“Excuse me,” I said hastily to the staff, and rushed out to the lobby to rescue someone-and I didn’t think it was Marty.
“What the hell is going on here?” Marty demanded when I appeared. “I show up, say that I have a meeting with you, but this officer here won’t let me in, won’t call anyone, just keeps telling me that you’re closed. You’d better have a good explanation!”
I cast around desperately for a quiet place to talk to her. I couldn’t take her back to the conference room, so the only choice was the catalog room, blessedly empty at the moment. I looked at Officer Johnson, and when he nodded, I grabbed Marty’s arm and dragged her through the doors and around the corner.
“Marty, Alfred Findley was found dead upstairs this morning. It looks as though he died sometime last night.”
I had expected my announcement to hush Marty’s protests, but I wasn’t prepared for the peculiar shade of green that she turned-and for the expression of distress that swept across her face. “Oh, my God, no,” she whispered.
When I didn’t get any further response, I said gently, “I think we need to postpone our meeting.” When she made no sound, I added, “Marty? Are you all right?”
Color was creeping slowly back into her face. She drew herself up, and her eyes focused on me. “What? Oh, yes, of course. It was just a shock. Poor Alfred.” She stopped before going on. “You’re right-this is not the time or the place. But we still need to talk. You think you’ll be here tomorrow?”
I shrugged. “As far as I know.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow morning.” Marty’s tone had regained its usual crispness, and she was thinking like a board member again. “And make sure Rich is here, too.” She turned on her heel and left, with a withering glance at the officer.
Believing that the staff meeting was over, people were drifting out of the conference room, standing around in clumps and talking. After checking with Officer Johnson, I gave them permission to go into the reading room, where they wouldn’t have to watch the people from the medical examiner’s office cart out Alfred’s body. I didn’t want to see it, either, so I snagged Rich by the arm and dragged him in the opposite direction, to the microfilm room. Rich looked dazed.
“Are you okay? Did you know Alfred well?”
“What?” Rich’s eyes focused on the present. “Not really. But, I mean, he was at the party last night, right? Then he died a couple of hours later? That’s hard to take in. Hey, what’s going to happen with the cataloging?”
I wondered if he was thinking about job prospects. He might be qualified for the position, but it was a little early to think about filling Alfred’s shoes. “I have no idea, but that’s something to worry about later.”
He hung his head. “Sorry. That was kind of tactless, and I didn’t mean it that way. Did you need me for something?”
“Actually, yes. Marty still wants to get together, about the Terwilliger Collection. I told her we’d be here tomorrow morning at nine. Does that work for you?” It occurred to me that I had no idea where Rich lived, or with whom. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck finding what she was looking for?” I asked, nursing a small hope.
“Nope. I took a look at every place I’d been working on that stuff, and went over the shelves and the boxes very carefully. Those letters are not there, or at least, not where they’re supposed to be.” He hesitated for a moment. “You know,” he began, “I’ve been having trouble finding some other things.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, especially after what Alfred had told me. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, things I wanted to look at, that I’d heard or read about-not in the T-Collection, but in others. And sometimes they just aren’t there. Of course, maybe somebody changed the filing system and didn’t make a record of it. You know, I may not be an expert, but there’s a lot of room for improvement in the record keeping around here.”
Just what Alfred had said, and now he wasn’t even around to fix it. I sighed. “I know, I know. All it takes is staff and a lot of time. But staff costs money. We’re working on it.” Poor infant: he was going to have to learn about the realities of working at a nonprofit institution-low pay, limited staffing, and no money for interesting projects. But I didn’t think I should share my concerns about any other missing items.
Rich seemed satisfied with my answer. “You think Ms. Terwilliger is going to blame me?”
“I don’t think anyone’s blaming anyone yet. We just want to see if we can find what’s missing.” Which could be far more than Rich knew, but maybe finding something would lead to finding other things. Maybe.
The day dragged on… and on… and on. Charles had retreated to his office, with the door firmly shut. It was noon before the gurney carrying Alfred’s bundled body shuttled down the elevator and out the service entrance that opened onto the alley at the rear. There was only one news person hovering outside, and he had the savvy to stake out the back door to get a good shot. How did the media know so fast? It occurred to me that I should touch base with Joan, our communications director, about the public statement she was working on. There was no way to cast this sad event in a positive light. Alfred had died alone, and no one had noticed. I wondered if there was anyone to write an obituary for him.
But instead I sent the staff back upstairs and I went to see Charles, breezing past his loyal assistant Doris Manning, who glared at me but said nothing, her eyes pink, a tissue wadded in her sleeve. Once inside his office, I shut the door.
Charles sat behind his handsome desk, looking appropriately sorrowful. I dropped into one of his guest chairs with a sigh of relief. “No more surprises?”
“This morning wasn’t enough? No, the detective and I made nice noises, and I informed her that Alfred was a valued employee and a pleasant person. I’m not sure I ever exchanged more than ten words with Findley-he seemed to scurry out of my way every time he saw me.”
“That sounds like Alfred,” I agreed. “He really didn’t like people much, but he was good at his job.”
“You knew him well?”
“I got to know him a couple of years ago when I came to him for information I needed for a grant proposal I was working on-you know, how many widgets we had, and how many of them John Hancock had handled, that kind of thing. He always came through, and quickly. It will be hard to fill his shoes-especially at his salary level.”
“Hmm.” Charles seemed distracted. “I don’t suppose we could divvy up his tasks among other staff members?”
“No,” I said firmly. “You know that as well as I do. It takes a specific mix of skills to do what he did. But I’m sure we don’t have to rush to advertise the position, at least until he’s been properly buried.” The Society’s cataloging had waited years already, and another week or two wasn’t going to make any difference. Unless that list he’d left me… no, I wasn’t going to go there, not now. “We need to release a statement of some kind, and it should go out under your name. You want me to work with Joan to put it together?”
“Fine. I trust your judgment. What a tragedy.” Charles lapsed into silence, and I studied him. He looked weary-and he had had more rest than I had.
“It is.” I stood up. For a brief moment I wavered, wondering if I should tell him about Marty’s concerns, but looking at his face, I decided it could wait until after I had talked to her and really scoped out the extent of the problem. If it was a false alarm, or if I could make it just go away, it would save wear and tear on everyone. “Well, let me get to work on that with Joan. She’ll have a contact list-I don’t know what the deadline is for tomorrow’s Inquirer. Drat-she’ll have to get something onto the website, too. And you should tell Doris to start contacting the board members-we don’t want them to get blindsided by this.”