Fundraising the Dead (18 page)

He ignored my question. “Do you search people or their bags on the way out of the building?”

I shook my head. “We don’t let them take their own bags into the collections areas, just pads and notes, and more recently laptops, but out of the case. We’ve talked about stepping up security at more than one board meeting.”

James changed tack. “What’s your staff turnover like?”

“This place has a good reputation, so a lot of people will work here for a year or two, to put it on their résumé or to help them get into grad school or library school. But they usually leave on good terms.”

“You said earlier that you’ve been here, what, five years?”

I nodded. “Yes, and that’s pretty long for this place. There are only a few people who have been around for any length of time—like our librarian Felicity Soames. And Alfred.”

“And your president has been here two years?”

I nodded again. “Going on three.”

“And he brought in some people when he came?”

“Yes—he did some reorganizing, and he created a couple of positions, but nothing sweeping. He inherited a well-run place, and he didn’t want to make changes just for the sake of putting his own stamp on it.”

“No disgruntled employees who have been dismissed?”

“None that I can think of. Oh, we’re not always one big happy family; there are people who complain, but that’s normal for any workplace, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” he said noncommittally. He pulled himself away from the wall. “Well, why don’t we finish our walk-through? What’s the square footage on each floor?”

We talked of neutral things like shelving and HVAC and lighting, and I realized I knew far more about the building than I had thought. I was happy that he didn’t seem critical, but listened with what appeared to be real interest. Or maybe that was just the official FBI manner, intended to elicit confidences. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t hiding anything.

I wondered if James noticed how empty the floor was. Of course, it was Monday, so there were no patrons downstairs demanding research materials, no staffers scuttling around with their shelving carts collecting them. The downside was that anyone could come up here and pocket whatever they wanted, without being observed—assuming they had access and knew where to look. As I had said: an insider.

I was startled by a scuffling, and then Rich emerged from behind a high tier of shelves, looking sheepish. “Hi, Nell.” His eyes darted to James.

James stepped forward. “Special Agent James Morrison. And you are?”

Rich’s eyes widened. “I’m, uh, Rich Girard. I work here.”

“You’re working on the Terwilliger Collection, right?”

I thought for a moment that Rich’s knees were going to give out, and I couldn’t say I blamed him for worrying. He glanced at me; I looked at James, who nodded. “It’s okay, Rich. Agent Morrison is looking into the problem with the Terwilliger Collection, at Marty’s request.”

Rich looked relieved, which in turn made me feel relieved, even as I wondered just how much of our conversation he had overheard. “Hey, if I can help you at all, let me know,” he said.

“I’ll do that. Ms. Pratt, shall we go down to the next level?”

“Of course. Let’s take the stairs.”

We ended the behind-the-scenes tour on the third floor, where Alfred had died. My steps faltered, and James was quick to notice. “I’m sorry—this was where it happened?”

I nodded, fighting to control my voice. “Yes. He was lying against that door there. I couldn’t open it from the other side.”

James said nothing, merely looking at the space—the high ceiling, the tiers of shelves. It was peculiarly silent, and dust motes danced in the few shafts of light that penetrated the protective paint—and dirt—on the high windows. Finally he said, “Thank you. I think I’ve seen enough. We can reach your office through that door?”

“Yes, it opens onto the hallway.” After another moment’s hesitation, I moved forward and opened it, stepping over the spot where Alfred had lain. After James had followed me, the door swung slowly, heavily shut. We were back in the realm of lights and noise and people, and I sighed in relief and turned to him. “Is there anything else you want to see? The reading and catalog rooms?”

“Not at this point. I may be back. Thank you for your help and for the list of employees.” He patted his jacket pocket.

“Then let me see you out. Security, you know.” I laughed weakly at my own pathetic joke. Talk about shutting the barn door after the horse had escaped.

“Of course.”

