Since it was Monday, the building was locked tight, with only staff members around. Most of the lower floor was half dark, despite the tall windows overlooking the street. Actually I relished the quiet time: my staff and I could stuff all the member letters without interruption. The first inkling that something was amiss came when Carrie Drexel slipped into the room where we had spread out our stacks of letters and envelopes on a big table, and closed the door behind her. She looked positively giddy.
“You’ll never guess who’s downstairs.”
“I have no clue. The mayor? The head of the Philadelphia Museum? Brad Pitt?”
Carrie sat down and pulled a stack of letters toward her. “Not even close. It was an FBI agent!”
I felt a distinct chill in the pit of my stomach. “How do you know it was an FBI agent?”
“Because Doris was hovering around the lobby waiting for him, and he identified himself when he came in. Besides, he looks exactly like every FBI agent you’ve ever seen on television. I think they have a dress code. You know, wool topcoat, dark suit, shiny shoes, hair short but not too much-the whole package.”
“What, no shades?” I was thinking furiously. Was it James Morrison, Marty’s cousin? If Doris had been expecting an agent, he must be here to see Charles. Had Marty already blown the whistle and sent James into the fray? After all, her deadline for action had already passed. “Well, that’s interesting. Maybe he’s a history buff. Anyway, I’d like to get these lovely items”-I gestured at the stacks piled around the table-“into the mail by the end of the day, so let’s dig in and get them done.”
“But aren’t you curious?” Carrie pressed. “Why would His Lordship be talking to an FBI agent?”
“I have no idea,” I lied. “But I’m sure he’ll tell us if he thinks we need to know.”
With all hands at work, the letters were done quickly. Leaving Carrie to run them through the postage meter and bundle them for the mail pickup, I made my way back to my office and tried to make sense of what was going on. A knock on my door frame interrupted me. As I had so astutely guessed, it was none other than Cousin Jimmy, in his special-agent role.
“Ms. Pratt?”
I nodded. Was he being formal in case anyone was listening? Did he not want anyone to know that we had met before?
“I’m James Morrison, special agent for the FBI, Philadelphia office.” He flashed some sort of credential, too quickly for me to see. “I’ve just spoken with your president, and I’d like to have a word with you, if it’s convenient.”
“Of course. Please, come in, sit down. Would you like some coffee or something else?” I could act the perfect hostess.
“No, thanks. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.” He came into my office, which immediately felt much smaller. I nodded toward the door and raised my eyebrows, asking if he wanted to close it; his curt shake of the head indicated no. So this was to be a public conversation, one that could be overheard by all and sundry. I’d be willing to bet that Carrie was hovering just around the corner.
At Marty’s house James Morrison had been wearing jeans, and at the gala, a sport jacket. But Carrie had been right: here in an official capacity, in his serious suit, he now he looked like an Agent, with a capital A.
I realized he was studying me, too. He’d probably noticed that I had a run in my panty hose, and that there was a button missing on the cuff of my shirt. I thanked the stars that I had nothing worse than that to hide.
“I assume your mother read A. A. Milne? Are you ‘commonly known as Jim’?” A little light banter to defuse the situation. All right-I was nervous. This was official; this was serious.
“James, James, Morrison, Morrison? Most people think of The Doors.”
“Not my speed, I’m afraid. Now, what can I do for you?”
He sat down in my guest chair and took his time about answering as his eyes prowled around my office. “I’m here to investigate a possible theft of historic items from the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society. Are you aware of any problems in this area?”
I stuck to the simple truth. “Yes. A board member-someone I know fairly well, who’s done a lot of research here-came to me on the morning of our annual gala to tell me that she thought some pieces were missing from her family collection.”
Mr. Agent Man had pulled out a small pad and pencil, and was checking his existing notes. “That would be the event held a week ago Thursday?”
“Yes, that’s correct. That same day, I spoke with the registrar to see if he knew where the missing items could be. You must know that the registrar was Alfred Findley, who sadly was found dead the morning after the gala.”
“I was informed of that,” he said.
We both paused for a moment, and then I went on. “I also spoke to our head librarian and to the employee who is currently cataloging that collection. When neither of them could shed any light on the whereabouts of the missing items, I felt compelled to communicate the problem to the vice president for collections and to our president. They said that they would look into it.”
“I see.” James checked his notes. “Did you speak with anyone else about this?”
“No. I felt that any official action should be taken by someone higher up the ranks than I am, and the president agreed with me. I’m not directly responsible for the collections. I merely reported what I had been told.”
“Why would this board member come to you rather than go straight to the top?”
“We had worked together on some projects, so she knew me. Maybe she didn’t want to make a fuss and thought it could be handled at a lower level. Or maybe I was just the first person she came to. I really can’t tell you.” No one could say that I had had any sort of special relationship with Marty before all this came up.
“Your title is director of development. Is that correct?”
I nodded.
“What exactly does that mean?”
“I am responsible for raising funds to support the activities of the Society, through grants-government, foundation, corporate-and individual contributions. I also supervise the membership coordinator and the database manager. And I manage the public events, such as the gala. We hold a couple of major events each year, and a number of minor ones.”
“And you have been here how long?”
“Just about five years.”
“Who do you report to?”
“The president-oh, and the board, at least indirectly. If you look at our organizational chart, I’m below our vice presidents, but I am a department manager.” This whole thing felt weirder and weirder. I was playing a role in a play, pretending this was the first time I had said anything about this, much less met Agent Morrison. If I were really clueless, what would my next line be? “Am I allowed to ask any questions here?”
James looked at me directly. “You can ask. I’ll answer if I can.” He didn’t smile.
“Do you have reason to believe that there actually are things missing? That it’s not just our own confused filing system?”
He stared out the window behind me, mulling over my questions. At least, I hoped he was mulling them over. For all I could tell, he was doing the times tables or trying to remember if he’d picked up his dry cleaning-his face certainly didn’t reveal anything. Finally he spoke.