Let's Play Dead (5 page)

“Good question, dear. No, there aren’t, not in any part of America—but they’re found in Africa, Eurasia, Asia, Borneo, and parts of Europe,” she recited promptly. “Oh, and in New Zealand, but those were introduced there. But there is a very active group in this country promoting hedgehogs as pets. The little things are fairly low maintenance, and they’re rather endearing little creatures, aren’t they? Do you remember Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle?”

My mind was blank for a moment until a childhood memory surfaced. “Wasn’t that a Beatrix Potter character? Oh, right—she was a hedgehog, too.”

“Exactly. And a very sweet one. That’s the spirit I think the author has captured, although of course Harriet’s stories have a more modern feeling.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you fund the exhibit?” I said.

“I’m sure you’re aware that there are grants available for educational purposes, and we tapped into those where we could. After all, this display encourages young readers. Of course, all that happened before so many foundations faced financial difficulties—thank goodness. I doubt we could do it under current conditions. Hadley Eastman’s publisher contributed as well—this is excellent publicity for her series. And our board was very supportive. Most of them have young children or grandchildren.”

“I wondered about that. Is it a requirement that they have children to join the board?” Not a problem we faced. In fact, children were rarely seen within the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society, which was just as well, given the delicate nature of our collections. I shuddered at the thought of sticky little fingers on old documents, and games of tag among the shelving.

“We don’t require it exactly, but it’s strongly supported, and most board members are in complete agreement with the idea. In fact, when we are working on recruiting a new member, we typically ask them to come during the day or on a weekend along with their children, so they can get the full flavor of the place. Not many have been able to resist joining us after that experience.”

“Lucky you. I’m guessing the average age of your board members is about half that of ours.”

“Now, let me show you . . .”

As we strolled through the still-incomplete exhibit, Arabella identified the individual characters scattered around the room, each within its own little stage set. After a while I realized that the building had quieted. No more babbling of young voices or shrieks of glee from downstairs. I checked my watch: yes, it was close to six. I supposed you would get used to the noise if you worked in a place like this, but I had to admit I preferred the tranquility of our library. And our walls, while roughly the same age, were at least twice as thick, and muffled what little noise there was.

We’d completed the circuit of the room, which didn’t take long because the room was geared to children’s short legs, and Arabella asked, “Well, what do you think?”

She looked so eager that even if I’d had anything negative to say, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t have had the heart. “It’s marvelous. I can see why children will love it.”

Arabella gave a start. “Ooh, you haven’t even seen it in action! Have you got another minute?”

“Sure,” I said, mystified.

“Jason?” Arabella called out. “Can you switch on the circuit for the active displays?”

“No problem, Mrs. H.” One of the painters—the one who’d waved—made his way through the animals and opened a concealed wall panel I hadn’t even noticed. I could hear the click of a breaker.

After a few seconds, Arabella called out, “Jason, dear? Nothing is happening.” She turned to me. “Harriet’s eyes are supposed to light up when the power is on. And then when you pat her, her ears swivel forward, to show that she likes you.”

I stared at Harriet, who remained resolutely still. I wondered what hedgehogs really did to show any kind of emotion. The only thing I could recall about them was that they curled up in a ball when they were frightened, leaving their spines facing out to deter their enemies. I kind of envied them: there were days when I would like to do something like that.

Jason was still flipping switches, but nothing was happening. “Maybe the problem is on this end? Could you come take a look?” Arabella asked. “I really want Nell to see what Harriet does.”

“Sure thing.” Jason ambled toward us. Up close he turned out to be a nice-looking young man—well, young by my standards, which put him in his early twenties. He was wearing stained painter’s coveralls, clearly several sizes too big.

“Jason, this is Nell Pratt, from the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society. Nell, Jason is my daughter Caitlin’s boyfriend. He’s helping us out here with some of the last-minute things.”

Jason nodded to me and said shyly, “Hi.” Then he turned his full attention to Harriet, sitting obstinately dark and mute.

