Sheila Connolly: Fundraising The Dead

And maybe Alfred would still be alive.

But I had taken Marty’s complaint seriously, and I had talked to Alfred, and I had sent the whole thing tumbling down. How would we put it back together?

Well, lying in bed wasn’t going to help. I hauled myself upright, took a shower, and stood in front of my closet. What does one wear to an arrest? I decided a sober black jacket and wool pants would be appropriate, with a silk blouse in a rich but subdued burgundy. I put on my grandmother’s pearls, then took them off again-this was not a social occasion. I put on my good leather shoes and some real gold earrings. The appropriate outfit to help the FBI arrest a criminal.

I decided to drive into the city, since I had no idea how or when this day would end. I made it without mishap, parked in the expensive garage next to the Doubletree Hotel, and walked briskly to the corner. I was early. I spied Marty approaching and nearly laughed: her outfit was a mirror image of mine, as though we had enlisted in the same army. As we stood there, I saw James approaching.

James was accompanied by another agent-a Morrison-in-training, as it were. He was younger, and smaller in all dimensions, but he was doing his darnedest to emulate his associate’s stance and demeanor, all the while hanging back a respectful two feet.

James introduced us to the second agent, Agent Tuttle. Then he turned to Marty and me. “You are here as a courtesy, and I’d prefer it if you don’t speak. I don’t expect Charles to react violently, but Agent Tuttle is here just in case.” The young agent tried to look menacing and failed. “Are you ready?”

Marty and I looked at each other briefly, then nodded. On the stone steps of the Society, I fished out my keys and opened the door. The lobby was still dark, but I didn’t bother with the lights before leading the way to the elevator.

We rode up the elevator in silence. When we reached the third floor, the men got off first and strode toward the executive offices, Marty and I trailing behind. No one was in. Would Charles appear? Why wouldn’t he? When we reached the outer office of the president’s suite, Doris ’s desk was pristine-not a stray paper in sight. Wordlessly, all four of us sat in the stiff visitors’ chairs to wait for Charles.

We didn’t have long to wait. I could hear the whine of the balky elevator, although the carpeting in the hall muffled footsteps. And then Charles appeared in the doorway. There was a moment of absolute silence. At the sight of us, he paused and surveyed the group before speaking.

I watched his face. He was not a stupid man, and he had to know the game was up. But he chose to play the gracious host.

“Gentlemen, ladies, to what do I owe this visit? Please, come in.”

In his office, James took a small step forward. “Charles Worthington, you are under arrest for the theft of historic items from the Society. You have the right to remain silent…” He ran through the familiar litany. Charles did not respond, did not move, but maintained a pose of studied dignity until James had finished. Then his eyes flickered toward me, briefly, as though contemplating his options, weighing the odds. I met his gaze, and he was the first to turn away. He turned back to James and finally spoke.

“I see. Well, I suppose I should contact my lawyer, if I may?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Of course. You can tell him to meet you at FBI headquarters on Arch Street.”

Charles went to the door. Little Agent Tuttle sprang to follow him, but Charles went only as far as the doorway, and I realized he was looking for Doris. Her absence appeared to surprise him. He came back, then extracted his wallet from a pocket and searched for a business card. “May I?”

James nodded. He left Tuttle keeping an eagle eye on Charles as he made his phone call, and drew Marty and me into the outer office. “Right now I want to get him processed, and that should take a few hours. Shall we meet for dinner?”

I nodded on behalf of us both-I wanted answers. He looked at me, and I thought I saw a hint of a smile. “How about that restaurant with the great reception? Say, seven?”

“OK. Oh, what can I tell the staff?”

“I would hold off on making any official announcements, although I’d guess they’ll notice that both Charles and Doris are missing. But I’m sure you can stall for a bit. Tell them Charles has been called away and Doris is out sick or something.”

Marty nodded. “A day or two won’t hurt. Of course, I’ll have to inform the board, but that can wait until tomorrow, too. Maybe we can hash out a story at dinner. And, Jimmy? Try not to make us look too stupid, will you?”

“I’ll do my best, Martha. See you later.” Then he headed for the elevator, and Marty and I were left standing there in the hallway.

“So, now what?” I really was at a loss.

“Get back to work, I guess. Good luck, Nell.”

I have no idea how I got through the day. I sat atmy desk and looked busy, took care of trivial follow-up letters, and updated the database, all on autopilot. A few people drifted by, but nobody asked anything about Charles’s dark office or the more noteworthy absence of his fierce door warden Doris. It was as though everyone sensed something was wrong, but no one really wanted to know what it was, and I wasn’t ready to tell them anything-not until I knew what Charles would say. At the end of the day I sat listening to the familiar sounds of the place shutting down for the evening-people heading for the elevator in twos and threes, doors closing, lights going out, and then quiet. And then I listened to the old building, and heard… nothing. The building was rock solid. It had been standing here for over a hundred years, and it wasn’t going anywhere. That thought cheered me.

I made it to the restaurant with five minutes to spare. Marty was not there, at our table, but James was. He had a glass of clear liquid in front of him, which I feared was club soda, which meant this was still business.

I dropped into the seat opposite him. “Hello. No sign of Marty?”

“No. But she’s not known for her punctuality.”

“But she makes up for that in tenacity,” I replied.

That drew a laugh from him. “That she does.” Then the smile left his face. “I think Marty took Alfred’s death hard, whether she admits it or not. I have to admit, I always thought Alfred was a weaselly little wimp, but Marty used to hit me when I said anything like that. She’s very protective of underdogs, which explains half of her charitable activities.”

“Sounds to me like you all had an idyllic childhood,” I said wryly, trying to attract the attention of a waiter, any waiter, so I could get something to drink.

James raised one masterful hand, and a waiter materialized instantly. “White wine?”

He’d remembered. “Chardonnay, if they have it.” The waiter nodded, then scurried away toward the bar.

The wine arrived in seconds. I took a healthy mouthful, then sat back, closed my eyes, and let it glide down my throat. Better. In fact, it tasted too good if I was planning to drive home tonight. Regretfully I opened my eyes and helped myself to a piece of bread. I looked up to see James studying me.

“What?” I said, more sharply than I might have intended.

“You still look tired.”

Actually, I had no idea what I looked like at this point. I dimly remembered making a brief stab at applying makeup before I rushed to get to the city this morning. “I got plenty of sleep. But it’s not every day that someone tries to kill me.” James, on the other hand, looked as he always looked. “You look like you eat criminals for breakfast.”