Sheila Connolly: Let's Play Dead

“Did I lose you?” Shelby asked innocently. “Have some more coffee, while I give you the short version. I started out as a social wife and did lots of party planning and schmoozing-that was back when my husband, John, was trying to break into local politics.”

“Not around here, I take it?”

“How’d you ever guess?” she said with a smile. “We’re both Virginia born and raised, although John’s mama’s family comes from just outside of Philadelphia. Well, John eventually gave up on that political idea and took up with something else, and our daughter, Melissa, was in college, so I got a real job, raising money for the local historical society back home. If you ever find my résumé, it’s all on there.”

I knew Melanie had vetted the applicants and had sent through only the ones who actually were qualified. Besides, I wanted to believe Shelby. I liked her. But hiring decisions were supposed to be rational and carefully considered. And I didn’t fully trust myself-my instincts had been wrong as often as right recently.

I sighed. “How long have you been in Philadelphia?”

“About two years. John works for a medical group, when he’s not building boats-that’s his real passion, but it’s an expensive hobby.”

“You have any background in history?” I asked.

“Sure do: ten years with my local historical society, first as treasurer, then as president. Of course, there were only about twenty members, and half of them were over seventy, so there wasn’t a whole lot of excitement going on there.”

“You would fit in just fine here. Most of our members won’t see sixty again, but since they’re mostly retired they have plenty of time to explore our collections.” I scrambled for more questions. While I was floundering, Shelby asked, “What do you need here?”

“I’ll be frank with you-we’re kind of in flux. I’ve been president for only a couple of months now, although I’ve worked here for over five years. You’d be taking the job I had until last fall, so at least I could walk you through it, when I have time. If you know Philadelphia, you’ll know that this is a combination of historical society, library, and museum, and we’ve got a lot of collections shoved wherever we can fit them, in an old building that leaks. We’ve got a board whose average age is seventy, and none of them like change much. None of them have megabucks, either. We have an endowment that is pathetic, and a budget that includes a lot of wishful thinking. I’m also looking for a new registrar, and I desperately need an assistant.”

“Sounds like it’s been a wild ride. I’ve seen the job description, of course, but maybe you could tell me what I’d really have to do? Director of development sounds so vague.”

She was right. Most people didn’t have a clue what development meant in our context. “Raising money, of course-direct-mail solicitations, grant writing, that kind of thing. Event planning-parties where we try to keep the board and the local people with money happy so they’ll keep giving us more donations. I assume you’ve done all this sort of thing before?”

“Sure have,” Shelby replied promptly. “We pulled in some nice historic preservation money for my old historical society, which I swear was about to fall down around our ears. And I just love putting together parties!” She stopped for a moment, then said delicately, “I seem to recall you’ve had some troubles here lately?”

Of course she would have heard. She should have heard if she had any involvement in the Philadelphia cultural community. “They’re all behind us, I promise.” Well, except for a few missing artifacts, but she didn’t need to know about those, or at least, not yet. “But you’re smart to ask, because it will make it a bit more challenging to raise money at the moment.”

She nodded once. “So you’re saying there might be some bumpy spots ahead?”

“There might,” I admitted. “Does that bother you? I mean, if you’re looking for stability and security at this point in your life, maybe this isn’t the place for you.”

Shelby laughed. “Shucks, and here I was hoping for a nice boring, repetitive job for my twilight years.” She paused and cocked her head, studying me. “Okay, you’ve been straight with me, so I’ll be, too. I think we could work well together. I’m a self-starter, but I know when I need to ask for help. Word on the street is that this is a good place, in spite of your recent problems. I get along well with people, and I know how to wheedle money out of them. Is that good enough?”

“We can’t pay a lot,” I said dubiously, knowing that might be the deal killer, and I was starting to really, really like Shelby. I mentioned a number that made me cringe. Sure, it had been my salary, but I’d been willing to accept the mediocre pay because I loved the place; I wasn’t sure it would be enough to entice someone from outside the institution.

Shelby didn’t answer immediately, and I held my breath. “That’s about what I figured. Low, but I don’t think you’re playing games with me-that’s what you can afford to pay right now, right?”

“Exactly. And I can’t tell you it’ll get better anytime soon. I don’t want to promise you something I can’t deliver.”

“You’re an honest woman, Nell Pratt, and I appreciate that. I’d be pleased if you’d consider me for the position.”

Bells and bluebirds went off in my head. “Can you start tomorrow?” To hell with checking references-just for once, I wanted to go by my gut. “Er, you don’t happen to have a criminal record, do you? History of embezzlement? Drug habit?”

“No, ma’am. None of the above. Where’s my office?”

A miracle had just occurred: I’d actually filled a position! “Let me give you the grand tour.”

I showed her the administrative offices and pointed out the general layout of the place, and we decided to save the areas where the collections were housed for a later date. I made sure to escort her to the door, since the front desk staff had already left for the day. “So I’ll see you in the morning, Shelby?”

“Sure will. Thanks, Nell. I’m really looking forward to being here. Bye now!”

I’d barely shut the door when I turned to find Marty Terwilliger standing behind me in the lobby. If I’d had anything to drop, I would have. Not that Marty was frightening-she was a wiry, fifty-something woman from one of Philadelphia’s oldest families, and I knew her well, as a board member, ally, and maybe friend. “Hello, Marty, I didn’t know you were in the building. Were you looking for me?”

“Not particularly-just working on the Terwilliger Collection. Who was that?”

“That, I hope, is our new director of development. Her name’s Shelby Carver.”

“Not from Philadelphia, is she?”

“No, Virginia. You have a problem with that? Being born in Philadelphia wasn’t one of the job requirements.”

“Not if she can get the job done, I don’t. You heard from Jimmy lately?” she asked.

Jimmy was a cousin of Marty’s-half of the residents of Philadelphia and the surrounding counties were Marty’s cousins, and I didn’t even try to work out how they all fit together-but more important, Jimmy was also Special Agent James Morrison of the Philadelphia office of the FBI, who was helping us to recover some historical items that had vanished from the Society’s collections. He remained cautiously optimistic about their recovery, but we hadn’t seen many pieces come back yet.

“No, he hasn’t been in touch.”

Marty snorted. “I told him he should call you.”

“What, socially, you mean? You playing matchmaker now, Marty?” I’d thought there’d been some sparks between us, but when I hadn’t heard from him over the holidays, I’d begun to think I’d just imagined it.