Fire Engine Dead Read online

  “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?”

  “No, ma’am, it’s not. I found Peter Senior’s obituary, which lists all his achievements and awards and so on. It also lists his surviving family, which includes Peter’s brother Scott.” She pushed what I saw were photocopied newspaper articles across my desk.

  “I know—I’ve met him. Why is this relevant?”

  “I did a little checking on him, too. From what I did find, Scott is kind of the anti-Peter—never went to college, has held a string of dead-end jobs, none of them for too long. And he’s got a criminal record, mostly for minor offenses.”

  “Shelby, how do you find out all this stuff?” Marty asked, clearly impressed.

  “There’s all sorts of good info on the Internet, if you know where to look.”

  James had already told me about Scott’s less than pristine background, but he hadn’t seemed to think it was relevant. “Any mention of arson?” I asked.

  “No, but there aren’t a lot of details about his criminal activities. So maybe it’s possible?”

  I had to wonder: was it possible that the son of a much-decorated firefighter would become an arsonist? I had no idea, and I wondered what Celia would have to say. Could Scott have been doing it all along, acting out against his hero dad? But Dad was dead now. Scott didn’t stand to benefit…or did he? How did he feel about his brother Peter? Would he want to trash his brother’s professional reputation by making him look like a fool when his precious collection burned up?

  “James told me he had run background checks on the people involved,” I said slowly. “He mentioned that Scott had a record, so I suppose he could find out more about Scott’s criminal background—and who he knows.”

  “If he’s any good, he should have found this already. If the police are looking…” Marty had little patience with city government.

  “He may not know about Scott’s father, though.” I smiled, thinking of what Celia had told us. Was Scott acting out against hero Dad? “Thank you, Shelby—good work. Is that all?”

  Shelby gave me a fake pout. “Well, there’s no handy signed confession in the file, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “Ha, ha. Now shoo, both of you. I’ll pass this tidbit on to James.”

  Marty and Shelby exchanged looks, then stood up in unison. “Yes, ma’am. We’re out of here, ma’am!” Marty said crisply.

  Then they linked arms and marched out of the office together. I smiled at their retreating backs before picking up the phone to call James.

  “Morrison,” he barked.

  “Pratt,” I responded in kind.

  “Hi, Nell,” he replied with a laugh. “You have something?”

  “Maybe. You mentioned that Peter’s brother Scott had a record?”

  “Yes. We’ve looked at him. He’s got an arrest record, mostly for things like bar fights or public drunkenness. No arson, if that’s what you’re asking. At the moment we can’t tie him to this. Of course, we can’t rule him out yet, either.”

  “Did you know that Peter and Scott’s father was a fire fighter?”

  “Yes, I did, Nell. Why does it matter?”

  “Did you know that dear old Dad was a media grabber who liked to pose with rescued kittens? And collected a fair bit of news coverage?”

  “Ah…no, I guess not. Where are you going with this, Nell?”

  “Think about it. Peter wanted to be a fire fighter but his asthma prevented him. But what about Scott? There must be a story there. You could ask Celia if any of his background or criminal record fits one of her profiles. Does he have an alibi?”

  “No, not that I know of—the police are checking that. But having no alibi doesn’t prove anything. Do you have an alibi for the right time period?”

  “Uh, no. But why would I have set the fire, assuming I could even figure out how? Because I hated Peter Ingersoll? Because I’m planning to eliminate all the museum competition of Philadelphia so I can be queen of whatever?”

  I could hear a stifled chuckle. “You have anything else for me?”

  Nothing that Selden had told me was worth passing along to James, and I was pretty sure that James did not want to hear that yet another civilian was now privy to details about this case. “Not yet. You’ll be the first to know. Thanks for lunch.”

  “Right. Talk to you later.” He hung up.

  What had I learned today? Not much. James was doing whatever James did, and I had Shelby and Marty on the hunt on my end.

  The only key player I hadn’t talked to lately was Gary O’Keefe. I picked up the phone again.

  CHAPTER 20

  I met Gary O’Keefe in a dim bar not far from Independence Hall. I’d debated for a few minutes about how to approach him, but my creativity had failed me—it had already been a long day—and in the end I came straight out and told him that I was helping the FBI with the investigation of the fire and could I talk to him? He’d agreed instantly and suggested the bar. He was waiting in a booth when I walked in, and stood up when I approached the table.

  “Good to see you again, Nell, although I might wish the circumstances were happier. I have to thank you for helping us with the collection information, and so promptly. If nothing else, this awful event has taught us to keep our records backed up.”

  I sat down and ordered a Guinness, one of my occasional guilty pleasures when I could get it on tap. “Did you lose much of them?”

  “More than we
should have. Normally the archives and the administrative records are kept on the third floor, which the public doesn’t see, or only by appointment. But there were a lot of unexpected structural issues with the renovation, and we had to clear out most of the working space. It’s a wonder we still had offices, even if they had no more than plastic sheeting for walls. Your material helped to fill in a lot of the holes.”

  “Were you able to use the information to file an insurance claim?” I asked.

  “We did, but as I think I told you, most of the collection was of limited financial value. And we hadn’t upgraded the coverage for the fire engine, for reasons of cost yet again, so we won’t get much on that. Certainly not enough to replace it. Ah, she was a beauty…” He stared over my head at nothing.

  I wasn’t surprised: insurance on collections usually bore little relation to the market value of the collection. I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn’t supposed to come out and talk about the theft of the real fire engine. Why was it that Gary, with the nominal title of curator, hadn’t made the same observation that Marty and I had, that the two pictures didn’t match up? Or had he, and chosen not to say anything? I could understand his not bringing it up with me—that would be disloyal to his own institution, and I’m sure he’d prefer to keep it quiet. But ethically and legally, surely he should have told the authorities? Was he involved somehow? I felt like I was walking a tightrope, choosing my words carefully. If Gary knew anything about the swap of the fire engines, now would be the perfect opportunity for him to bring it up, and I paused to give him a chance.

  He leaned in, and I held my breath, but when he spoke, it wasn’t about fire engines. “Poor Peter—he’s having a hard time of it. To have such an awful thing happen on his watch.”

  I had to agree. “I saw him at the Bench Foundation event last night. He doesn’t look well, does he? I can only imagine how I’d feel if such a thing happened at the Society. I’d be tempted to throw myself on the fire, too. Oh, sorry—is that in bad taste?”