Let's Play Dead (13 page)

Diverse expressions raced across Marty’s face: anger, regret, determination. “So-so. The Feebs are on it, as I’m sure you know, but I know the missing items better. We’re still working on it.”

“Speaking of the FBI, I had drinks with your cousin James the other day.”

That pleased her. “Good! Did Jimmy ask you, or the other way around?”

“He called me, on short notice. We had a nice time, we may see each other again, and that’s the end of the story.”

“I won’t pry. But do remember I’m kinda fond of him, so if it doesn’t work out, let him down gently, will you?”

“What, you aren’t worried about
my
tender feelings?”

“You can take care of yourself. What should we order?”

Scanning the menu before the harried young waitress appeared occupied the next couple of minutes. When we had placed our orders, I asked Marty, “You heard about the death at Let’s Play?”

“I did. Too bad—they’re good people there.”

“Do you know Arabella Heffernan?”

“We’ve met. You know I don’t have kids, so I don’t get in there very often. But my former brother-in-law was on the board for a while.”

“During Arabella’s tenure?”

“Sure. She’s been there at least a decade.”

“What was his opinion of the place?”

“He liked it, but then, he had young kids at that time. When they graduated to more serious stuff, he kind of lost interest and moved on. I think he said he was sometimes frustrated because Arabella wasn’t very interested in the financial bottom line. She was all about the displays and the programs, and left it to the board to find the money. She’s got vision, I’ll give you that. You have to believe she actually thinks like a child, and it works. Sometimes she got overextended and had to be reined in. But she means well, from what I understand.”

“You think the death this week was accidental?”

She sat back in her chair and took a hard look at me. “I assume you’re asking because you don’t?”

I looked around carefully. Nobody in earshot seemed even slightly interested in our conversation. I leaned forward. “Normally I would say it was just a tragic accident, but as it happens I was there when a similar event happened a day earlier. Luckily that guy didn’t die, but I thought it was odd that the same thing happened twice in two days.”

“Huh. That first one didn’t make the paper. What did the police say?”

“I was summoned before our dear friend Detective Hrivnak, but she didn’t tell me anything. At least they’re looking this time around. Arabella told me she thought they hinted that it was more than an accident, the last time she talked to them.”

“Poor Arabella,” Marty said, then fixed me with a critical eye. “Are you asking if I might know some dirt that would point to why this is happening?”

The short answer was yes. Marty knew everyone in Philadelphia and the surrounding counties, and could tell you who their great-grandparents were, too. Thank goodness Marty was smart, which was why we worked well together: I didn’t have to explain. “Exactly. Right now I’m just collecting information. From all I’ve heard, everybody and his sister loves Let’s Play and would have absolutely no reason to do it harm. I don’t know Arabella well, though—is she hiding some deep, dark secret? Did she used to run a brothel or sell drugs out of the gift shop?”

Marty snorted. “Not hardly. Believe it or not, she’s exactly what she appears to be: a really sweet person who happens to be a decent administrator. There was kind of a stink when her husband left her, oh, twenty years ago, and she struggled for a while. But she seems to have come out of it well.”

I debated asking Marty for details about the husband but decided that I didn’t need to dig up decades-old gossip. I hadn’t been around Philadelphia then, and I hadn’t known the parties involved. And would this husband have waited twenty years to act, if he had a grudge against his ex?

“James and I were kicking around possibilities.” Okay, so now I’d gone and brought up James again.

Marty gave a short laugh. “Sounds like a great date—discussing motives for murder. He have anything useful to say?”

“It was helpful to me to have to put my ideas into words. But there are a lot of possibilities, unfortunately. What I can’t figure out is—assuming it’s not an accident—was the target the place or a person? Arabella’s a sweetheart, and Let’s Play is a real favorite around here. Was it meant to harm Joe, the guy who died? If not, who else could it be?”

“Isn’t there a new exhibit?”

“Yes, based on the
Harriet the Hedgehog
series
.
The writer’s—”

“Hadley Eastman. I’ve got a couple of grandnieces who beg for her stuff, like the day the new book comes out.”

