Officer Johnson? I thought I would put up this sign”—I waved my hastily crafted piece of paper at him—“to keep out the rest of the world. I suggest we tell the staff members to wait in the conference room over there.” I pointed around the grand staircase; the old conference room was tucked away beneath it, but it had plenty of chairs and would be big enough to hold all the staff members. “Is that all right?”

Officer Johnson looked relieved. “Yeah, sure, good thinking. Staff have ID, so I’ll know who’s who?”

“Yes, they do. Let me just put up the sign, then.” I hauled open the heavy metal door and came face-to-face with Charles.

“Good morning, Nell,” he said, in case anyone was listening. “Are we all set for the meeting?”

I grabbed his arm, pulling him back outside and letting the door slip shut behind me. “Charles, we have got one large problem. Wait here a sec.” Scanning the still-empty street, I went down the steps and taped my notice over the placard on the iron railing at the bottom. I had tried to be discreet—somehow
Closed due to death
did not seem like the appropriate wording, so I had settled for
Closed for emergency repairs. We apologize for the inconvenience.
The word would get out quickly enough. If it was a slow news day, Alfred might even rate a mention on the nightly news. I felt a pang again: poor Alfred. What a sad way to die. Although at least he had gone surrounded by the books and documents that he loved.

“Nell?” Charles said impatiently from his place at the top of the steps. He did not like to be kept waiting, and the wind was biting.

“Right. Sorry.” I waited until I stood next to him and could speak quietly. “I found Alfred Findley in the stacks when I came in—dead. I called the police, and they’re upstairs now.”

“Oh my God! How horrible.”

For a moment my sarcastic inner voice wondered what he thought was horrible: that Alfred Findley had been murdered, that I had found him, or that this would mean negative publicity for his beloved Society, and thus, indirectly, him. Not that it mattered much, and all were true. “Yes, it was. There was . . . a lot of blood.” Another note to self: who was supposed to clean up the bloodstains? Our custodial staff, or did the police have people for that? “The detective in charge is upstairs now. She asked that we keep the staff away from the third floor until this is sorted out, so I figured we could send them to the old conference room.”

“Excellent idea. Well, then, I suppose I should go introduce myself to this detective and see what the story is. What is her name?”

My mind went blank for a moment, then my fundraiser mentality kicked in. “Detective Hrivnak. By the way, she’s never been here before and doesn’t know who or what we are, so you can fill her in.”
And turn on the charm
, I added silently. I had the feeling Detective Hrivnak didn’t like me very much, and she certainly hadn’t seemed too impressed by the august Society.

“Thank you for the heads-up, Nell. Shall we?”

I rapped on the door, and when Officer Johnson opened it, I introduced Charles. “This is Charles Worthington, the president of the Society. I’m sure the detective will want to talk with him, so I’ll just take him upstairs to her. All right? But you can keep anyone else who comes downstairs here. You shouldn’t get any patrons this early, so just direct everyone to the conference room.” Without waiting for an answer, I took Charles’s elbow and all but dragged him toward the elevator.

Once the doors had closed behind us, Charles asked quietly, “Do they know when this happened?”

“Hrivnak guessed before midnight, probably during the gala. Look, you go sweet-talk the detective, and I’ll talk to the staff downstairs. Heck, we can even go ahead with the debriefing.” Yeah, right—like people would want to talk about who said what to whom at the party, when there was a dead colleague lying two floors above.

The elevator doors opened, and I stepped out to be confronted by an angry Detective Hrivnak. “You, Pratt—I told you to wait in your office. And who’s this guy?”

“I’m sorry, Detective, but I thought I should tell your officer downstairs where to direct people, and I put a sign outside to keep patrons out—I assume you would want that? And this is Charles Elliott Worthington, our president.”

Charles stepped forward smoothly. “Detective—Hrivnak, is it? I can’t tell you how horrified I am by this event. Alfred Findley was a valued employee, and a very pleasant person. He will be missed.”

I wondered uncharitably if Charles would have recognized Alfred if he met him in the hallway. But Charles turned on his carefully calculated smile, combining just the right mix of sorrow and sympathy, and the detective softened.

“Yeah, well, he’s still dead. Look, I’ve got to talk to Ms. Pratt here, since she’s the one who found the body. And I’ve got my people coming to handle the body. So maybe you should just wait downstairs with the rest of your staff until I get to you.”

Under different circumstances I might have been amused by the sight of the mighty Charles Elliott Worthington being told to wait by someone so . . . uncouth. But this was serious business, and out of the corner of my eye I could still see the dark pool of blood. Charles’s ego would have to take it.

“Of course. I’ll be available when you need me. You’ll be all right, Nell?” When I nodded, he went on. “Then you’ll find me downstairs.” He beat a dignified retreat, leaving me alone in the hall with the detective.

“Okay, where’s your office? Shouldn’t take long. This looks pretty clear-cut.”

“This way.” I led her down the hall and into my office, turning on the lights as I entered. I gestured toward the visitor’s chair and went around the desk to my own. There were a few envelopes on my blotter that hadn’t been there before—presumably the checks that Charles had mentioned—so I shifted them to my in-box and faced Detective Hrivnak. “All right—what do you need?”

“Tell me again exactly what you did this morning.”

I went through the steps, adding more detail as more came back to me. The detective took some notes but mostly watched me, sneaking an occasional glance around my none-too-neat office. When I had finished, she asked, “Give me a time line for this shindig last night.”

I complied, giving her the rough schedule for the event. Afterwards, she said, “Right. So let me see if I’ve got this right. There were a couple of hundred people milling around downstairs last night, and nobody could have heard this guy fall?”

