Let's Play Dead
Let's Play Dead
Sheila Connolly
The new exhibit at the Philadelphia children's museum, Let's Play, isn't meant to be shocking-but when one of the installers is zapped with a fatal electrical charge, it's up to Nell to put her detective skills on display.
Sheila Connolly
Let's Play Dead
The second book in the Museum Mysteries series
Copyright © 2011 by Sheila Connolly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The setting for this book was inspired by Philadelphia’s outstanding children’s museum, Please Touch, where I worked several years ago. The core philosophy that kids should be free to enjoy the whole museum experience, which means being able to touch and even climb on the exhibits, was and is wonderful. While the physical setting in this book bears no resemblance to the real museum, and none of the characters are based on anyone there, past or present, I did borrow the hands-on spirit.
There is no Harriet the Hedgehog series (although maybe there should be!), and most children’s book writers I’ve met have been delightful people, not prima donnas.
Thanks as always to my perceptive editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez, who keeps forcing me to plug those pesky holes in my plot, and to my agent, Jessica Faust of BookEnds, who made this series possible. Thanks also to Carol Kersbergen, who keeps me up to date about goings-on in Philadelphia, and to former colleague Sherrill Joyner, from whom I’ve shamelessly borrowed a character I’m sure she’ll recognize. Paul Garbarczyk provided valuable information on how to electrocute someone (and if there are any errors, they’re mine), and thanks to Julie Hyzy for putting me in touch with him. And as always, Sisters in Crime and the Guppies chapter have been there from the beginning to cheer me on.
CHAPTER 1
I wanted to lay my head down on my desk and weep. Or pound my head on it. Neither was appropriate treatment for the lovely eighteenth-century mahogany desk that I had inherited from my recently departed predecessor. Somehow I had ended up with his position, a turn of events that I was still trying to figure out more than two months after it had happened. In a moment of dazzled weakness, I had said yes when the board had asked me to take over as president of the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society. Why they had asked me was another matter altogether. That had been before Thanksgiving, and ever since I had accepted their offer, I’d been running around like a headless chicken trying to keep the Society on course. Luckily nobody had paid much attention during the holidays, but now it was January, a whole new year, and it was time to get things done.
So here I was, trying to wrap my hands and my head around running a historical institution with a creaking hundred-plus-year-old building in Center City Philadelphia, filled with literally millions of priceless objects relating to Pennsylvania history. I’m Nell Pratt, former fundraiser, currently crazy.
My most immediate problem was filling some conspicuously empty staff positions. The president slot was already filled, thanks to me. But that meant I had to find someone to fill my old position, since we couldn’t afford to let the pace of fundraising slow if we wanted to keep the lights on, and pay staff salaries, and beef up our security systems, and… the list kept going. At least I knew the right questions to ask of applicants for my former job. I was less well prepared to interview applicants for the position of registrar, the person who kept track of what we had and where it was-or was supposed to be, which was not always the same thing. The last registrar had been extremely efficient and meticulous in his record keeping, and finding someone to step into his shoes was not going to be easy, especially since we had difficulty paying competitive salaries at the moment.
And then there was the position of assistant to the president-in other words, the person who was supposed to be handling all the pesky details like scheduling appointments for me.
So, three important jobs to fill. And possibly more to come, if I didn’t manage to stabilize operations and convince my long-suffering staff that things were looking up. I wasn’t sure they were, but I had to believe that, didn’t I?
It was four o’clock in the afternoon. I had conducted six (at least, I think it was six) interviews during the day, and by now I was having trouble remembering my own name, much less what the applicants’ names were. I hoped I hadn’t insulted anyone, or worse, scared them away by giving them the impression they would end up working for a crazy lady who had no idea what she was doing. That would be me.
I compromised by laying my head on my folded arms, on the desk. No tears: I couldn’t afford to mar the original, highly polished finish on the piece. My respite was shortlived, interrupted by a knock at the door. Could I pretend to be asleep? Unlikely, and that would set a very poor example. For the life of me I couldn’t remember if I had any more scheduled appointments that day, but I wouldn’t put it past me to forget. Yet another reason why I was in desperate need of an assistant.
Reluctantly I sat up and regarded my latest visitor. Female, fiftyish, well put together. Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail that should have looked dated but worked on her. A smile that was sympathetic rather than smarmy. And most important, she was carrying two large cups from the place around the corner that made dynamite coffee.
“You look like you were rode hard and put away wet,” she drawled, a hint of the South in her voice.
“That sounds about right.” I smiled. “Do I dare hope that one of those cups is for me?”
“I took a wild guess that you could use some caffeine about now. I brought milk and sugar, too. Can I come in?”
“Of course.” At the moment, I would have let in just about anyone who was carrying that large cup of coffee. “Please, sit down. There must be a coaster around here somewhere…” I rummaged in my desk drawers, which contained… nothing. Apparently my predecessor had existed on air alone.
“Way ahead of you.” With a flourish, my guest whipped out some paper napkins.