Jason got down on his knees to see if the concealed wires were connected. Apparently they were, so he moved on up to Harriet’s head, which grinned silently, her ears unmoving. He reached out and patted Harriet’s shiny black nose. Nothing happened. Jason looked confused, and Arabella looked crestfallen. I felt sorry for her: she had been so excited about showing off her charming new toy to me, and it appeared to be a dud.

“Jason, dear, could you try Willy? Maybe then we’ll know if it’s just one of the figures or the whole group.”

“Sure, Arabella.” Jason straightened up and approached a second figure a few feet away. Taller than Harriet, this one sported a smarmy grin and sprouted a lot of whiskers. He was leaning over with an elbow on an old-fashioned metal gate, which put his head within easy reach of small children. The placement of his body also prevented anyone from climbing on the low gate, which was no doubt the intention of the designer.

“That’s Willy the Weasel,” Arabella explained. “He’s supposed to . . .”

When Jason reached out and tweaked Willy’s nose, there was a sharp snap or crackle or pop, and all the lights in the room went out.

“Oh my!” Arabella squeaked. “
That’s
not supposed to happen.”

It wasn’t the only thing that wasn’t supposed to happen. Jason had dropped like a stone at Willy’s feet, and I crossed the space in a second, kneeling beside him. “Arabella, call 911!” I said. “Does anyone have a flashlight?”

Since I had been closest to Jason, I figured I’d better take charge. I didn’t know how Arabella would react in an emergency—for all I knew she might succumb to an attack of the vapors. I felt for Jason’s carotid artery. At least, I think I did—I was going solely by what I’d seen on a lot of TV shows. I groped around until I found what I thought—and hoped—was a pulse. I forced myself to take a deep breath and stop shaking. Yes, it was a pulse—faint and thready, but there. Jason wasn’t dead, thank God, but I had no idea how close to it he was.

“Has anyone called 911 yet?” I hollered. “Tell them we need an ambulance!’

“They’re on their way.” The other worker approached, slipping a cell phone back under his coveralls. “What the hell happened? Is he . . . ?”

“He was fiddling with the weasel and something seems to have shorted out.” That summed up all I knew.

“And whatever he did completed the circuit,” the man said. “I’m an electrician. Joe Murphy. I was just helping out with the painting ’cause the wiring was pretty much done. But I swear to God, we checked out all the connections, up one side and down the other! No way this should have happened. He gonna be all right?”

How was I supposed to know? Jason didn’t look any better: he was pale and breathing shallowly, and showed no signs of waking up.

I was startled when Arabella said, “Don’t touch anything,” in a calm, clear voice. “We don’t know if the circuit’s still live. You, too, Joe—just leave it alone until we can figure out what happened. Luckily Jason fell clear of it, or you might have been shocked, too, Nell.”

I hadn’t even considered that, in my hurry to reach Jason, but she was right. I sat back on my heels. “Should we cover him or something?”

“Good idea. If he’s in shock he’ll be losing body heat. Hand me one of those tarps, will you, Joe?”

Joe swooped down and bundled up a tarp. He and Arabella together laid it carefully over Jason’s nearly still form.

“Is the power out throughout the building?” I asked. I thought I could see lights coming from the open stairwell.

“Shouldn’t be,” Arabella said. “We installed a separate circuit for the exhibition this time around, since we had the walls open anyway, and we knew the electrified animals would draw a lot of power. But we went over the plans more times than I can count! There should have been no way that this could happen. The codes for this sort of exhibit are very strict, and of course we’ve had every inspection the city requires. It would be devastating if anything happened to a child. Not that it should happen to anyone.”

I felt a sense of relief. Gone was the fluffy Arabella, replaced by a competent leader, and I was happy to let her take charge.

“Mother, are you up here?” A female voice drifted from the front of the building. “What’s going on with the lights?”

