Let's Play Dead (10 page)

Latoya didn’t get my joke but extended a hand anyway. “Welcome, Eric. I’m sure Nell can use your help.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

Latoya quirked an eyebrow at the
ma’am
but rallied. “I hope you’ll enjoy working here. It’s an interesting place.” She turned her attention to me. “Nell, when you have a few minutes free, can we talk?”

“It’ll have to be after lunch. Say, two, in my office?”

“That’s fine. Nice to meet you, Eric.”

We were dismissed. Latoya and I were still working out the wrinkles in our professional relationship, and her basic personality was a bit peremptory even on a good day, but I needed her in the job. Up until a couple of months ago I had been lower down the staff ladder than Latoya was, and as a vice president she’d had the ear of the president, which meant I was seldom the first to hear collections news. Now our roles were reversed and I was her boss. Still, I didn’t want to alienate any staff members right now, and I did respect her abilities. I wondered what she wanted to talk about. “Let’s go, Eric—there are more people to meet.”

I made the circuit of the third floor: personnel, finance, and my old stomping ground, development, where we waved briefly at Shelby. Carrie, the membership coordinator, was clearly happy to see someone close to her age, and welcomed Eric warmly. “Hey, you want to have lunch today? And I’ll see if maybe Rich is free, too.”

Eric looked at me. “Well, sure, that’d be great, unless you need me, Nell?” I shook my head. “And you can show me where to eat around here. Who’s Rich?”

It was becoming easier to forget that Eric had only just arrived. “Rich Girard is a grant-funded cataloger,” I told him, “just out of college, so about your age. He’s a nice guy.”

“I’d love to meet him, too, then, if he’s free. I’ll come by about twelve, Carrie. Nice to meet you!”

Back in the hall, as we waited for the elevator so we could go downstairs, Eric asked anxiously, “Are you sure you don’t need me to man the phone over lunch?”

I laughed. “Of course not. I think you’ll find we’re not a terribly formal place, and there are some really great people here. Carrie’s sweet—she used to work for me. Well, I guess she still does, but now she reports to Shelby. I’ll have to find you an organization chart so you can see who’s who.”

We rode the elevator down to the ground floor. “So this is the catalog room, and the big room next door is the reading room. You can probably guess what they’re used for. There’s another reading room upstairs. Let me introduce you to our librarians.”

We stopped and chatted with all the staff members we encountered, who all seemed charmed by Eric’s good manners and eagerness. I was encouraged to see that he was fitting in so well, although I hadn’t really seen him do any work. Of course, to be fair, I hadn’t exactly given him any assignments yet, either—or a computer, for that matter.

When we’d made the rounds, I checked my watch. I still had a few minutes. “Are you overwhelmed yet, or do you want to see the stacks?”

“Stacks?” Eric looked bewildered.

“The storage areas, where all the collections are. I don’t have time to show you everything right now, but I can get you started, and you can browse a bit on your own—I don’t want you to feel chained to your desk. It’s important that you understand what we do here.”

“That sounds great to me, Nell.”

We went back to the third floor, and I fished out my keys and let him in by the door at the rear, past the elevator. Once inside, we paused for a moment. I always enjoyed prowling in the stacks, although I had less and less time to do it—and less reason now that I wasn’t writing grant proposals. I hoped Shelby would enjoy that part of her job as much as I had.

The stacks occupied the upper half of the building, with some overflow in the basement, where less fragile items were kept. The ceilings in that part of the building were high, the windows painted over (too much light could damage old books and documents), and ranks of sturdy metal shelves marched off in all directions. The air smelled of old paper and leather. Apparently no one was shelving or retrieving documents at the moment, so it was very quiet. I sneaked a look at Eric and saw that his eyes were shining.

“May I?” he asked.

“Touch them? Of course—that’s what they’re here for. Just don’t take them out of the building—and don’t remove them from the stacks without signing a slip. There’s a pile of slips on that shelf there.” I pointed. I’d been guilty of forgetting that myself on more than one occasion, but I was trying to mend my ways. “There’s some wonderful stuff here, both famous names and ordinary documents about daily life. I love coming in here.”