“That’s about it. It’s a concrete-reinforced building, built around 1900, so it would be impossible to hear anything even if the place were empty.”

“Who was there?”

I tried to think of a way to describe our guests. “Philadelphia society, plus some newcomers who can help us.”

“You mean rich people?”

“More or less. And
society
doesn’t mean the same thing here, inside these walls, as it does in the gossip columns. There are a lot of names that go back a couple of centuries, and they may or may not have money.”

“Noted. Any of them have any connection to the dead guy?”

“Not that I know of, but there’s no reason why I would know.”

“What can you tell me about the dead guy?”

“Alfred? He’s been here longer than I have—at least fifteen years. He loves his work; he’s happiest with his computer and with the collections. He’s never said an unkind word to anyone, in all the time I’ve been here. Of course, he tries not to see anyone at all—he’s really not comfortable around other people.” I realized I had slipped back into present tense again. This was going to be a hard adjustment to make.

“Family?”

“I can’t really say. I mean, I knew him, but I didn’t know him outside of work. I can’t remember him mentioning anybody. You’d have to ask our personnel director, who’s probably downstairs now.”

“Anybody else here close to him? What about his boss?”

“Not that I know of. His immediate supervisor is Latoya Anderson, the VP of collections. She’s been here about four years, and from what I’ve seen, they had a fairly formal relationship, strictly business. Is there anything else? The staff should be gathering downstairs by now. What can I tell them?”

“I think I’ve got all I need. You can tell them there was an accident.”

“Did he fall?”

“Looks like it. Hit his head on the concrete floor, cracked his skull, split his scalp open—that’s why there was so much blood; head wounds bleed a lot. You might want to keep your staff behind closed doors until we get the body out. I’m gonna go find your boss.”

The detective was out the door before I realized that I’d been dismissed. But for a moment I couldn’t move. I knew the people waiting downstairs needed to know what was going on, but I wanted a moment to myself before I tried to talk to them. Alfred, dead. I’d just talked to him yesterday.

I felt a chill. We’d talked about theft from the Society. But that couldn’t mean anything. The detective had said it was an accident. It had certainly
looked
like an accident, an unfortunate fall. Too many hard edges and creaky equipment in this building, and Alfred had put his foot wrong, or that old step stool had crumbled beneath him. It was very sad, but that was all.

I was going to have trouble erasing that scene. Even if and when the bloodstain disappeared from the hall carpet, I’d still remember seeing it there. And seeing Alfred, motionless and grey. At least no one apart from me and the police would have to see the body and the blood in the stacks.

Still stalling, because I wasn’t ready to face anybody, I riffled through the envelopes on my desk. If there were checks, they would need to be processed—entered in our database and prepared for deposit. Charles had said they were substantial, so it was important to take care of them quickly. I should remember to take care of that later today after the meeting.

One envelope was thicker than the others, and sealed. I slit the top and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers, which turned out to be a printed, single-spaced list several pages long.

Alfred’s list of the missing items.

In the lobby Officer Johnson stood squarely in the
center, feet planted apart, pointing staff members toward the room under the stairs with the barest minimum of speech. I threw him a quick false smile and went to find the employees.

Inside the room most of the staff was sitting around the table, looking sleepy, dopey, grumpy, and in a few cases, hungover. And now they were trying out anxious and frustrated.

Charles wasn’t there, and I wondered what the staff knew from Officer Johnson. Since it appeared that I was the only person in the room who actually knew anything, I’d have to be the one to tell them. I moved to one end of the conference table but not before laying the pastry box I’d snagged from upstairs in the middle of the table. “Sorry there’s no coffee, but I figured you must be hungry.” A number of people made a grab for the goodies, but their eyes returned to me quickly.

Latoya Anderson was the first to speak. “Nell, can you tell us what’s going on?”

I cleared my throat. “I am sorry to tell you that Alfred Findley was found dead in the third-floor stacks this morning.” There was an immediate outcry from the staff, and I paused until the hubbub died down. I saw that Carrie, my bubbly membership coordinator, looked ready to cry, and even our unflappable head librarian, Felicity Soames, had paled, shutting her eyes.

I took a deep breath before going on. “I found him, and I called the police immediately. It looks like he fell and hit his head.” I decided to leave out the blood. “We don’t expect to open to the public today, under the circumstances, and if you want to leave, that’s all right, and you won’t be penalized for it. But if you feel up to it, maybe we should just go ahead with our planned meeting, while everybody’s memory is still fresh?”

For a long moment I wondered what they would decide, and I had to admit, it sounded pretty callous to talk about the party with Alfred dead upstairs. Luckily they seemed to welcome the idea of a distraction, and no one protested. And that made me wonder—had anyone even cared about Alfred?

“All right, then. Let me say first—great job last night, one and all. Definitely our best event in living memory—and that’s saying something, given the average age of our guests.” A few people laughed feebly at my joke. “Does anyone have any general comments before we review what the attendees said? Any problems, issues?”

I looked around the table. Nobody was evading my eye, so I had to assume there were no major complaints in the offing. Or maybe they were all in shock.

We worked our way through the guest list. Various people had had conversations of various durations with various guests, and we picked through them, looking for any hints about that person’s current opinion of us. The ones who seemed happiest, we would tap for a larger role in the organization: board membership, sooner or later; a volunteer committee; or a bigger donation. The unhappier ones I would have to sound out and try to placate. Then there were always the chronic whiners, the ones who never thought that they were getting the attention they deserved. Usually they were getting exactly what they deserved, which was the same courtesy we extended to everyone, if a bit more saccharine, since we had all long since pegged the whiners as permanently discontented. Still, that was the way things worked in this business, and at least they had paid for their seat—well, most of them had, anyway.