Fundraising the Dead (22 page)

“Jimmy told me all about it because he needed my help. He knows I know the collections, and he wanted to figure out what the best bait would be. It had to be something big enough to justify the risk. And this is Charles, remember? He’s arrogant, and he’s sure we’re not going to figure out what’s what. He’ll think he can get away with it—and the FBI will make sure the prize is tempting.”

I tried to visualize how this would work. Then a sudden thought struck me. “You didn’t say anything to James about the other thing—the women Charles has been seeing? Or his possible motive?”

“Nope. Jimmy’s really only interested in the thefts—the
why
doesn’t matter. You and I have a greater interest in the other part.”

“It’s not a crime to marry a rich woman, or at least try to. What’s the point?”

“Because the thefts are all tied up with his motive. Of course he can’t come to a prospective bride empty-handed, or he
would
look like a gold-digger—can a man be a gold-digger? Anyway, he’s got to be able to play the game, and that takes money. Real money.”

I could see the logic in that. “But how do you plan to prove that’s why he’s stealing?”

“I told you, I have an idea. If you’re up for it. The rough outline goes like this: we find a rich woman willing to string him along, until he attempts to seal the deal by wowing her with his impressive stock portfolio or whatever—and we listen in, maybe even record the conversation.”

I turned a quizzical eye toward Marty, and she laughed at my expression. “No, Nell, not me. Besides, he’s already rejected me as not rich enough. But”—she smiled wickedly—“I know who he’s cultivating at the moment.”

“Another relative?” I asked.

“No, Libby Farnsworth, someone I went to school with. Well, her brother
is
married to another cousin of mine. But she’s got the bucks, and the right profile. What’s more important is that she’s the type who’d love to play along. She’s been updating me on Charles’s current campaign, since she knows I know him and she knows I’m involved with the Society, and she’s just been keeping him around to squire her to social events, so her heart’s not going to get broken. Besides, she’s got a devilish sense of humor, and I think this might appeal to her.”

I pondered, for about three seconds. “I like it. We attack his ego from all sides in a pincer movement—he loses the girl
and
he gets nabbed as a thief. But—how long is this going to take?”

Marty laughed. “Oh, he’s ripe for the picking. I think we could turn up the heat over the next week or so and pump him for all he’s worth.”

I wasn’t so sure. “You think your friend can convince Charles that she’s head over heels about him all of a sudden? And then what? She asks him for his bank statement? But isn’t James keeping an eye on Charles’s bank accounts? If he’s got money, the FBI will find it.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Poor baby—you really don’t get it, do you? There’s nothing simpler than to convince Charles that he’s conquered another heart—who could resist him?—and besides, Libby’s bankroll is more than worth it to him. And he knows her well enough to believe that she’d want to check out the financial side of things before she committed, love or no love. I think he’d take the gamble—he’d have to show her the money, one way or another. Charles can’t imagine failing, because he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else. He fooled you, didn’t he? Didn’t he turn on that famous charm and make you think you were the only woman in the world, even if it was only for about fifteen minutes?”

She was absolutely right. I thought I was pretty smart, but I’d fallen for the line. Charm—ha! If he could bottle it, Charles would be a millionaire without even trying. The only saving grace was that I hadn’t lost my heart to him—just my self-respect. I certainly didn’t have anything to lose now, and I really,
really
liked the idea of sticking it to Charles. “Marty, I like it. Is it legal?”

“Do you care?”

“No.”

“Atta girl! I knew you had it in you.” Marty refilled my wineglass and then her own, and we raised them in salute. We were going to nail Charles to the wall, and I for one was going to enjoy it.

“So, what’s the next move?”

“We’re having lunch with Libby on Friday.”

“In Center City?”

“No, Libby lives in Chester County.”

“But Marty, that’s an hour away on a good day! I can’t take that kind of time for lunch on a workday.”