Eric slid out a volume at random—early nineteenth century, by my semi-educated guess—and opened it reverently, cradling its spine and leafing through the yellowed pages with a cautious finger. Watching him, I felt something inside me relax: he was showing all the signs of a true believer. Not that it was essential in an administrative position, but it certainly helped if you cared about history and preserving it.

It was close to ten thirty when we tore ourselves away from the stacks, but I had a date to keep, and I didn’t want to tick off Detective Hrivnak by being late. I escorted Eric back to his desk and retrieved my coat and bag. “Look, Eric, I probably won’t be back before you leave for lunch, but you don’t have to rush. Not today, at least. I can’t promise you any long lunches when things get busy, but I’m not a clock-watcher.”

“Thank you, ma’am. You can trust me.” He smiled, showing dimples. “I’d say, have a nice time, but I don’t think that applies to police interviews, now, does it?”

“Not likely!” I laughed. “See you later.”

In Philadelphia, the police headquarters building is known as the Roundhouse, because, well, it’s round. As a local historian, I also knew that the Philadelphia Police Department was the oldest municipal police agency in the country (founded 1751, or so their PR materials said), and the fourth largest. Luckily I had never had occasion to enter the building before, although I had walked past it plenty of times since it was close to Independence Hall. Homicide, as I understood it, was a special unit. I entered the building, submitted to a search of my bag (physical) and person (electronic), and found my way up to Detective Hrivnak’s office. As it turned out, she did possess a first name: Meredith, according to the plaque beside her door. Not a good fit, but what did parents know?

She kept me waiting, but only fifteen minutes. She came out to escort me into her inner sanctum, pointed to a battered wooden chair, then settled into her chair behind an equally scarred desk. She stared at me wordlessly for several seconds. I couldn’t think of any good opening line, so I returned her stare with as much composure as I could. After all, this time she had called me.

“Jason Miller,” she said at last.

“Yes,” I said intelligently.

“You were there when he was zapped, right?”

“I was.”

“Why?”

“I’ve met Arabella Heffernan a few times, so she’d called up to welcome me to the upper ranks and invited me to preview her new exhibit. I assume you’ve talked to Jason?”

Detective Hrivnak shrugged. “He couldn’t remember much. He touched something, then blam, he was knocked out. Or so he says.”

“Will he be all right?”

“Yeah, sure. No permanent damage. Now, Joe Murphy, on the other hand . . .”

“That was a terrible thing. I assume that’s why I’m here? Do you think his death was deliberate?”

She ignored my questions. “Run me through the time line of your visit, will you?”

I did, from Arabella’s spontaneous invitation until the time I left with Joe, followed by Arabella’s visit to the Society the next morning. I watched the detective make a few notes, but not many. “That’s really all I can tell you.”

Detective Hrivnak sat back in her creaking chair. “So you knew the dead guy?”

“I wouldn’t say I knew him. I’d never met him before that day, but he saw that I was upset and we had coffee after . . . Jason’s accident.”

“He have any ideas about what happened?”

“No. He told me he was an electrician, and he’d been working on the wiring, but he had no idea how it could have happened. He told me everything had been thoroughly checked.”

Detective Hrivnak changed topics abruptly. “What’s Heffernan’s reputation like?”

Did that mean my part in the investigation of Joe’s death was over? “You mean in the arts community?” When she nodded, I went on. “I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about her. Let’s Play means everything to her, and I think she’s done a great job keeping it child friendly. It must be a temptation these days to throw in trendy electronic games and such, but she’s kept the exhibits and the programs simple and educational at the same time. I admire her. I like her, too.” I took a deep breath. “Was the wiring tampered with, with the intent to do harm?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? You got any ideas?”

That was a surprise: she was asking me for my opinion? “Me? No. Since two different people working there were hurt, it doesn’t seem likely that it was specifically directed toward either of them. Heck,
I
could have been the one to touch the weasel, as easily as Jason or Joe. Or maybe somebody assumed that Arabella would do the honors. Or maybe it was someone who was willing to hurt any random person, even a child, just to do harm to the place. But for the life of me I can’t see why anyone would want to.”