Arabella stood up abruptly and headed for the sheeting that hid the exhibit. “Darling, don’t . . .” She was too late to intercept the young woman, who pushed the sheets aside and then shoved past her mother. “What . . . ?” She took in the scene—me squatting next to prostrate Jason, Joe standing anxiously behind, all of us in the dark—and then she wailed, “Oh, no! No! Jason!” Despite her mother’s restraining hand, she rushed over to Jason and knelt down beside me. She reached out to touch him—his face, not his pulse. “Jason, wake up, please!” Then she looked at me, her eyes filled with tears. “Is he . . . ?”

“I think he’s had a bad electrical shock, but he’s breathing,” I said. “We’ve called for an ambulance.”

She kept her hand on Jason. “Who are you? Do I know you?”

“I’m Nell Pratt, from the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society. You’re Arabella’s daughter?” When she nodded, I explained, “Your mother invited me to preview the exhibit.”

“Oh.” She lost interest in me and turned back to Jason.

Arabella had caught up with her, and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Caitlin, darling, come away. Help is coming.”

Once again Caitlin threw off her mother’s hand. “No. I’m staying with Jason. I want to be sure he’s all right. What happened?” Her gaze swiveled wildly between her mother, me, and Joe.

Arabella and I exchanged a glance. I wasn’t sure that Jason was going to be all right—shouldn’t he be conscious by now? But I wasn’t going to say anything to make this situation any worse. I was relieved to hear the sound of an approaching siren.

“We don’t know yet, Caitlin. Joe, can you go down and let them in, and bring them up here, please?” Arabella asked.

Joe, looking relieved at having something to do, said, “Sure,” and headed quickly for the stairs.

I stood up, since Caitlin had taken over the task of watching Jason breathe.

Arabella noticed my movement. “You don’t have to stay, Nell,” she said.

“Maybe I should, since I was here when this happened,” I told her. “In case the police have any questions.”

Arabella looked bewildered. “Why would the police have any questions? Something must have gone wrong with the wiring. It was an accident.”

Was it? Any hint of carelessness could do serious damage to the reputation of Let’s Play. What if it was something worse than carelessness? No, I was probably just being paranoid. First, see that Jason got to a hospital and, God willing, recovered. Then, make sure all the wiring was checked out—and then checked again. And pray that it was no more than an accident.

We sat frozen for long minutes, awaiting the arrival of the EMTs. I could track their progress aurally: the siren swelled in volume, then stopped abruptly when they arrived in front of the museum. There was commotion at the front door; Joe directed them up the stairs, and I heard their equipment clanging as they made their way up. Someone called out from the head of the stairs, and Arabella replied, “In here! Behind the plastic.”

Finally the EMTs appeared. Arabella tugged her daughter away from Jason’s still form. Caitlin came reluctantly, and Arabella wrapped an arm around her shoulders—or at least she tried, since she was at least six inches shorter than the younger woman. I wondered irreverently how such a short round woman could have produced such a tall willowy child. The EMTs set to work with grim efficiency. They managed to work and spit out questions at the same time. “What’s his name?”

“Jason Miller,” Arabella responded.

“What was he doing here?”

“He works here. He’s been painting part of the exhibit.”

“What happened? He fall?”

“No, we were having trouble making the electronic weasel work. Jason just touched it, and something went wrong.”

“It looked like he was hit with an electrical shock,” I volunteered. “He touched something, then he fell down all at once, and he hasn’t been conscious since. The lights up here went out at the same time.”

The EMTs exchanged a glance, then looked at Arabella. “You been working on the wiring lately?”

“Yes. But we’ve passed all our inspections, and everything was fine. The exhibit’s complete except for some painting and touching up. And the other figures were working fine yesterday. I tried them out myself.”

Arabella had been answering the questions with admirable calm, all the while holding on to her daughter—or maybe holding her up. Caitlin hadn’t said a word since her first outburst, and she was deathly pale, twisting her hands together. Hadn’t Arabella said Jason was Caitlin’s boyfriend? She certainly looked upset, maybe more so than Arabella. I felt like a fifth wheel, watching the professionals at work. What had happened here? Arabella had just said that the animals in the exhibit had been working fine yesterday, and today obviously they weren’t. What had changed? And why?

The EMTs straightened and extended the legs of their gurney. “Elevator?” one barked.