Fundraising the Dead (27 page)

The bugs were simple—tiny disks with sticky stuff on one side. I could keep them in my pocket easily and stick them on the underside of something with no problem. That was the least of my worries.

Shortly before eight I stood up. “I’d better get going. Wish me luck, ladies.”

“Go get ’em, Nell!”

It was dark when I left Marty’s house and drove slowly
toward Charles’s, and traffic had thinned out. I went around the block a few times until I began to wonder if the police would think I was casing the place. There was only one light on downstairs. I certainly hoped he didn’t have another woman there, but I didn’t think even he could find another dupe that fast, especially if he thought he had Libby on his line. Finally I parked, walked with heavy feet to his stoop, and rang the doorbell.

He opened the door quickly. I stood on the step below him, looking up at him. Casually dressed, by his standards—which meant he’d taken off his silk tie and his collar was unbuttoned—he looked tired. But he still looked good, even though I knew what a rat he was.

“Hello, Charles.”

“Nell. What brings you here?” His voice gave nothing away.

“May I come in?”

“Of course. Please. Can I get you anything?”

“A glass of wine would be nice.” I needed a little liquid courage but had no intention of staying around past the first drink.

“I’ll just be a moment.” He disappeared toward the kitchen. I prowled around the parlor, running my finger along the (dust-free) tops of the eighteenth-century tables, reveling in the patina that comes only from years of hand polishing—all the while looking for a good place to stick my first bug. I settled for the underside of the end table next to the elegant damask-covered settee. When I straightened up quickly, I noticed a folder on the side table. Charles was still in the kitchen—I heard the pop of a wine cork, the clink of glasses. Idly I picked up the folder and opened it. Inside there was a hinged mat (acid free, I noted), which when opened revealed an old deed, its brown ink still legible. I tilted it toward the light to make out the signature: William Penn.
Oh my.
I perused the text briefly—it looked like a deed for a piece of property in Bucks County. A small piece of Pennsylvania history, over three hundred years old.

Charles returned, bearing two glasses. I held up the folder. “This is marvelous, Charles. Is it new?”

He smiled. “Yes—I saw it in a catalog for an auction in New York, and I just had to indulge myself. It was a bit expensive, but it seemed so appropriate to bring it back to Philadelphia, don’t you think?”

“Of course.” I set down the deed down gently, out of harm’s way, before taking one of the glasses from him. He took my elbow and steered me gently toward the damask-covered settee.

“You look troubled.” He took a sip, studying my face. “This isn’t really a social call, is it?” he said quietly.

“No, Charles, it’s not.” I took a sip of my own wine, then inhaled. “It’s been a hell of a few weeks, hasn’t it? With Alfred dying like that, and now the FBI coming around.”

I might have been imagining it, but I thought I saw a flicker of relief pass over his aristocratic features.

“A tragic thing, Alfred’s death—and of course, your finding him. He was a good man. We’ll need to start the search for his successor as soon as possible.”

“Of course. But I didn’t really come to talk about Alfred, either. Charles, Alfred’s death made me think about my own life. I mean, the man lived for his work, and he had no life outside of the Society. I don’t want to find myself in that position.”

“Nell, what are you trying to say?”

For a moment I wondered if he was afraid that I was going to ask him to take our relationship to a higher level, and I hurried to disabuse him of the idea.

“Charles, I have truly enjoyed our time together, and you’re a wonderful man.”
That’s right, lay it on thick.
“But we’ve always been honest with each other.”
Like hell we have.
“I think I need to move on, find someone who’s willing to make a greater commitment to me, to a life together.”

Before he could protest, I help up one hand. “No, Charles, I’m not trying to pressure you into anything. You’ve never made any promises to me, and I’ve never kidded myself that we had anything more than a casual relationship. And that was fine, until now. But now I need something different.”

I looked at him to see how he was taking it. I couldn’t see any signs of devastation. “I wanted to tell you face-to-face, because I don’t want this to jeopardize our working relationship. I love the Society, and I think I’ve done good work there. I would be delighted to keep working with you to make it all that it can be.”
As soon as we clear up that little problem of the dead employee and the thefts.