Marty waved her hand, dismissing my concern. “Tell your staff you’re doing some donor cultivation. Just don’t mention who the donor is. Heck—it might even be true. I’ve been working on Libby for years for a contribution. “

Why not?
I decided. It wasn’t as though my job could get much shakier. “Just tell me where.”

“Chef Henri’s, in Wayne. Libby lives near there.”

I gulped: I certainly hoped somebody else was going to pick up the tab, because the place certainly wasn’t within my budget. “All right. Listen, I’d better go catch my train. Shall I meet you at the restaurant?” At least I knew where it was, having driven by it many a time and dreamed about it.

“Noon.” Marty extricated herself from her chair and stood up. “Nell? Don’t worry—we’re going to see that Charles pays for what he’s been doing.”

“Marty, I think I believe you. And thank you for everything. See you at the board meeting tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Marty replied.

I woke to a hint of morning sun and felt cheered, until
the events of the past two days rose up like a tidal wave and washed over me, leaving me feeling like a piece of limp seaweed. No, that wasn’t right—seaweed just lay there and got buffeted around by the large, impersonal ocean. Me, I’d been mistreated by someone I had liked and trusted—I’d have to come up with a better metaphor than seaweed.

Maybe it was just reaction. At Marty’s the night before, I had been pumped up with righteous indignation at Charles, ready to march into battle. But that high was fading fast in the cold clear light of reality. I had no idea how we were supposed to sort out a multimillion-dollar theft—not to mention what might be a murder—and I saw no way that the Society was going to come out of this without at least some tarnish. I couldn’t even be sure I’d have a job at the end of it, because this could be a death blow to the institution.

Come on, Nell, get out of bed and get moving.
Wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to help anyone or anything. I took a shower and dressed. I fixed myself some coffee and sat in my kitchen, chewing on a stale English muffin, then left to catch the train.

As I rode toward Philadelphia, I pondered my position. Should I be thinking about looking for another job? And who would write me a letter of recommendation? I watched glumly as the towers of Center City loomed on the horizon, and grew steadily larger.

Tonight was the board meeting, which meant that everyone would be scurrying around with last-minute details. I still had no idea what Charles or Latoya intended to tell the board members about the thefts—if anything.

Luckily there was plenty of busywork to keep me occupied. I needed some information for the development report I was going to present to the board, and I needed to talk to Carrie about membership statistics.

“Carrie?” I called out.

She appeared in seconds and leaned against my door frame. “You need me?”

I thought she looked uncharacteristically nervous; usually she was relentlessly cheerful. “I need updates on membership—you know, the usual. New members, nonrenewals, and so on.”

“Oh, right, for the board meeting. I forgot. Listen, Nell . . .” She wavered in the doorway.

I gestured to her to come in, and I was surprised when she shut the door behind her. She looked scared. What was she going to tell me now? I wasn’t sure if I could handle any more problems. Maybe she wanted to quit, which I really didn’t want to hear. “Is something wrong, Carrie?” I asked gently.

“Well, yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s about Rich.”

That I hadn’t expected to hear. “Rich?” I prompted.

“Yeah. We’ve been, kind of, seeing each other, I guess.”

I was still puzzled. Did she think I would view this as a problem? Canoodling coworkers was not high on my watch list, and who was I to cast stones? Or did she know something about Rich that she thought I should know? “I don’t have any objection to you two dating. Is that what you’re asking?”

“Well, kind of. I mean, it’s good that you’re cool with it. But he’s been really worried that you’d think he was the one who stole those papers. No way he could do that! He really loves his job and this place. He’s not a thief.”

It was kind of sweet, watching Carrie come to the defense of her boyfriend. “Carrie, I agree with you—I can’t see him doing anything like that. But since this is an FBI investigation, they have to look at everybody. Just tell him to cooperate, and I’m sure we’ll get it all sorted out soon.”

Carrie bounded out of her chair, and for a moment I thought she would try to hug me. She restrained herself. “Thanks, Nell! It’s just been so crazy lately, nobody knows what to think.” Her face clouded. “I’m not going to lose my job, am I?”

