Let's Play Dead (11 page)

I hauled myself away from my office at quarter to seven.
I’d sent Eric home before six, although he’d volunteered to stay if I needed him. I didn’t, but I appreciated his offer. He seemed like a sweet kid, but before I made him an offer of long-term employment I wanted to observe his organizational and administrative skills, and those hadn’t really been tested yet. At the same time, I wasn’t going to insist on a fat résumé and years of experience if it turned out that he could do the job. In any case, that was a decision that I did not have to make right this minute, unlike a long list of other items.

When I let myself out the front door, I found James on the front steps. “Were you waiting for me?” I asked. “You could have come inside.”

“I didn’t want to upset anyone. People see an FBI agent, they get concerned.” He smiled. “You have time for a drink? The Doubletree?”

Twice in one week. My, my, things were heating up. “Sure.”

James escorted me the block to the hotel on the corner of Broad Street and found us a quiet table. We ordered drinks, and when we were settled, I decided to jump-start the conversation. “Listen, this kerfuffle at the Let’s Play Museum—that doesn’t fall anywhere in your jurisdiction, does it?”

“Kerfuffle? I don’t know if that’s a legal term. You mean the suspicious death last night? No, that’s within the purview of the local police. They wouldn’t welcome us sticking our noses in, unless it was an incidence of domestic terrorism. Is it?” he joked.

“I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s not a bad idea,” I retorted. “Attack our treasured local institutions, starting with children’s museums, and undermine American society. Good plan, but it might take a while before anyone noticed. If I were planning such a thing, I’d go after something a little more impressive, like planting a bomb at the Philadelphia Art Museum.”

He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I wouldn’t mention the word
bomb
in the presence of an FBI agent—it makes us nervous.” He sat back. “You want to talk about it?”

“The, uh, suspicious death? Yes, I suppose I do, as long as I’m not violating any laws or procedures.”

“Let me worry about that.”

I smiled at him. “Look, I’m not a crime groupie, if that’s what you’re wondering. It’s just that I know and like Arabella Heffernan, and as I told you, I was there when another employee was jolted in much the same way, a day earlier. So you’d have to say I’m kind of involved, whether I like it or not.”

His expression was appropriately serious now. “I’m sorry. That can’t have been pleasant for you. How did your talk with the police go?”

I nodded. “About as well as I could have hoped. Our favorite detective is on the job, although I couldn’t tell her much. How do you read this?”

“You really are a romantic. I ask you out for a drink and you want to talk about electrocution.” He gave a mock sigh. “All right. I don’t have all the facts, but we know there was an electrical accident two days ago, which wasn’t fatal—and you were a witness. Then there was a second electrical accident last night, which
did
prove fatal. No witnesses. Either somebody working at Let’s Play is one lousy electrician, or at least one if not both of those events was deliberate. Is that what you mean?”

I nodded. “Exactly. Arabella assured me that she’d had all the wiring checked by two different people the morning after the first incident. She was horrified at the idea that something could happen to a child, and she wanted to be sure the exhibit was safe. I believe her. That means if it wasn’t purely accidental, that someone had to tamper with the wiring after it was looked over in the morning and before the body was found last night.”

“What kind of security is there?”

“I’d say it’s laughable—but that’s not surprising, because there’s not much to steal from a children’s museum. There’s a cash register at the front desk for patrons, and one more in the gift shop, period. They’ve presumably had a lot of workmen coming through, finished up the new exhibit that’s supposed to open soon. I’d bet that if anybody walked in wearing coveralls and carrying a tool chest or paint cans and smiled at the receptionist, they’d be allowed upstairs without any question. So there are plenty of opportunities.” I took a sip of my wine. “Listen, can we talk about motive?”

“We haven’t exactly exhausted the
how
part.”

“I know that, but I don’t know enough about wiring to guess what kind of knowledge would be required, or how long it would take to rig things. Besides, I really do like to know the
why
of things.”

“Okay, I’ll play. Who or what was the target? Assuming we’ve eliminated terrorism.”

