Fire Engine Dead (21 page)

“I’ll take your word for that.” Suddenly he was all business. “I’ll get the tab—it’ll go on my expense report, since you’re an informant.”

I smiled. “You know, that sounds really odd. I don’t
think I’ll put
FBI informant
on my résumé. I wish I could have given you more.” Somehow I wasn’t sure I had told him anything he didn’t already know.

“I appreciate your insights, Nell. Let me know if you come up with anything else, will you?”

“Of course.” I watched as he stopped at the cashier’s desk, then left. I dawdled with the last of my coffee, thinking. The odds that an outsider had pulled this off were small, but if it was an insider, that left a pretty small pool: Peter, Jennifer, or maybe Gary O’Keefe—that nice-guy facade might hide a bitter and twisted person. Maybe I should seek him out and talk to him. Maybe I should talk to Peter again—I would probably offer a more sympathetic ear than the police or the FBI. And wasn’t that why James had involved me?

Sometimes I wished there was a way for me to sneak
back into my office, sight unseen, so I could actually get some work done without everyone showing up and demanding things from me. The building did have a side door and the back stairs, but if I took that route, I’d have to go past Latoya’s office to get to mine. Was I avoiding Latoya? I hadn’t admitted it to myself. In the end I decided to go that way, because it would mean passing only one person, even if that person was one I would prefer not to talk to, rather than going through the public entrance and running the gauntlet of half the staff.

As my luck would have it, Latoya was actually standing in front of the collections filing cabinets looking up something, so there was no way to avoid her. “Oh, Nell, there you are. A moment?”

“Of course,” I replied, following her into her office. She gestured gracefully toward a chair; I sat. “What do you need?” I asked.

“While I might have asked that the whole situation with the new hires and the FBI materials be handled somewhat differently, I think things are turning out far better than we might have expected.”

Whoa! Was she actually saying something nice to me? I was momentarily stunned. “I’m very glad to hear that. I think the Society will benefit in the long run.”

Latoya seemed to recognize my effort. “I agree. I can understand that the FBI’s actions put you in a difficult position. I’m sure things will go smoothly from here on out. And the new staff does seem to be capable, despite their youth,” she admitted.

“Thank
you
, Latoya. I hope so.” I stood up and fled before I could say something to shatter our fragile accord.

Of course, I couldn’t resist the urge to keep going and take one more look at the kids’ progress in the processing room. I was curious to see just what was in the collection—and what parts the Society should fight to keep, if it came to that. I poked my head in the door of the processing room. Everybody was still busy, but the stacks of boxes had been moved around, and most bore sticky notes with cryptic markings. “Hey, looks like it’s really coming along!” I said as I walked in.

Rich looked up from the list he was checking. “Oh, hi, Nell. Yeah, once we worked out a system it went really fast. We’ve got the boxes grouped by period and material now, and I was wondering whether we should start on the box-level inventory?”

I quickly surveyed the room before answering. “Do me a favor, will you? Make sure you ask Latoya? After all, she’s the one in charge here.”

Rich gave me a quizzical look, then nodded. “Got it.”

“Anything interesting turn up?” I needed a quick boost, and news of an unusual discovery might work.

To my surprise, Alice was the first to answer. “I found one thing—it’s really sad. There’s a folder here with a series of letters from the Civil War period.” I walked over to where she was standing, and she opened the folder carefully on the tabletop. “This woman, she lived in Kentucky, and she had two sons—and they fought for different sides. See, there are photos and everything.”

I peered at the contents of the folder. There was a lot of correspondence: both sons were apparently diligent letter writers, and their mother had kept every scrap. There were only two photographs, small studio portraits of each son, each in his uniform. I looked up at Alice. “Do you know if they survived the war?”

She shook her head. “No. Those letters are in the file, too.” For a brief moment we silently mourned the long-dead brothers.

Then I shook myself. “You know, this might make a nice short write-up for our quarterly magazine. There’s a real human interest element here. You could do a little more research on the family and see what you can find. When you have time.”