“Do you know her?”

Marty shook her head. “I gather she lives out in one of the burbs. That’s more your territory. And she wasn’t raised around here.”

Unless Hadley’s family had lived in the state for a couple of centuries, Marty probably wouldn’t consider her local. “I gather she’s done well with the books. It’s not easy these days—lots of competition in that market. Or so I’m told.” I had no direct experience with the popularity of current children’s books. “So who benefits most from this exhibit? The museum or the author?”

Marty took a sip of water before answering. “It’s a coup for the museum to get Hadley Eastman—although I hear that her star is waning. You know how long the lead time is for exhibit planning, so maybe things were different when they signed. I wonder what kind of a deal they cut. But Hadley stands to lose, too, if her name—or do I mean Harriet’s?—is linked to a death. Although, what’s the saying? No publicity is bad publicity?”

“I refuse to consider murder a publicity stunt for anyone,” I said firmly.

Marty eyed me. “Amen. But you don’t need to get involved. You’ve got plenty on your plate as it is.”

“Are you saying that as a board member?”

“And as a friend, Nell. Your first couple of months are important—you need to show you’ve got a handle on the Society and that you’ve moved beyond what happened. Both you and the Society are under a lot of scrutiny right now. That’s got to be your first priority.”

“I know.” It would be easier to follow Marty’s good advice if I hadn’t known what Arabella must be going through. It was too easy for me to imagine just how she felt.

I was interrupted in my musings when Marty asked, “So, how are things going?” And we were off. Marty was, for me, an invaluable resource, because she knew everyone and everything there was to know about the place. In fact, since her father and grandfather had been on the board, she probably had hereditary knowledge. And she was one of my staunchest supporters: she had, in fact, engineered my rapid and unexpected ascent to its leadership. Since I’d been foolish enough to say yes, I was grateful that she was willing to help me. Of course, we did share a common goal: keeping the Society afloat financially, in the near term, and polishing it until it shone like the gem of American and local historical information that it deserved to be, in the longer term. I hoped I lived long enough to see that.

Lunch arrived promptly, and we consumed it quickly, then split the tab and emerged into the cool November afternoon. “You seem to be hiring staff nicely,” Marty said as we turned our steps back toward the Society.

“They’ve kind of fallen into my lap, but so far so good, knock on wood. We’re still working on filling Alfred’s position, but I want to be sure we get someone qualified, and who really cares about the place, not just the job. So far that one hasn’t crawled out of the woodwork.”

“I don’t have any candidates in mind, but I’ll keep my ears open. It’s just as well to let things quiet down a bit, anyway. And the collections have been sitting there for years without a whole lot of oversight, and after your recent improvements, I don’t think they’re going anywhere soon. So take your time and choose wisely.”

“That’s what I had in mind.”

As long as other things, like murder, didn’t distract me.

By the next morning, Eric and I were already settling
into our own pattern, alternating who got the coffee, each time going through a polite ritual. Shall I? Will you? The quality of the coffee continued to improve, which seemed reason enough to keep Eric around. Although he definitely had other much-needed skills—my phone messages were neatly recorded and appeared on my desk in a timely fashion, and what projects I gave him, he executed quickly and accurately. He was almost too good to be true, but at the moment I was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I was reviewing the agenda for the next Executive Committee meeting of the Society’s board when Eric answered the phone, then stuck his head in my office. “There’s a Hadley Eastman downstairs to see you?”

It took me a moment to remember who Hadley Eastman was: the author of the
Harriet the Hedgehog
series. Why on earth would she want to see me? “Could you go down and escort her upstairs, please?”

“Will do.” He darted down the hall. I stacked up my papers and put them back in their folder, and mentally reviewed what I knew about Hadley Eastman, which was essentially nothing other than what Marty and Arabella had told me. I didn’t spend a lot of time around children, and while I enjoyed browsing in bookstores, I seldom strayed to the children’s section. I put on a cheerful smile in preparation for my unexpected guest.