“Have we? But in any case . . .” I ticked off the possibilities on my fingers. “One, the trap may have been directed at Joe, the guy who died, and Jason’s earlier event was just a trial. Or, two, maybe it was meant for Jason, but the culprit screwed up the first time around. However, Jason is just a moonlighting graduate student, I can’t imagine why anybody would want to harm him—and anyway, he wasn’t around to set it up the second time. Although if Arabella thought he wasn’t right for her daughter . . .” I shook myself: I was definitely headed toward the absurd. “I’m sure the police are looking into both Jason and Joe anyway. Three, it could have been directed at Hadley Eastman—she’s the writer of the
Harriet the Hedgehog
books that inspired the exhibit.”

“You mean there’s somebody who doesn’t like hedgehogs?” James asked with a half smile.

“Or doesn’t like the author, I guess. I haven’t met her
or
read the books. But I’m not done. Four, it might not have been directed at anyone in particular, and the perpetrator just figured a fatal accident would hurt the museum’s reputation, or Arabella personally.”

“I’d say that about covers all the bases, unless you want to throw in Martians. Seriously, don’t you think the police will be asking the same questions?”

“Of course they will, and they have the resources to follow up. But as I’ve no doubt said before, they are somewhat lacking in their understanding of how institutions of this kind operate. The reputation of a museum is a fragile thing, particularly in this case, where children’s safety is involved. This could do irreparable harm to Let’s Play, and I’d hate to see that. Besides, if it was a generalized booby trap, it could have been me. I take that personally.”

We both paused to take a sip of our drinks. I was happy to find that putting my thoughts into words for him had helped me organize them. The problem was, I didn’t have enough information to point in any one direction.

“Should I assume that this is more than an academic exercise?” James said, his eyes on me.

“What do you mean? Do I plan to do something about it? I really hadn’t thought that far.” That was the truth: I had more than enough to do without involving myself in Arabella’s problems. Although she had asked for my help . . . “I’m just an innocent bystander—unless you want to think that Arabella is a devious plotter and invited me there to act as a witness.”

“Do you believe that?”

“She’d have to be a really good actress, although I have to say I don’t know her well enough to judge. I’ve never heard anyone say anything bad about her or the place. Everyone around here loves it.”

“You know anything about their finances?” James asked.

“No. I haven’t heard any rumors that they’re having problems. Are you wondering about insurance?”

“Just throwing it out there, but I can’t see how that would benefit anyone. Nell, I don’t think there’s much you can do. And if the police think you’re interfering, they won’t be happy.”

He was right on both counts and I knew it. But at the same time, I felt I was already involved: I liked Arabella and wanted to help her if I could, and on a wider professional scale, any attack against a local museum threatened us all. We institutions needed all the goodwill we could garner if we wanted the public to continue to visit us, and for that to happen people had to feel safe. That made this both personal
and
professional.

I looked up to see James watching me. “What?”

“You don’t want to let this go, do you?”

“Am I that obvious? No, I don’t. But I agree with you—I’m not sure what I can do. Maybe Marty will have more insight. I need to talk to her anyway.”

“Mm-hmm.” He sounded skeptical. He knew his cousin Marty well.

I checked my watch. “Shoot—I’ve got to rush if I want to catch my train.”

“You sure I can’t offer you dinner?”

“That’s sweet, but not tonight. Rain check?”

“Sure.” He stood up, then added, “Nell, be careful. Someone is dead, and it’s up to the police to find out how and why. Period.”

I sighed. “I know. I’m just saddened that something like this has happened again. And surprised that I was anywhere near it.” Time to change gears and take the bull by the horns—a nicely muddled metaphor. “Thank you for, well, worrying about me, James.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled, then his expression turned sober. “I’ll call you if there are any further developments. I don’t know what my schedule is like over the next couple of weeks.”

“You can call me with or without developments. But I know what my schedule is like: jammed. See you.”

Friday passed without any additional crises, thank
goodness, and I was happy to watch Eric as he settled into his new position quietly and efficiently. I left for the weekend feeling pleased with myself.