Alice dimpled. “I’d like that—as long as they don’t mind.” She nodded toward Rich and Nicholas.

“It’s your find, so you have first dibs. I’m sure they’ll come up with some treasures of their own, along the way. Maybe we could make this part of an ongoing series.” Assuming we got to hang on to some or all of the collection. But I was pleased that the kids were actually getting along, things were getting done. Should I tackle something else now, while my luck held, or quit while I was ahead?

Back in my office I sat at my desk for a while, staring at nothing and thinking about my lunchtime conversation with James. For once no one interrupted me, and the phone didn’t ring. I was flattered that James thought I could help; I was more flattered that he had actually
asked
me to help, despite his stated reservations about involving outsiders in FBI investigations. I wished that I had something to offer him in the way of brilliant analysis or observation, but so far I was coming up with only a few crumbs. Until recently I had never fully appreciated how much crime went on behind the scenes among local museums, and I didn’t think it was unique to Philadelphia. The public thought we were staid and stuffy, sheltering our dusty artifacts and providing adults and children a way to pass a quiet few hours out of the rain. I didn’t think they’d be happy to know about the murder and mayhem that lay beneath the peaceful surface.

One ongoing problem I faced in looking at the Fireman’s Museum problem was that it still wasn’t clear to me whether there was an arsonist at work, or whether the theft was the primary event and the fire was set merely to conceal the theft. Or whether it was an insurance scam, although I was pretty sure that James or the police would have checked that out quickly, and Marty would have her brother Elwyn on the lookout for anything like that. Or, as I had suggested to James, whether there was in fact an arsonist and the thieves had taken advantage of that for their own purposes. What defined an arsonist? Someone who happened to like to set fires? Or someone who couldn’t help himself from setting fires? Everything I knew came from snippets I had read in the popular press and, as I had told Celia, what I had seen on television and in the movies, and I wasn’t about to put a lot of faith in those.

It wasn’t as though I expected an arsonist to have a blazing scarlet
A for Arsonist
on his forehead, but how was I supposed to look at any of these potential suspects and reach any conclusions? Heck, for all I knew it was the night watchman who had set up the theft
and
the cover-up fire. He could have had some long-standing grudge against the fire department for letting him go, and he thought this would be a good way to get back at them, and firefighters in general. His death could have been no more than the result of tripping over something in the dark and hitting his head as he tried to get out of the building after setting the fire. But of course, that wouldn’t explain everything about the theft: according to the surveillance recording, there were other people involved. Could all these events be unrelated? The theft, the fire, the death? Or only two out of three? But which two?

My peaceful—if frustrating—contemplation ended when Marty barged in, towing someone I didn’t recognize, a rather weedy thirty-something man whose limp hair was already thinning. I was just as glad for an interruption, since all my thinking was getting me nowhere. “Hi, Marty. Who’s this?”

“My cousin Selden. The artist. I mentioned him this morning?”

The one who had done the painting for the Fireman’s Museum. What pretext had Marty concocted to bring him here?

Marty plowed ahead, answering my question before I could ask it. “He was in town, and I thought you might want to talk to him. Don’t worry, he won’t blab. He doesn’t talk to many people anyway.”

I looked to see how Selden was taking Marty’s description of him. He appeared resigned to her characterization.
He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Nell. I’m Selden Pepper. Marty’s filled me in about the fire and all. Awful thing, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was, and we’re trying to help the authorities get to the bottom of it. Please, sit down. Marty, can you shut the door, please?”

Selden perched on the edge of the chair. “Don’t worry, I know when to keep my mouth shut. I’m not sure what Marty thinks I can tell you, though.”

“I’m embarrassed to say that before all this happened, I didn’t know much of anything about the museum. Marty said that you spent some time there working on a painting?”

“That’s right. I’ve got some modest local renown, and they asked me if I could do a piece for them. They wanted a prize for an event they were planning, and they held a raffle for the picture. Since then they’ve used the image for some items that they sell in the gift shop, like note cards, calendars, that kind of thing.”

“Were you there long?”