We didn’t speak as we were going down in the elevator, through the dim catalog room, the brighter and shinier lobby. As he reached for the door I looked furtively around before saying, “I can’t think of anyone here who acts like they’ve come up with an extra five million dollars over the past few years, or however long these thefts have been going on. I mean, we’re a pretty low-key group—no fancy cars, no flashy vacations.”

He considered that. “Maybe this person isn’t doing it for the money or doesn’t realize what the stuff is worth—he, or she, could be dumping it on the market for a fraction of its value. Or he could be a rabid collector, someone who just wants to have it, take it out, and look at it now and then.”

“Do people do that?”

“Sometimes. Do you remember the Isabella Stewart Gardner job, up in Boston, twenty years ago? High-value artwork was taken, and it hasn’t been seen since. Nobody could sell it openly, so you’ve got to figure that somewhere someone is enjoying a nice Rembrandt—very privately.”

I digested that for a moment. “That doesn’t make it any easier for you to find this person, does it? If the missing items are not going through traditional channels, or not being sold at all?”

“I’m not worried. We’ve just begun to investigate. Thanks for your insights—you’ve got a pretty good handle on the place.” He hesitated a moment, then asked, “You like working here?”

I tried to answer honestly. “Yes, most of the time. There are a lot of good people here who work here because they love the job, not for the money or the glory. And the collections are extraordinary. I’ll admit to visiting the stacks, just pulling out a letter from a president or a Civil War general or a Pennsylvania author, just to hold it. It’s an eerie feeling, you know—making that direct connection to history.” Then I was struck by a sudden thought. “But that doesn’t mean I want to take it home and gloat over it—I want other people to be able to share that experience,” I added defensively.

“Hmm. Well, I need to be going. Thanks for the help.” As James held the door open, he paused. “Nell, be careful.”

I looked up at him. “Why? Isn’t it a little late? After all, the word is out—lots of people know. You know.”

“That may be true, but don’t say any more than you have to, to anyone. All right?”

“Fine. Let me know if you think of anything else you need.”

“I will. And here’s my card, in case
you
think of anything else that might be helpful.”

I took the offered business card, and then he was gone. I closed the heavy door behind him and walked slowly back to the elevator, lost in thought. I was still reeling about the dollar figure that he had confirmed. That was serious money—and that meant serious motive. I shivered—what was going on beneath the slightly shabby surface of the Society?

Word of James’s visit spread fast, and since a number of people had seen me with him, quite a few of them stopped by to find out what was going on. Carrie came first, plopping herself down in the chair in front of me. “So, dish. What did that yummy agent want with us?”

Yummy?
“Marty Terwilliger asked him to look into the disappearance of some papers from the family collection.”

Carrie’s eyes widened. “You think they were stolen?”

“I don’t know. I’ve asked the right people to look for them, and I’m hoping they turn up in the building somewhere.” I didn’t dare say more.

“Wow. Marty didn’t have to panic, though. I mean, really—the FBI? Isn’t that kind of over-the-top?”

“She cares a lot about her family’s collection,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess.” Carrie stood up. “Is there going to be any formal announcement?”

“That’s up to Charles.”

“Got it. Thanks, Nell.” Carrie went back toward her desk, and I wondered if she’d be able to keep this secret. Or if anybody could, for that matter.

Felicity was my next visitor, rapping on my door frame. “Do I gather Marty has, shall we say, turned up the heat?” she asked without preamble.

I sighed. “I’m afraid so. And right now I can’t say any more. I’m sure Charles will make some sort of statement.”

Felicity sniffed. “I do wish she had given us a little more time. Ah, well, too late now. Let me know if I can help you in any way.”

“Thanks, Felicity. I appreciate it.”

As the day dragged on, several more curious staffers stopped by, asking questions of varying directness, but I couldn’t tell them much, and I was heartily glad when I could make my escape to the train station.

