Let's Play Dead (8 page)

“More than fair, ma’am. When should I start?”

“Can you come in tomorrow morning? And please drop the
ma’am
. I’m Nell.”

“Eight thirty okay, Nell?”

“Eight thirty’s fine, Eric. I’ll meet you in front and we can sort out keys and stuff. You want to stop by Shelby’s office and give her the good news?”

“I’d sure appreciate that.”

I came around the desk and led him back down the hall. “Shelby, I said I’d give Eric here a trial run.”

“That’s terrific, Nell. And Eric, you be good or I’ll whup your ass. Got it?”

He bobbed his head. “Sure do, Shelby. I’ll do you proud, don’t worry.”

“Well, I’ll let you two chat—I’ve got work to do.” I ducked out and headed back to my office. I amused myself by wondering how our patrons and board members would react to a Southern accent—and a male one at that—when they phoned me, but I thought Eric had the right idea: charm conquers all, or at least a whole lot. And I had me an assistant, at least for a while.

And cookies. Things were definitely looking up.

Things got even better when I grabbed my phone just
before five. “Nell Pratt,” I said crisply.

“James Morrison,” said the voice on the phone, matching my tone.

I stifled an inappropriate giggle. Marty had told her cousin Jimmy to call me, and presto, he called—despite the fact that he was a senior FBI agent. And James Morrison, special agent, looked every inch the FBI agent. When we’d first met, I’d wondered if there was a style sheet for agents, because he fit it to a T: conservative suit, polished shoes, regulation haircut. I happened to know he was an all-around good guy, but the immediate question was whether he was calling for personal or professional reasons. I decided not to make it easy for him.

“Why, James, how nice to hear from you! Do you have news about our missing collection items?”

“Uh, no.”

He didn’t add anything immediately, but I let him dangle. Finally he said, “I know it’s short notice, but are you doing anything tonight?”

I pretended to riffle through my calendar. “No, I don’t have any plans.”

“Would you like to, uh, have dinner with me?”

I didn’t really have to think about that. “That would be delightful. Do you want to meet somewhere?”

“You know that new bistro near City Hall, on Broad Street?”

Of course I did. I walked past it almost daily, and I often drooled over the menu they posted. “I do. What time?”

“How about seven?”

“Seven’s great. See you then.” I hung up quickly, but not before I heard what I thought was a sigh of relief.

I left the office shortly before seven, but James had arrived at the restaurant before me and was seated at a table that was just right—not too public, not too intimate. He rose as he saw me exchange a word with the maitre d’ and waited until I approached. “Nell, it’s good to see you. Is the new job agreeing with you?” He held out my chair for me. One of the last gentlemen.

“I think so,” I said. “I can’t believe it’s been a couple of months already. I’m up to my neck in trying to keep the day-to-day stuff moving forward, without even thinking about any major changes.”

He sat down across from me. “Do you plan any changes?”

“You know the problems we have, but I don’t see what I can do about them without a big cash infusion. We’ve beefed up the front-desk procedures, but it’s really hard to know whether that helps. We’ll see. Any further word about our artifacts?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. These things take time, and you know you can’t count on a high success rate. I wish I had better news, but we’re actively working on it. And of course you know Marty’s on the case, and she’s a bulldog.”

He had that right. At least Marty had a strong moral compass to go with her determination. “That’s what I assumed when I didn’t hear from you. And I’m not surprised. I’m just pleased—and grateful—that we didn’t get much negative publicity out of it all.” All right, this was silly: I couldn’t relax until I knew why he and I were here. “Funny thing—I saw Marty just yesterday. She mentioned you.” I waited to hear how he would respond to that.

His mouth twitched. “That would account for her phone call last night. She suggested that I might want to get together with you. I believe this is what’s known as a date. Although I may be out of step with the times.”

“Oh, is that what this is? You don’t have some nefarious scheme to reveal to me? You don’t want me to spy on someone for you?” It was kind of fun to tease him.

“No to both. I thought we, uh, had some interesting interactions the last time we met, and I wanted to see you under less, uh, stressful circumstances. Do you want to leave now? I’d hate to keep you here under false pretenses.”

“Why would I do that?” An attractive, intelligent man with a steady job—and one who actually knew something about my patchy romantic history—might be interested in pursuing a nonprofessional relationship with me! I could get excited about that—if I had any energy left after trying to keep a financially challenged institution afloat, with no training or preparation for the job. I would definitely consider it. After all, I’d said yes to the president’s job with equally little notice. Why not to dating an FBI agent? “I’m happy to have dinner with you. And right now I could use a glass of wine and some food, if you don’t mind.”

“I think I can handle that.” He made an almost imperceptible gesture and a waiter appeared with oversize menus, which he presented with a flourish.

“Chardonnay?” James asked.

“Yes, please.” He’d remembered—a point for him.

While we studied the menu, I checked my inner thermostat. I hadn’t had the time or the energy to play games for the last couple of months, what with everything that had fallen on my head, but I wasn’t about to pass up an invitation from an attractive man—I could make time for James.

We ordered, and once the waiter had left, I realized how out of practice I was at this dating thing. “If this is a social occasion, is this the point where we’re supposed to exchange life histories? Oh, wait—you probably have an extensive dossier on me. Right?”

He smiled. “You’d have to file a formal request in writing to find that out. Why don’t we just start back at the beginning?”

I laughed. “Okay, I’ll go first. I’m single, gainfully employed, and have no criminal records or vices that could result in same at some unspecified future date. No secret children. No history of insanity in the family. Are we good so far?”