He shrugged. “Not really. It was a watercolor, so it didn’t take long. I spent a couple of days doing preliminary sketches, getting the feel for the place and the neighborhood. Maybe a week, total.”

“Did you work with anyone in particular?”

“Mainly Jennifer—she gave me access to whatever I needed, and handled all the arrangements. At least I did get paid.”

“Did you meet Peter Ingersoll?”

“Sure, once or twice. Seemed like a nice enough guy. Pity about that fire engine—it was beautiful. I’m not qualified to judge the engineering of it, but the decoration was elegant. You know, garlands and goddesses and gilt.”

I wasn’t sure what Selden was adding to what little I already knew. “Did you talk to Jennifer much?”

“Not really, apart from scheduling. Jennifer and I did have lunch one day, though.”

“Do you remember what you talked about?”

Selden shook his head. “Hey, it’s been a few years. It wasn’t exactly a memorable conversation. I think we talked about New Jersey, since I live there and she’s got family there. Art, maybe. She was the one who suggested the note-card tie-in, and I appreciated that. It meant a little more money, and it got my name out there. I’m sorry, but I don’t see that this is going to be of much help.”

“You never know. Did you see much of the curator, Gary O’Keefe?”

“Blustery older guy? Sure. It was impossible not to see him. He was there all the time, and he loved to talk. I prefer to work alone, and I had to ask Jennifer to let me know when Gary wasn’t around, just so I could have a little peace. Not that he wasn’t a nice guy, but nosy, into everything.”

Maybe that was the dark side of Gary: he couldn’t let go.

“Did you meet Peter’s brother Scott?”

“I…don’t remember. Does he work there?”

“I understand he’s worked security for the museum, although not since the collections have been in storage.”

Light dawned on Selden’s face. “That kind of burly guy? I never would have guessed he was Peter’s brother—they don’t look at all alike. Sure, he let me in a time or two, but we never exchanged more than a couple of words.”

I really couldn’t think of anything else to ask. “Selden, I appreciate your coming in. And you never know what might turn out to be important.”

“No problem. Is that all you needed, Marty?”

“Yes, Selden, we’re good,” Marty said. “And thanks. I’ll call you next week.”

“Sure thing. Nell, nice to meet you. Let me know if you ever need my artistic services here.”

I stood up to say good-bye. “I’ll keep you in mind. And thanks again.”

“I’ll take him downstairs,” Marty offered. “Be right back.”

When they’d left, I sat back down. Selden was right: he hadn’t added much to my stew of facts, aside from the fact that Jennifer had ties to New Jersey, as did Peter, at least in the past. But a lot of people lived in New Jersey and worked in Philadelphia. It was an easy commute by any of the bridges over the Delaware River or public transportation.

There was a knocking at the door, and Shelby stuck her head in. “You’re looking frazzled. I can come back later.”

Marty appeared behind her, having sent Selden on his way. “Is this about the Fireman’s Museum research? Because I know what you know.”

I sighed. “Okay, come in, both of you, and shut the door again.” Shelby came in and sat down, and Marty took the second chair. I looked at the two women in front of me. “I hope one of you has something new, because otherwise we just keep going in circles. I had lunch with James today, and he’s frustrated—the police and the FBI are working together, but they don’t have anything solid yet. I’ve been trying to help, but I haven’t come up with much. Shelby, what’ve you got?” I said.

“I found something I think you should see.” She looked down at the papers in her hand. “After we talked earlier, I started thinking more about Peter Ingersoll. His file says he grew up in New Jersey, so I looked there, as you asked.
When I searched on
Ingersoll
and
firefighter
together, I got a lot of references to Peter’s father, mainly from local newspapers. Seems he was a real hero type, so he got lots of press coverage—the major papers even picked up the articles now and then. He was a big guy, kind of John Wayne-ish, and he looked really good in all the fireman’s gear, so he got his picture in the paper a lot.”

I wasn’t sure where she was going with this. “That’s nice, but Peter already told me about him. Peter wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, but he couldn’t join the department because of his asthma, so he figured running the Fireman’s Museum was his best substitute. Is that all?”