Let's Play Dead (19 page)

“How did you manage to smooth things out?” I asked, honestly curious. If Arabella was the businesswoman Marty made her out to be, she must have applied her skills to this problem.

“We did a lot of haggling, but eventually we agreed on most things. I know our audience, I told her—better than she does, apparently. She may write charming books, but she has no idea how to translate them into an interactive display. I think she wanted the children to file through and admire her works silently, but that’s not our style at Let’s Play. We want the kids to handle things, play with things. Sure, it’s hard on the exhibits sometimes. But children are wonderful—they don’t see the chips in the paint, they see a character they love. Not that we haven’t made provisions for freshening things now and then, over the life of the exhibit.”

“Are you considering making it a permanent exhibit?” I asked.

“Not if I can help it!” Arabella replied vehemently. “I don’t want to deal with that woman any longer than I have to. Besides, we’ve already made commitments for the space for the year after next.”

I marveled at how fast things moved in the world of children’s museums, compared to our staid institution. It usually took us the better part of a decade to change anything.

I looked at my plate to find that all my food had mysteriously disappeared, save for a lonely french fry lurking under a piece of lettuce. I promptly snared and ate it. There was a line of impatient lunch seekers waiting by the door, and the waiter had long since tossed our bill on the table. “Shall we settle up and walk around a bit? Maybe we can find something tasty for dessert along the way.”

“Wonderful. There’s so much to see here. I even enjoy people watching, especially children—too bad there are so few children here during the day, and I don’t get over here much on weekends. Oh, and we have to go see the pig! It’s a tradition of mine.”

Even I knew about Eric Berg’s sculpture of Philbert the pig, the Market’s mascot. He was located roughly in the center of the Market, sitting on his cash box, mouth eagerly open. Philbert attracted a lot of donations, which went toward supporting healthy eating programs. “Sure,” I said, sticking some cash in the bill folder and gathering up my coat.

We strolled through the crowded market aisles, pointing out the interesting and exotic goodies we passed. Arabella’s enthusiasm was refreshing. She made no effort to act like a serious grown-up but instead responded like the children she so enjoyed, all but squealing with glee when she spied something absurd like a giant ear made out of chocolate. The Market offered plenty of inspiration.

We reached Philbert and stopped to pay him homage as people swirled around us, intent on their lunch-hour errands. Philbert sat next to one of the main seating and eating areas, although he turned his back to the throng. Arabella approached him to rub his snout, fishing with her other hand in her roomy bag for a contribution. She fed him with a pleased smile, then looked up—and froze, her pink cheeks turning parchment white in seconds.

I followed her gaze but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Most of the tables were filled, primarily with ones and twos. People were leaving and being replaced in a steady stream, their purchases clustered around their feet. At the far end was a table of four men, who had no purchases and only soft-drink bottles on their table; they appeared deep in conversation. But they did not look out of place in the rich ethnic mix of shoppers. I touched Arabella on the arm, and she jumped. “Arabella, are you all right?”

She turned to me quickly. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Maybe I just overdid it a bit. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, as you can guess. Perhaps I’ll just catch a cab back to the museum. Please, you go on shopping. I’ll be fine once I get off my feet.”

“If you’re sure . . .” I said dubiously.

Her color was already returning. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll talk to you soon. And thanks for coming out to lunch with me!”

She turned on her heel and headed straight for the side exit, where I knew cabs lined up waiting. I watched along the long aisle until she left the building, then turned back to the cluster of tables. The four men had dispersed without a trace.

After making a few purchases of vegetables, I walked slowly back toward the Society. What could have startled Arabella so? I had a sneaking suspicion that she had unexpectedly recognized someone among the lunch goers. One of the men at the table? On the sidewalk I stepped aside, pulled out my cell phone, and hit a number—James’s private line. I didn’t have time to go through all those receptionists.

“Nell?” James’s voice at last. “What’s up?”

