Sheila Connolly: Fundraising The Dead

“Looks like it. Hit his head on the concrete floor, cracked his skull, split his scalp open-that’s why there was so much blood; head wounds bleed a lot. You might want to keep your staff behind closed doors until we get the body out. I’m gonna go find your boss.”

The detective was out the door before I realized that I’d been dismissed. But for a moment I couldn’t move. I knew the people waiting downstairs needed to know what was going on, but I wanted a moment to myself before I tried to talk to them. Alfred, dead. I’d just talked to him yesterday.

I felt a chill. We’d talked about theft from the Society. But that couldn’t mean anything. The detective had said it was an accident. It had certainly looked like an accident, an unfortunate fall. Too many hard edges and creaky equipment in this building, and Alfred had put his foot wrong, or that old step stool had crumbled beneath him. It was very sad, but that was all.

I was going to have trouble erasing that scene. Even if and when the bloodstain disappeared from the hall carpet, I’d still remember seeing it there. And seeing Alfred, motionless and grey. At least no one apart from me and the police would have to see the body and the blood in the stacks.

Still stalling, because I wasn’t ready to face anybody, I riffled through the envelopes on my desk. If there were checks, they would need to be processed-entered in our database and prepared for deposit. Charles had said they were substantial, so it was important to take care of them quickly. I should remember to take care of that later today after the meeting.

One envelope was thicker than the others, and sealed. I slit the top and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers, which turned out to be a printed, single-spaced list several pages long.

Alfred’s list of the missing items.

In the lobby Officer Johnson stood squarely in thecenter, feet planted apart, pointing staff members toward the room under the stairs with the barest minimum of speech. I threw him a quick false smile and went to find the employees.

Inside the room most of the staff was sitting around the table, looking sleepy, dopey, grumpy, and in a few cases, hungover. And now they were trying out anxious and frustrated.

Charles wasn’t there, and I wondered what the staff knew from Officer Johnson. Since it appeared that I was the only person in the room who actually knew anything, I’d have to be the one to tell them. I moved to one end of the conference table but not before laying the pastry box I’d snagged from upstairs in the middle of the table. “Sorry there’s no coffee, but I figured you must be hungry.” A number of people made a grab for the goodies, but their eyes returned to me quickly.

Latoya Anderson was the first to speak. “Nell, can you tell us what’s going on?”

I cleared my throat. “I am sorry to tell you that Alfred Findley was found dead in the third-floor stacks this morning.” There was an immediate outcry from the staff, and I paused until the hubbub died down. I saw that Carrie, my bubbly membership coordinator, looked ready to cry, and even our unflappable head librarian, Felicity Soames, had paled, shutting her eyes.

I took a deep breath before going on. “I found him, and I called the police immediately. It looks like he fell and hit his head.” I decided to leave out the blood. “We don’t expect to open to the public today, under the circumstances, and if you want to leave, that’s all right, and you won’t be penalized for it. But if you feel up to it, maybe we should just go ahead with our planned meeting, while everybody’s memory is still fresh?”

For a long moment I wondered what they would decide, and I had to admit, it sounded pretty callous to talk about the party with Alfred dead upstairs. Luckily they seemed to welcome the idea of a distraction, and no one protested. And that made me wonder-had anyone even cared about Alfred?

“All right, then. Let me say first-great job last night, one and all. Definitely our best event in living memory-and that’s saying something, given the average age of our guests.” A few people laughed feebly at my joke. “Does anyone have any general comments before we review what the attendees said? Any problems, issues?”

I looked around the table. Nobody was evading my eye, so I had to assume there were no major complaints in the offing. Or maybe they were all in shock.

We worked our way through the guest list. Various people had had conversations of various durations with various guests, and we picked through them, looking for any hints about that person’s current opinion of us. The ones who seemed happiest, we would tap for a larger role in the organization: board membership, sooner or later; a volunteer committee; or a bigger donation. The unhappier ones I would have to sound out and try to placate. Then there were always the chronic whiners, the ones who never thought that they were getting the attention they deserved. Usually they were getting exactly what they deserved, which was the same courtesy we extended to everyone, if a bit more saccharine, since we had all long since pegged the whiners as permanently discontented. Still, that was the way things worked in this business, and at least they had paid for their seat-well, most of them had, anyway.

Felicity, her composure restored, said, “I had an interesting conversation with one woman-it seems her great-uncle has just passed away, and she remembers that he had some interesting collections. She hasn’t seen them for a long time, but she thought there were quite a lot of old books. I said we’d be happy to send someone over to help her sort through the books.”

“Good catch,” I said. “Give her a call in a day or two, to follow up. Do you want to go, or do you want to send someone from collections?”

“I can do it-I could use a field trip.”

“Great. Anything else?”

Carrie spoke up. “Mrs. Bennington didn’t pee.” There was general laughter. Poor Mrs. Bennington must be eighty-five if she was a day, and she had trouble remembering where to find the restrooms. On one memorable occasion, she had sought directions from a staff member, then said brightly, “Oh, never mind,” as a puddle spread around her feet. We tried to keep an eye on her, since other than this little foible she was a sweetheart, but sometimes there just weren’t enough people to go around. We were hoping we were mentioned in her will, and her estate was rumored to be substantial. Her father had been a board member in the 1920s.

The discussion faltered. Normally I would give a wrap-up of the financial side, mostly for Charles’s benefit, but I didn’t have any of my notes, which were still on my desk. Still, it was at least a bright spot. “This is still a rough estimate, but it looks like we should clear about thirty thousand, after we pay the bills.” Polite applause. I went on. “Did everyone like the caterer?” Nods.

“Great desserts,” someone added.

“Well, there are plenty of leftovers in the staff fridge, so enjoy. The caterer wasn’t too expensive, so if he did a good job, I’d be happy to have him back.”

Fred, the building supervisor, cleared his throat. “They were a little slow on the cleanup. I had to stay until they finished, to lock up, and it was close to one.”

“Thanks for mentioning that, Fred. Next time I’ll tell them to beef up the staff on the back end, okay? Sorry you had to hang around so late.” He nodded, mollified.

Joan Sartain, our communications director, spoke for the first time. “Nell, I’ll draft a public statement for Charles to approve. We should say something.”

She was right, but I wasn’t sure what we could or should say right now. “That’s a good idea, Joan, but can you hold off until we know a little more? Maybe by the end of the day we’ll have a clearer idea of what happened.”