He nodded, clearly amused. I pressed on. “I have a job I think I like—although check back with me in another couple of months on that. I own my own home, I have a middle-aged car, and no debt beyond my mortgage. And I still have all my own teeth and my vital organs.”

James grinned. “Ditto, except I own a condo in University City.”

“Nice short commute,” I said, sipping my water. “Any siblings?”

“Two. One brother, one sister. Neither lives nearby.”

“I’ve got one brother who works in Texas, for reasons that mystify me. You weren’t born in Texas, were you?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll feel free to say disparaging things about the place.”

“Go right ahead,” he said, then asked, his tone neutral, “You were married once, weren’t you?”

“Yes, a long time ago. It didn’t work out, but we parted on good terms. You?”

“Never got that far.”

I bit back a snappy response. He was a good catch, so why was he unattached at his age? Did his job turn women off, or just leave him with too little time to deal with outside relationships? These were questions I didn’t think I had any right to ask—at least, not on a first date. Maybe a second date, if there was one.

Our drinks appeared, followed in short order by our appetizers. That effectively ended Speed Dating, Round One. The food lived up to the media hype it had received, and I was happy to see that James gave it the attention it deserved. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved with someone who didn’t appreciate the subtleties of fine cuisine—one of my guilty pleasures, when I could afford it.

“How are things going at the Society?” he asked.

“Well, nothing’s disappeared lately, which is good. I’m trying to fill in staff to replace the people we lost. I may have managed to fill my old position. After the recent press we’ve gotten, I’m not in any hurry to start asking people for money again.”

“Memories are short. As soon as the next big scandal comes along, people will forget about the Society’s problems,” James said.

I wasn’t sure I agreed with him. After all, we were in the business of preserving history—and memories. It would be a big plus if we could recover some or all of the lost artifacts, but I had little control over that. James, however, did. “Do you think we’ll get anything back?”

He looked down at the table and lined up the remaining silverware. “Let’s say I still hold out hope. I can tell you that a lot of people who acquire items they suspect may be illicitly obtained, do so not for any financial reasons but because they really want the items. So they may not have gone far.”

“Let’s hope. Speaking of problems, I was over at Let’s Play yesterday.” When he looked blank, I explained. “The children’s museum? They had a small problem with the wiring, and somebody received a nasty electrical shock. He’ll be all right, but I’m beginning to wonder if I attract disasters.”

“It wasn’t a criminal act, was it?” James asked.

“I don’t think so. Just a fault in the new wiring, apparently. I’m sure they’re careful there, because they’re dealing with a lot of children. It would be disastrous to their reputation if something happened to a child.” We at the Society had had enough trouble dealing with theft—which reflected badly on our stewardship of our historical collections—but if a child were injured or worse . . . I didn’t want to think about it.

My expression must have given me away, because James was watching me sympathetically. “I don’t think you had anything to do with that, unless you’ve been moonlighting as an electrician.”

I appreciated his effort to lighten the mood. “Not me—I have trouble changing a lightbulb.” And our talk drifted to other topics over dessert and coffee.

It was past ten when I looked at my watch and realized I should get moving if I wanted to get the last train. “I’m sorry, but I need to catch a train.”

“I could drive you home?” James volunteered.

It was tempting, but I didn’t want to rush things. “No, it’s all right—I go home late a lot of the time. If your car’s nearby you could drop me at Thirtieth Street, though.”

“Certainly.” He paid the bill in record time and escorted me outside. It had to be well below freezing, and I was glad not to have to walk to the train. The drive to the station took only a few minutes, and James pulled up in front and stopped. I felt a pang of concern: had he done this only to get Marty off his back? Would he consider his duty done and disappear again?

“Nell,” he began.

I held my breath.

“I really enjoyed this evening. I hope we can do it again, and sooner than two months.”

I exhaled. “I’d like that.” But I couldn’t resist adding, “Do you want me to report back to Marty?”

He laughed. “Let’s keep her guessing. Good night, Nell.”

The next morning I boarded my train and unfurled my
Philadelphia Inquirer
. I’m old-fashioned, in keeping with my job: I refuse to read a newspaper online, and the paper version is just long enough to occupy me during my trip to Center City. I liked to know what had happened since the day before, and what was going to happen, in my city. Sometimes events of the day even had an impact on my work, and I read the “Social Circuit” column to see what our board members or patrons were doing.

I dutifully read the national news before flipping to the local section, and stopped in horror: the banner headline read, “Tragic Accident at Museum.” Above the fold. After my heart started again, once I determined that it wasn’t the Society they were talking about, I realized the grainy picture showed the front of Let’s Play, alongside a studio photo of Arabella, taken at least ten years ago. Wait—she had told me that Jason was fine and was ready to be sent home. Had he taken a turn for the worse?

Oh, no. It was a second accident. And this time someone had died.

I read on, my feelings a messy mix of ghoulish curiosity and dismay. Thirty-five-year-old electrician Joseph Murphy had been fatally electrocuted while putting the finishing touches on a newly installed exhibit at a local children’s museum, blah, blah, blah.

I had to stop reading to collect myself. Not Joe! Joe, who had been so kind to me after Jason’s accident? Had he been working again on the wiring? Arabella had definitely said yesterday that she had other people checking it out.

I shook myself and résuméd reading. Joe had met his end while working on a large animal figure representing Willy the Weasel, a character in the popular children’s book series
Harriet the Hedgehog
. The photographer had graciously spared readers the sight of poor Joe collapsed at the feet of Willy; there was, instead, a floodlit view of a covered gurney emerging from the building. The body had been discovered about nine o’ clock the prior night, when the electrical incident had triggered an alarm. Alarm? Nothing had gone off when I witnessed Jason’s event. Was that new?