He smiled with just the right degree of sadness. “You have indeed, and I don’t know what I would have done without you to advise me. And you’re a very wise woman, Nell. Of course I’ll regret that we won’t be as close as we have been, but I respect your wishes and your honesty.” He raised his glass in a mock toast; I responded in kind.

For one last time I looked at him, really looked. He was still elegant, very much in control of himself. I felt a stab of regret: in a different universe, maybe we could have had something real. But I knew now what lay beneath that polished facade, and he didn’t move me. I drained my glass and stood up.

“Thank you for making it so easy for me. Oh, if you don’t mind—I’d like to collect the few things I left here? My silk nightgown, for instance?”

“Of course. They’re upstairs. Let me get them for you.”

I moved quickly to beat him to the stairs. “I’ll go—I know where everything is, and I might forget something. I won’t be a minute.”

I dashed upstairs and began collecting my things, starting with the nightgown. Along the way I stuck a second bug beneath his mahogany night stand. I took one last glance around. I was going to miss the elegance of this place, I realized, far more than I was going to miss its owner. As I came back down the stairs he met me at the bottom, offering a pristine shopping bag for the odds and ends I was clutching—Brooks Brothers, I noted.

At the door, I turned and said quietly, “Good-bye, Charles,” kissed him on the cheek, and slipped out without any further fuss. I at least was a class act. I managed to remember not to skip with glee as I walked down the block away from his house toward the restaurant where Marty was waiting.

Marty was seated at a booth at the rear of the restaurant, a knit cap pulled low on her head—her idea of a disguise, I guessed. She must really be enjoying this. I slipped into the other side of the booth.

“Mission accomplished. Did you test it?”

Marty looked around at the few other patrons in the nearly empty restaurant. Nobody showed the slightest interest. Then she pulled a small box out of her bag, plugged in a set of earbuds, and handed it to me. The red light was blinking, so I assumed it was on and recording. I put on my own earbuds. She studied the buttons on the small recorder, hit Rewind, then Play. I gave Marty a thumbs-up—the transmission, apparently from the living room, was crystal clear: at first I could hear footsteps, the rustling of papers, the chink of a glass as Charles set it down on a table; and then I heard myself and Charles. After listening for a minute, I pulled the earbuds off. I sounded unbearably sanctimonious, at least to my own ears.

“Perfect. Phil picked well.” I took a sip of coffee. “Marty, were you listening?”

She nodded, shamefaced. “I was—just to make sure it was working. You did a good job, very smooth. I certainly would have believed you, and I’d give odds that Charles did. I’ll bet he’s feeling very grateful to you at the moment. He should be all primed and ready for Libby. We’ll have to remember to tell her to be very sympathetic and stroke his wounded ego.” She cocked her head at me. “Are you all right?”

I nodded firmly. “Yes, I am. Give me a little longer and I’ll feel damn good.”

Marty and I debriefed Libby over a hasty lunch on
Friday. We met in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant near the public library. It all felt very cloak-and-daggerish, and faintly ridiculous.

“He’s all yours,” I told Libby. “I let him down gently, but no doubt there are a few pinpricks in his massive ego.”

“He’s a man, isn’t he?” Libby said complacently, spearing the good stuff in her salad. “He just got dumped. I will be appropriately attentive. He won’t know a thing.”

I sighed and prodded my salad. “You know, I still feel like an idiot. I can’t have meant anything to him, other than a source of information and the occasional roll in the hay. I just didn’t want to see it.”

Libby regarded me with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. “Oh, Nell, don’t feel bad—I’ve just had more experience at manipulating men than you have. Anyway, I never pretended to myself that this was serious, but he’s a very presentable escort, and he’s very easy to be around. So attentive, you know?”

“I know,” I said glumly.

“All the equipment working?” she said around her full mouth.

“Like a charm.” I turned to Marty. “Marty, what does Phil think we’re doing? I do hope he’s not going to get into any trouble over this.”