“Uh-huh,” Detective Hrivnak said noncommittally. She stood up abruptly. “Thanks for coming by.”

Apparently the meeting was over. I felt deflated. I’m not sure what my talk could have added to the detective’s information, other than confirming the time line she already had. I’d never pretended to have any piercing insights into what had happened, or why, or how. Was it even possible to rig up a major electrical shock that would act selectively? Definitely not my area of expertise.

I made my way back to the Society in a distracted mood, stopping to pick up a sandwich and coffee along the way. Eric was seated at his desk when I walked in, a neat stack of pink phone messages lined up in front of him.

He gave me a big grin. “So they didn’t arrest you?”

“No, not even close. Did you get out to eat?”

“Sure did. But I wanted to be here when you came back.”

“Trying to impress the boss? You’re doing a fine job—keep it up. I’ll take those messages. Anything urgent I need to deal with?”

“No, ma’am. Everything’s under control.”

I had my doubts, but I didn’t want to disillusion him. I retreated to my office to return some phone calls.

Latoya appeared at two, and I gestured to her to sit. “You wanted to talk to me?”

She nodded. “Yes. I thought I’d let things shake out for a bit, but now I feel we need to talk.”

“I agree. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy, but it’s been a rocky transition. And an unusual one, given the circumstances. But then, you know that.” I was curious as to why she had asked for this meeting. I hoped it wasn’t to tell me that she was leaving—I didn’t want to have to try to replace a senior position at the moment.

As if reading my thoughts, she said, “I’m not quitting, if that’s what you think.” She gave me a perfunctory smile. “I know I haven’t been very good at communicating with you in the past, and I want that to change.”

I nodded. “I appreciate your saying that, because, frankly, I need you. But only if you want to be here. Things are difficult right now, but I want to know that you’re totally committed to working through this.”

“I am. What I really wanted to do was update you on what’s happening with Alfred’s position.”

Alfred Findley had been the Society’s registrar, which meant that he’d been in charge of keeping track of what we had and where we had last stowed it, which was not an easy job. His death had thrown us all for a loop, and I’d been praying that he had left his computer records in a form that someone else—either his former boss Latoya, or a new hire—could understand.

“I’ve installed his tracking program on my own computer and uploaded his files,” Latoya began. “I think I have things pretty well figured out, or at least well enough to explain to whoever we hire to replace him.” I breathed an internal sigh of relief—that was welcome news. “You saw the job description I drafted? Melanie’s posted that to the online sites, and it has or will appear in several of the print media shortly. Since our acquisitions are currently on hold, we’re not losing any ground. There have been a few responses, and Melanie has given me a couple of résumés, but I’m not going to hurry this, and in any case it’s a slow time of year.”

“Fair enough. I’m happy to let you handle that, since you know what qualifications are needed, better than I do, at any rate. Is there anything you would change about the position?”

She considered briefly. “Not really. It requires someone who is systematic and thorough, and has at least some knowledge of historic items so that he or she can describe them accurately. Those are my top priorities.”

I wondered if I should add something to her description of the position. Latoya was by no means a tyrant, but she did need to find someone who could stand up to her. Alfred had never learned how to do that. But then, Alfred had never stood up to anyone, as far as I could tell. Still, I wasn’t going to interfere. Either I trusted Latoya to do her job or I didn’t. Right now I needed to trust her. “That sounds good. Let me know if you want me to talk to any of your picks, but I trust your judgment.”

“Thank you, Nell. I won’t let you down.” She stood up to leave. At the doorway she said, “Sad thing, that accident at Let’s Play, isn’t it? Maybe we should check our records to see if we’ve ever used the same electricians. I know we had some work done on the fourth floor when we had to replace part of the roof a few years ago. See you later.”

After she’d left, I considered what she’d said. Should I check our own records? Although I was pretty sure that if an electrician looked at what we had in place, he’d run screaming . . . straight to the city’s building inspectors. One more problem I did not need.