I was impressed. I took the coffee and inhaled about half of it before I could résumé normal functioning. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Now, let’s start over. Do we have an appointment?”
“Actually, we do. At least, I made one with your human resources person, Melanie…?”
“Right, Melanie Wilson. She probably told me, but I’ve had so many interviews lately it’s hard to keep straight. Your name is?”
“Shelby Carver. You don’t have my résumé handy, do you?”
I looked at the snowdrifts of paper on my desk. “Uh, maybe.”
“Well, I’d be happy to make up some good stuff.”
I looked dubiously at Shelby, trying to figure out if she was serious. “Why don’t you tell me what you think I need to know? Oh, no, wait a sec.” With the infusion of caffeine, my brain seemed to be working again. “How did you get up here?” I knew we had security problems at the Society, but letting a stranger just waltz up to the administrative floor was a bit much by any standard.
“You mean, up to this floor? Don’t you worry. That nice man at the front desk-Bob, was it?-stopped me, and when I told him I was here for an interview, he called upstairs and talked to Melanie. But she was kind of busy, so she told Bob to just send me right up. He escorted me to the elevator, and I guess he had to use his key to get me up here?”
I groaned inwardly. I didn’t want to count the number of things wrong with what Shelby had just told me. One, no outsider should roam unescorted within our building. Melanie should have gone down to the front desk and taken Shelby in hand personally. Two, because Melanie hadn’t, Bob had had to leave his post, which left the front door unguarded-which he shouldn’t have done. Obviously my message about building security was not getting through. Okay, not many people were going to wander in off the street-well, except for the occasional homel
ess person looking for warmth and a bathroom-and even fewer would grab a nineteenth-century history of Bucks County from the nearest shelf and make off with it. But someone could easily have hidden somewhere until closing and then rifled the collections at will. Note to self: Bring this up-again-at the next staff meeting.
“Did I lose you?” Shelby asked innocently. “Have some more coffee, while I give you the short version. I started out as a social wife and did lots of party planning and schmoozing-that was back when my husband, John, was trying to break into local politics.”
“Not around here, I take it?”
“How’d you ever guess?” she said with a smile. “We’re both Virginia born and raised, although John’s mama’s family comes from just outside of Philadelphia. Well, John eventually gave up on that political idea and took up with something else, and our daughter, Melissa, was in college, so I got a real job, raising money for the local historical society back home. If you ever find my résumé, it’s all on there.”
I knew Melanie had vetted the applicants and had sent through only the ones who actually were qualified. Besides, I wanted to believe Shelby. I liked her. But hiring decisions were supposed to be rational and carefully considered. And I didn’t fully trust myself-my instincts had been wrong as often as right recently.
I sighed. “How long have you been in Philadelphia?”
“About two years. John works for a medical group, when he’s not building boats-that’s his real passion, but it’s an expensive hobby.”
“You have any background in history?” I asked.
“Sure do: ten years with my local historical society, first as treasurer, then as president. Of course, there were only about twenty members, and half of them were over seventy, so there wasn’t a whole lot of excitement going on there.”
“You would fit in just fine here. Most of our members won’t see sixty again, but since they’re mostly retired they have plenty of time to explore our collections.” I scrambled for more questions. While I was floundering, Shelby asked, “What do you need here?”
“I’ll be frank with you-we’re kind of in flux. I’ve been president for only a couple of months now, although I’ve worked here for over five years. You’d be taking the job I had until last fall, so at least I could walk you through it, when I have time. If you know Philadelphia, you’ll know that this is a combination of historical society, library, and museum, and we’ve got a lot of collections shoved wherever we can fit them, in an old building that leaks. We’ve got a board whose average age is seventy, and none of them like change much. None of them have megabucks, either. We have an endowment that is pathetic, and a budget that includes a lot of wishful thinking. I’m also looking for a new registrar, and I desperately need an assistant.”
“Sounds like it’s been a wild ride. I’ve seen the job description, of course, but maybe you could tell me what I’d really have to do? Director of development sounds so vague.”
She was right. Most people didn’t have a clue what development meant in our context. “Raising money, of course-direct-mail solicitations, grant writing, that kind of thing. Event planning-parties where we try to keep the board and the local people with money happy so they’ll keep giving us more donations. I assume you’ve done all this sort of thing before?”
“Sure have,” Shelby replied promptly. “We pulled in some nice historic preservation money for my old historical society, which I swear was about to fall down around our ears. And I just love putting together parties!” She stopped for a moment, then said delicately, “I seem to recall you’ve had some troubles here lately?”
Of course she would have heard. She should have heard if she had any involvement in the Philadelphia cultural community. “They’re all behind us, I promise.” Well, except for a few missing artifacts, but she didn’t need to know about those, or at least, not yet. “But you’re smart to ask, because it will make it a bit more challenging to raise money at the moment.”
She nodded once. “So you’re saying there might be some bumpy spots ahead?”
“There might,” I admitted. “Does that bother you? I mean, if you’re looking for stability and security at this point in your life, maybe this isn’t the place for you.”