“Not if I can help it. Now, how about those numbers?”

“Right away!”

She opened the door and disappeared, leaving me troubled. Obviously the presence of the FBI was making itself felt among the staff, and if things went on this way much longer, we probably would see some resignations. One more problem the Society did not need right now. With a sigh I turned back to my report.

As the day wore on, I wondered if our library patrons sensed anything strange about the atmosphere, but when I walked by the reading room to pick up a quick lunch, everything looked the same as it always did. Was it only me who had this calm-before-the-storm feeling?

The afternoon dragged, in part because most board members usually didn’t arrive until after the doors had closed to the public, so I had nothing to distract me. As a long-term senior staff member, I knew them all, to varying degrees. Some of them I had worked with on various committees and knew fairly well; others tended to look right through me, as though I were part of the furniture. A few, like Marty, came in regularly for a variety of reasons apart from their board responsibilities, and we shared some kind of ongoing relationship. In any event, I was supposed to be present, visible, and available to schmooze, so I was in the lobby to welcome the arrivals (and direct them to the bar).

Doris usually spent the day or two before the meeting calling each member to remind and to wheedle them into coming, or at least saying that they would; we usually felt lucky if we got between fifteen and twenty attendees at any given meeting, but at least that would give us a quorum. This time was no different, and there were seventeen people milling around, clutching their information packets, by six o’clock. Charles usually waited until there were enough people to make it worth his while to circulate, and then made the rounds, oozing charm. He headed for the women members first, before turning to the craggy alpha elephants of the group. Maybe he had to flex his charm, warm it up, before taking on the bigger prey—or maybe he just liked talking to the women more. A random thought occurred to me, as I watched him work the room: had the financial contributions of the women board members gone up during his tenure, and if so, had they gone up more than the men’s contributions? Interesting idea . . .

After Charles had made a full circuit of the room and a few stragglers had arrived, he caught my eye to signal it was time to get down to business. I was the official annunciator. Annunciatrix? I cleared my throat.

“Ladies and gentleman?” I waited a moment as the conversations ebbed and they turned their attention to me. “I think we should move on to the business portion of our meeting. If you’ll all just go up to the boardroom?”

The group split, the older, frailer members heading for the elevator, the others taking the grand staircase. Marty made a beeline for the stairs, and I managed to catch up with her.

“Anything new?” I said in a low voice.

“Nope. I’m waiting to see how the meeting goes. If Charles tries to keep a lid on this, you may see some fireworks.” We’d reached the top of the stairs. “Talk to you later.” Marty squared her shoulders and marched into the boardroom, ready to do battle.

The second-floor boardroom was distinguished by a total absence of windows plus erratic ventilation, which made it a less than ideal place to hold anything, but at least there were no distractions. Doris had carefully laid out the last-minute supplemental materials at each place and added freshly sharpened pencils. She was already entrenched in her stiff chair in the corner, pen and pad at the ready, as the members trickled in.

At the head of the table, Charles called the meeting to order. When silence had fallen, he said, “Before we move into the business portion of this meeting, I need to say something about the unfortunate death of one of our staff members recently. I’ve spoken to all of you individually, but I want to say again that our registrar Alfred Findley was a valued member of this institution. He had made great strides in untangling the mystery of our record keeping, and he will be missed. Now, if we could turn to our agenda ...”

We worked our way through the printed agenda, and I gave a brief summary of the gala, including our strong financial results, and fielded several compliments about how things had gone. As the reports wound down, I saw Charles and Latoya Anderson, who looked distinctly jumpy, exchange a few glances. Marty was watching both of them with an enigmatic expression. I assumed that there was some sort of statement in the offing, and I was curious to see how they handled the situation. The board members apparently had no inkling that there was anything out of the ordinary going on.

Finally every department head but Latoya had taken their turn. She and Charles shared one more glance, then Charles cleared his throat.