“Nonsense. He’s just a kid who’s good with gadgets, and he’s thrilled to have a chance to show off. Besides, he wouldn’t rat on us—I’m paying half his tuition at Penn. We’re not going to get caught. And if we do, Jimmy can fix it.”

I certainly hoped she was right. I also hoped we wouldn’t need any “fixing.”

Libby finished chewing and drained her Bloody Mary, signaling the waitress for another at the same time. “So, tonight’s the night. He’s picking me up at seven.”

“You know what we need to hear?”

“Well, if I play this right, I nudge him into declaring that he wants to spend the rest of his life with me,” she began. “Then I convince him that, despite being hopelessly besotted, I still retain a few shreds of common sense, and I’m not about to support him, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to be just a gigolo, since his job at that tacky little place downtown certainly doesn’t pay enough. So, what are his plans? And if I’m as good as I think I am, he’ll spill.”

She winked at Marty. “I made my second husband—you remember Aston, don’t you, Marty?—sign a prenup, and I demanded full financial disclosure. So there’s a precedent on record, and Charles should know that if he’s done his homework. I could do no less with Number Three.”

“Maybe. But remember that he’s got to trot out his ill-gotten gains somehow.”

“Exactly. He’s got to prove he’s worthy of my affections.” She looked at us both and laughed. “Don’t worry so much, you two. I have my ways. I’ll get him exactly where I want him.”

“Just make sure it’s not the kitchen floor, please—we only covered the living room and the bedroom.”

“Check. Oh, I’m
so
glad you got me involved in this, you two. I haven’t had this much fun in years. I never thought I’d get to do something so exciting—too bad it’s a one-shot deal.”

On Friday night, I hung around the Society doing mindless paperwork, until it was time to meet Marty. At eight thirty, the two of us were seated at a table at our restaurant, the one in proven range of our transmitter. We ate some forgettable food—which might explain why the place was half empty—and I went to the bathroom three times, because I didn’t want to have to go in the middle of the action and miss something important. Marty’s sizable tip had ensured that we could hold the table as long as we wanted. Now all we could do was wait.

At ten fifteen, the little light on our receiver flickered, indicating it was picking up something. Marty and I exchanged startled glances across the table. We each donned our earbuds, like two warriors arming for battle. It was show time.

Footsteps. Giggles. Murmurs. More footsteps. Marty and I were still as stone figures, staring into oblivion, trying to visualize what was happening. Someone took off a coat; there was a clank of hangers in the hall closet (Charles was a fanatic about hanging up clothes).

“A liqueur?” Charles’s voice. He came across well, his tones smooth and mellow—maybe he could consider a job in radio broadcasting. From his jail cell.

“Fabulous, darling.” Libby’s alto purr. “I’ll have some of your lovely Cognac.”

The clink of glasses, more footsteps. Rustle-thump: they were on the settee. I followed them in my mind. A discreet gurgle—Charles pouring into the crystal snifters. My, these bugs were sensitive.

“There you go. What shall we drink to?”

“To many more lovely evenings like this one, my sweet. Thank you for that fabulous dinner—I never know what to choose, because it all sounds so wonderful. You picked just the right dishes. You know me so well, Charles.” Libby was troweling it on.

Rustle, pant. “Oh, Charles, what you do to me . . . I can’t get enough of you.” Oops. Marty’s and my eyes met, then slid apart quickly. Things were going according to plan, but what we had talked about in the bright light of Libby’s library didn’t seem quite the same as sitting like a pair of perverts and listening to the reality of it. I hoped fervently that Libby could extract what we needed from Charles and we could sign off before things got too hot and heavy.

“Elizabeth, darling, you know you have the same effect on me, as you can see.”
Oh, ick.
“Elizabeth ...” His voice was husky, and the following silence was filled with more heavy breathing.
Come on, Libby—get on with it.
Then Charles spoke again. “I think we should consider becoming more than just lovers.” Aha! The first salvo. And Libby hadn’t even had to make it herself. Marty and I held our breath.

A new waiter appeared at our table. Marty and I didn’t even look at him, but we both waved him away frantically. He retreated, bewildered. Okay, we were crazy ladies, but we tipped well.