“Do you have a picture of Nolan Treacy?” I said without preamble.

“Of course. Why?”

“Could you email me a copy to my office? I’m on my way back there now.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain when I get to my office. Please?”

“Okay.”

“Thanks.” I hung up before he asked for more explanation.

Back at the Society I hurried to my desk, nodding briefly to Eric as I passed. I sat down at my computer, logged into my email, and found James’s message, with an attachment. When I opened the attachment, it was a single image. I printed it out, then studied it. It clearly wasn’t recent, and the quality was poor—it was badly pixilated.

Was this one of the men I had seen at the Market? I couldn’t say for sure, but neither could I rule it out.

As I sat with the picture in my hands, the phone rang. Eric appeared at the door and whispered, “It’s that FBI agent,” not that James could possibly hear Eric if he was on hold. Or maybe he could: I had no idea how far the capabilities of the FBI stretched.

“Thanks, Eric. I’ll take it. Oh, and could you close the door behind you?”

When he was gone, I picked up the phone. “What’s this about, Nell?” James demanded.

I took a breath. “I just had lunch with Arabella Heffernan, at her invitation. We went to the Reading Terminal Market. After lunch we were strolling around and she stopped suddenly and looked like she’d seen a ghost.”

“And?” James said impatiently.

“It occurred to me that she might have seen her ex-husband among a group of men sitting at a nearby table. That’s why I asked you for the picture.”

“Was it him?”

“Hard to tell. This is an old picture, right?”

“Yes, maybe fifteen, twenty years ago. Nobody’s had any official reason to photograph him since, not here in the U.S. at least—and he’s a foreign national, so it’s not like we have access to his driver’s license or anything. What did you see?”

“A bunch of ordinary-looking guys having a soda in a busy place. Seriously. That’s all I can tell you. But Arabella went white and hightailed it out of there as fast as she could. She took a cab back.”

“Hmm. I’m going to have to talk with Ms. Heffernan.”

“James, don’t chew her head off, please. She looked honestly surprised, and none too happy. If that was what she was even looking at. She claimed not to feel well—it’s possible it could have been the smoked eel or something else that turned her off.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Talk with you later?”

“I’ve got that meeting tonight. Call me when I get home?”

“Will do.”

And he was gone. I felt bad about siccing the FBI on Arabella. Of course, if she
had
seen Nolan Treacy, they needed to know. Maybe it was just a coincidence, but if so, it had to be verified that it was nothing more. Maybe Nolan had turned into a sober, upright citizen and renounced his activist ways, but the FBI needed to be sure. So why did I feel so bad?

With a sigh, I turned back to the reports on my desk.

I approached my first Executive Committee meeting as
president of the Society with a little trepidation. The Executive Committee—the subgroup that actually ran the place—met once a month, but the Christmas holidays had intervened in December, and I think the board members, still reeling from the events of the fall, had wanted to give me a little breathing room in my new position before meeting again. I’d kept the key players informed, at least. For the meeting now I’d prepared all the reports that I thought were needed, but I wasn’t sure if they were going to be enough. I hated committing to paper our lack of progress in several significant areas. But I was doing the best I could. I hoped they would recognize that. Sure, I’d known the members of the board for years, but in an entirely different role. I still had no idea how they would treat me after my sudden elevation to leadership. I knew I had Marty as my champion, but it would take more than one person in my corner to make this work. Plus the board was still reeling from a slew of unwelcome revelations a couple of months earlier, and I had to address their concerns and look like I was handling things. I wasn’t sure what I could tell them that would reassure them, but I had to try.

Most of the members smiled at me as they walked in, which I chose to interpret as a good sign. It felt really strange to be standing at the head of the table when the members congregated in the board room. I’d sent Eric home: the board secretary could handle the minutes from this meeting. Marty gave me a nod when she walked in and took her seat.