I am a self-proclaimed workaholic, which is most likely the reason I have no life outside of work. I have had the occasional romantic relationship that occupied an afternoon or evening now and then, but the last one had left a bad taste in my mouth, and I was determined to take things slow with James. Every now and then I noticed that I seemed to have no friends beyond those at the Society, and I had few people just to get together with. But I spent so much time dealing with other people at work, it was nice to have no one but myself to answer to on weekends.

Of course, since I owned my own home, there was always plenty there to keep me busy on any given weekend. There was always something that needed fixing or sprucing. And of course there was cleaning. I deferred the basic stuff as long as I could, until the dust bunnies started reproducing in the corners and chasing me around, and then I tended to do it all at once, so I could try to forget about it for another few weeks. Or months. The forgetting part was easier to do during the winter months, when it was near dark when I left in the morning and definitely dark when I arrived home at night.

I sighed and tracked down my trusty vintage vacuum. At least housecleaning left my mind free to roam, as long as I didn’t have to wrestle with such weighty problems as which cleaning agent would best remove the sticky stain I couldn’t remember making. That involved close reading of the fine print on package labels, which these days were far too small and loaded with dire warnings. But the basic stuff, like dusting and vacuuming, used only a percent or two of my consciousness, and I applied the rest to the riddle of the hazardous Willy the Weasel. Thus went my inner dialogue on Saturday:

Why would anybody wire an animated weasel at a children’s museum to hurt someone?

Who was the intended victim?

Who had both access to the building and the skills to do it?

What was I going to do about it?

Why was I involved in this at all?

I
really
don’t know.

But I was already in the thick of the matter, unfortunately—through no fault of my own!—and I knew myself well enough to know that I couldn’t just walk away now. Besides, from all I knew and had heard from others, Arabella didn’t deserve this kind of trouble. Based on personal experience, I knew all too well the spot she was in, and I also knew that when it had happened to me, I wouldn’t have been able to sort things out without some significant help, sometimes from unexpected sources. I wanted to help Arabella as sort of cosmic payback. Or pay it forward. Whatever. I chased down another clump of something fuzzy under my couch with the skinny end of the vacuum hose.

But I had pitifully little to go on, and the delightful homicide detective Meredith Hrivnak was not likely to share much with me. She was probably still peeved that I’d done more than she had to wrap up the recent incident at the Society. James wasn’t going to be able to help, either. He wasn’t even involved in the case. And I had so, so much else I should be doing for the Society. When did I have time to look into this?

Thinking of things I didn’t have time for, I also amused myself by dissecting my date with James. Had there been any chemistry between us? I’d have to say yes. But James and I were both grown-ups with busy lives, so where that chemistry might take us was anybody’s guess. When would we find the time to explore the possibilities? Most of my free time had evaporated when I took the job of president, and I didn’t see it coming back for a while. And now with Arabella’s problems . . .

I went round and round with the whole mess in my head as I scrubbed and polished, and by the end of the afternoon I had a very clean house and no resolution. I took myself to the nearest market and bought fresh supplies for a sumptuous dinner for one, which I prepared, enjoyed, and cleaned up after, feeling very virtuous. Then I watched a movie on television, got bored in the middle, and went to bed.

Sunday morning I knew I couldn’t spend another day of the same. The choices were (a) go into work, or (b) find something more distracting to do. I really couldn’t face going into work—I had to maintain some perspective and allow myself a few breaks from it, or the job would overwhelm me. What would be a good distraction?

In the end, after an indulgent breakfast, I decided to take a drive. It almost didn’t matter where, but I found myself drifting toward Chester County and the Brandywine River: Andrew Wyeth country. I bypassed the lovely museum in Chadd’s Ford but turned north and followed the Brandywine River, along the narrow, twisting road that headed toward West Chester. Luckily there were few other people on the road today, a chilly Sunday in January. As I passed it, I saluted the Wyeth farm, familiar from so many paintings.