After another restless night, I arrived Tuesday morn
ing to see that Charles had taken official notice of FBI agents prowling in our midst: when I arrived there were signs posted at the entry doors and elevator announcing an all-hands staff meeting at nine o’clock sharp, before we opened the doors to the public at ten. I noted with amusement that Charles had avoided any use of the term “emergency.”

I figured there wouldn’t be time for a serious talk with Charles before the meeting, so I filed into the boardroom along with the rest of the staff. There was a low buzz among the crowd: a few people looked bewildered, but most looked worried. Charles was already in place at the head of the long table. He was, as always, impeccably groomed, and was wearing a sober dark suit designed to send the message that he was serious and responsible. He waited until most people had managed to find themselves seats—some had to go back out and drag in some extra chairs—and looked at the crowd. Finally he cleared his throat, marshaling everyone’s attention.

“Thank you for joining me on such short notice,” he began. “I’m sorry to disrupt your schedules, but there is a matter of utmost importance that I need to communicate to you before we open today. Yesterday I was visited by an agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who told me that he had received a complaint about items missing from the Society’s collections, and that the complainant suspected theft.” He paused to let that sink in. There was a moment of stunned silence and then an explosive babble of voices.

Charles raised a hand, silencing them, then continued. “Of course I have implicit faith in the integrity of all of my staff members, but as you can imagine, any complaint of this nature must be investigated fully. The agent in charge of the case is James Morrison—some of you may have seen him in the building yesterday. I ask you to give him and his colleagues your fullest cooperation, so that we can get to the bottom of this charge and resume our normal operations. And I don’t think I need to tell you not to speak of this with anyone outside the building—and that most certainly includes any members of the press. Adverse publicity would serve no useful purpose and could damage the reputation of the Society, which I’m sure no one of us wants. If you are approached by a member, a researcher, or an outsider with any questions about an investigation, please refer all inquiries directly to my office—Doris will see that they receive an appropriate response. But to the best of my knowledge, this has not been made public, and I sincerely hope that it will be resolved before we reach that state. Thank you all for coming.”

With that, he stood and exited, ignoring the surge of questions. That left the rest of us seated around the table staring at each other.

“What the hell was that about?” asked one of the junior librarians.

I weighed my options. Several people already knew about the original problem, the missing Terwilliger documents. I could play dumb and do nothing, but that didn’t feel right. I thought I owed my colleagues some small crumbs.

I cleared my throat. “As Charles said, a board member has claimed that some important documents have gone missing. We’re hoping it’s all just a mix-up in filing and we’ll find the missing papers and be done with it. Our people are already working on it. We have nothing to hide.”

“It’s Marty Terwilliger and her precious family papers,” Felicity Soames said. “Nice try at being discreet, Nell, but Marty’s been making a stink for the past two weeks, and half the staff knows about it. But calling in the Feds? Isn’t that a bit much?”

Latoya Anderson had been silent thus far but now said carefully, “Theft of historic documents is a federal offense and has been since 1994. The FBI
is
the appropriate agency to investigate.”

That silenced everyone. Then one or two people looked at their watches, cursed, and headed quickly out the door: opening time loomed, and business as usual was the order of the day, at least until we were told otherwise. Latoya and I were among the last to leave.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Latoya said to me. “I can’t think of
any
institution like ours whose practices look good under a spotlight, and we’re going to have a lot to answer for. If only Marty had waited a bit, we would have had things in much better order.” She didn’t wait for a response, but turned and headed for her office. I watched her retreating back, wondering how many more pieces of the collections might have vanished if Marty hadn’t said something and triggered my questions.

I still wanted to speak to Charles. I found him standing in front of Doris’s desk, giving her instructions. She beamed up at him as usual, and I wondered how he could remain so oblivious to her adoration.

Charles saw me approaching. “Ah, Nell, just the person I need. Please, come in.”

Doris glared at me as I followed Charles into his office. He folded himself gracefully into his leather-covered chair, his hand absently caressing the mahogany of his desk. I took a chair facing the desk.