Shelby laughed. “Shucks, and here I was hoping for a nice boring, repetitive job for my twilight years.” She paused and cocked her head, studying me. “Okay, you’ve been straight with me, so I’ll be, too. I think we could work well together. I’m a self-starter, but I know when I need to ask for help. Word on the street is that this is a good place, in spite of your recent problems. I get along well with people, and I know how to wheedle money out of them. Is that good enough?”
“We can’t pay a lot,” I said dubiously, knowing that might be the deal killer, and I was starting to really, really like Shelby. I mentioned a number that made me cringe. Sure, it had been my salary, but I’d been willing to accept the mediocre pay because I loved the place; I wasn’t sure it would be enough to entice someone from outside the institution.
Shelby didn’t answer immediately, and I held my breath. “That’s about what I figured. Low, but I don’t think you’re playing games with me-that’s what you can afford to pay right now, right?”
“Exactly. And I can’t tell you it’ll get better anytime soon. I don’t want to promise you something I can’t deliver.”
“You’re an honest woman, Nell Pratt, and I appreciate that. I’d be pleased if you’d consider me for the position.”
Bells and bluebirds went off in my head. “Can you start tomorrow?” To hell with checking references-just for once, I wanted to go by my gut. “Er, you don’t happen to have a criminal record, do you? History of embezzlement? Drug habit?”
“No, ma’am. None of the above. Where’s my office?”
A miracle had just occurred: I’d actually filled a position! “Let me give you the grand tour.”
I showed her the administrative offices and pointed out the general layout of the place, and we decided to save the areas where the collections were housed for a later date. I made sure to escort her to the door, since the front desk staff had already left for the day. “So I’ll see you in the morning, Shelby?”
“Sure will. Thanks, Nell. I’m really looking forward to being here. Bye now!”
I’d barely shut the door when I turned to find Marty Terwilliger standing behind me in the lobby. If I’d had anything to drop, I would have. Not that Marty was frightening-she was a wiry, fifty-something woman from one of Philadelphia’s oldest families, and I knew her well, as a board member, ally, and maybe friend. “Hello, Marty, I didn’t know you were in the building. Were you looking for me?”
“Not particularly-just working on the Terwilliger Collection. Who was that?”
“That, I hope, is our new director of development. Her name’s Shelby Carver.”
“Not from Philadelphia, is she?”
“No, Virginia. You have a problem with that? Being born in Philadelphia wasn’t one of the job requirements.”
“Not if she can get the job done, I don’t. You heard from Jimmy lately?” she asked.
Jimmy was a cousin of Marty’s-half of the residents of Philadelphia and the surrounding counties were Marty’s cousins, and I didn’t even try to work out how they all fit together-but more important, Jimmy was also Special Agent James Morrison of the Philadelphia office of the FBI, who was helping us to recover some historical items that had vanished from the Society’s collections. He remained cautiously optimistic about their recovery, but we hadn’t seen many pieces come back yet.
“No, he hasn’t been in touch.”
Marty snorted. “I told him he should call you.”
“What, socially, you mean? You playing matchmaker now, Marty?” I’d thought there’d been some sparks between us, but when I hadn’t heard from him over the holidays, I’d begun to think I’d just imagined it.
Marty grinned at me. “That boy’s a little slow. I thought I’d give him a nudge.”
“I’m done for now, but I’ll be back in the morning. This Shelby person’s coming back, then?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Maybe I’ll introduce myself.”
“Whatever you do, Marty, don’t scare her off.” Marty was good-hearted, but could be… blunt on occasion.
“Who, me? See you tomorrow, Nell.”
CHAPTER 2
Still brimming with glee about having finally crossed one thing off my enormous to-do list, I took the train home to my pleasant and pricey suburb of Bryn Mawr, west of the city. Finally one thing had gone right. Sure, I knew there were a few hundred other things that were still hanging over my head like melting icicles, but I was going to savor my victories where I could. Now if I could only find an assistant, I would be ecstatic.
The name Bryn Mawr means “big hill” in Welsh. It was a far more euphonious name than its former one, Humphreysville, which had been deemed too prosaic when the railroad came through in the 1860s. To be fair, there had once been a lot of Welsh settlers in this part of the world-that was one of those facts that, as a manager at an important historical institution, I was expected to know-so the Welsh title had some legitimacy, and it certainly was prettier. I loved the sleepy college town that lay along Route 30 (the old Lancaster Pike that led from Philadelphia to- surprise-Lancaster), with a convenient train line running alongside. I, and the bank, owned a small, converted carriage house behind what had once been a grand estate, in convenient walking distance to the train station.
And it was all mine: no kith, kin, or even pets, unless you count dust mites.
There are many people who live in Center City who never venture beyond city limits, and many confirmed suburbanites who quail in terror at the very idea of braving the big bad city. The latter had a point: there were some pretty rough areas of the city that lay close to the historic and cultural districts, and one wrong turn could land you in trouble-or in New Jersey. Me, I liked having one foot in each camp. I enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the city, but I also liked to be able to get on the train at the end of the day and make my way to my quiet little town, where I could unwind.