Who stormed in, with poor Eric trailing in her wake. He sent me an apologetic glance and retreated quickly. I had a quick impression of a fashionably thin and carefully made-up woman in her middle decades before she turned around and barked an order. “Chloe, wait for me there.” Chloe, a wispy young blonde clutching several bags, looked wildly around for a seat, which Eric pointed out for her. She sat down like a well-trained dog.

My guest turned the full glare of her attention to me and launched into a harangue. “What the hell do you mean, telling Arabella that this death is my fault?” Hadley Eastman demanded, leaning on my desk, braced on both arms.

Getting in my face was not the best way to introduce herself. I counted to three, internally, before saying, “Excuse me?”

“At Let’s Play. You gave Arabella Heffernan the idea that this stupid accident was directed at me.”

At first I didn’t remember saying any such thing, and then I recalled that when I’d talked to Arabella on Monday, I’d suggested a number of alternative scenarios. Apparently Arabella, faced with a belligerent Hadley, had tried to deflect her by pointing out that she could have been the target—and she hadn’t taken it well. “Why don’t we start over here? Welcome to the Society. I’m Nell Pratt, the president. Won’t you please sit down? Would you like a cup of coffee?” I had to grit my teeth to get this out, but at least one of us had to take the high road.

“No, you’re not going to distract me with coffee and showing off your historic stuff. I want to know what you said to Arabella. And to the police, who showed up at my door yesterday.”

“Then you’d better sit down,” I said, with more steel in my voice. “This is, after all, my office.”

For a moment it looked as though she was going to balk, but then she grudgingly dropped into a chair and glared at me. “So?”

Hadley Eastman did not exactly correspond to my mental image of a children’s book writer. Arabella came a lot closer—warm and friendly and happy. Hadley was coming across as a harridan, at least so far.

“Tell me, why are you here?” I asked in what I hoped was a reasonably calm tone.

Hadley tossed her artfully colored hair behind her shoulders. “I had a very unpleasant interview with a police officer yesterday, about this accident at Let’s Play.”

So the police were still calling it an accident? Or was that Hadley’s label?

“You mean that tragic event that resulted in someone’s death? That the police are investigating?”

I enjoyed watching Hadley trying to mold her face into an appropriately sympathetic expression—not very successfully.

Hadley went on. “They wanted to know if I had any enemies, anyone who would like to destroy my reputation.”

“Do you?” It wouldn’t surprise me, given what I’d seen of her so far.

“Well, of course there are those who envy my success. I can name quite a few writers in my genre who would love to see me brought down. Getting published in children’s fiction is brutal.”

“I don’t doubt it.” That at least squared with what little I knew about the publishing business. “But how far would they go?”

The flush on Hadley’s cheeks was receding. “How should I know? I try to stay away from them. I don’t do signings anymore—too many sticky-fingered kids whining. I go to a few conferences and make nice at the cocktail parties, and that’s it. I don’t need to suck up to the masses at this point in my career.”

A children’s author who didn’t tolerate children? “You’re saying you’re that successful?”

She stared at me. “You
do
know who I am?”

“Yes. You write the
Harriet the Hedgehog
series.”

“
New York Times
best seller, six times over. Millions of books sold. Harriet is an icon of contemporary society, at least among the under-five demographic.”

“I see.” What I actually saw was a vitriolic stick of a woman who was older than she wanted to appear—probably a good ten years my senior. “Do you have children of your own?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Just wondering,” I said mildly. I was beginning to enjoy this dialogue. “I don’t know your books, but I thought the exhibit at Let’s Play was charming—until someone died. Certainly the police have to look at all angles. Do
you
think you might’ve been the target, rather than the museum or someone there?”

“I . . . don’t know.” She looked momentarily deflated, then rallied. “If there’s any hate mail, my publicist would have it. I get lots of mail, you know, from children and their parents, but that goes through my publisher, and they forward it to my assistant.” She waved vaguely at Chloe in the outer office. “I told the police to talk to her. I certainly couldn’t tell them anything.”