At five thirty I began. “Thank you for coming—I know how busy you all are. I’ll try to keep my remarks brief, since it hasn’t been long since our last meeting, but that one was a bit unusual.” A couple of the board members chuckled. “I can report that we don’t appear to have lost any ground since then, although the holiday season is historically slow. At least it gave us some breathing room. If you’ll look at your information packets . . .” I led them through the reports that they should have read but probably hadn’t: membership status, the final income numbers from our November gala (the last bright moment before the storm), and the status of acquisitions and major grant proposals (nil for both). The treasurer provided a simplified update on the state of our finances, which were, as usual, precarious.

When we’d run through the formal reports, I said, “I’ve had some success in filling some of our vacant positions. I’ve hired Shelby Carver to fill my former slot. I hope she’ll introduce herself to you soon.”

An emeritus member rumbled, “I hope you’re being careful filling positions these days. Background checks and the like. We don’t want to make the same mistake again.”

I debated about how to respond. It was all too easy to fabricate résumés and even cover your tracks in this electronic age, and I’d been relying on Melanie’s due diligence—and my gut reactions—with Shelby and then Eric. “Shelby is very well qualified, and she’s already provided a lot of help. Of course, she’s barely started, so I can’t speak to her fundraising abilities, but give her a chance to settle in. In addition, I’ve hired a new assistant.”

“He’s a he, isn’t he?” the secretary asked. Predictably it was John Rittenhouse, one of our older board members. “He sounds young, on the phone. Nell, you’ve got to remember that this person represents the Society and is often the first contact that our major donors have with us. He has to be right for the position.”

“I understand your concern, and I haven’t offered him the position on a full-time basis yet—he’s on probation. But so far I’ve had no reason to complain. Eric has been careful, polite, discreet, and he can think on his feet. And in case you don’t know it, I really need someone at that desk to keep me from being overwhelmed by the insignificant stuff. I assume you’d all prefer me to deal with more important issues?”

No one argued with me. I pressed on. “I’ve been moving slowly to fill the registrar’s position. We need someone who is well qualified, but we’re somewhat hampered by the salary we can offer. It’s just not competitive in today’s market.”

“You’ve advertised the position?” Lewis Howard, one of our most long-standing board members, asked.

“We already have, but few people were looking for jobs around the holidays, even in this economy. I expect interest will pick up now. But of course we all recognize that our collections management is on hold as long as the position is vacant. We still have a lot of sorting out to do.”

“All the more reason to make sure you find the right person.”

Marty winked at me before jumping in to say, “You may remember that at the last board meeting I suggested that we start a fund in Alfred’s memory, with the income going toward enhancing the salary for collections management positions. That, after all, is our core mission—to preserve and protect our collections, and to make them accessible to the public. We can’t do that if we can’t find them, and that means we need to hire a well-qualified registrar. I’d like to make a formal motion to create this endowed fund, and I’d like to make the first contribution of twenty-five thousand dollars. I hope you’ll all contribute.”

Hooray for Marty! She’d not only stepped up—presumably with money collected from her extended family—but she’d also challenged the others to join her. She knew how to play the game. Before anyone else spoke, I stepped in. “I can ask Shelby to look into grant funding to supplement the income further. And maybe we can suggest that the board will match all funds collected?”

Marty nodded. “Good idea, Nell. There’s a motion on the table. Do I hear a second?”

The motion passed, and I gave an inward sigh of relief.

The meeting wound down after that, and I noticed that a couple of members were looking at their watches. I was ready to adjourn when John Rittenhouse spoke up once again. “Maybe this is none of our business, but I’ve been reading about that problem at Let’s Play. I’m worried that it’s going to open up what happened here all over again. I mean, it looks like there’s a black cloud over Philadelphia museums, and some nosy newshound is bound to pick up on that.”

“How do you propose we address that, John?” I asked. “For public purposes, the police are calling it a tragic accident. Beyond offering our sympathies, what can we do?” If he didn’t know, I wasn’t about to tell him that I was already involved.