Free Fundraising the Dead by Sheila Connolly

had, anyway.
    Felicity, her composure restored, said, “I had an interesting conversation with one woman—it seems her great-uncle has just passed away, and she remembers that he had some interesting collections. She hasn’t seen them for a long time, but she thought there were quite a lot of old books. I said we’d be happy to send someone over to help her sort through the books.”
    “Good catch,” I said. “Give her a call in a day or two, to follow up. Do you want to go, or do you want to send someone from collections?”
    “I can do it—I could use a field trip.”
    “Great. Anything else?”
    Carrie spoke up. “Mrs. Bennington didn’t pee.” There was general laughter. Poor Mrs. Bennington must be eighty-five if she was a day, and she had trouble remembering where to find the restrooms. On one memorable occasion, she had sought directions from a staff member, then said brightly, “Oh, never mind,” as a puddle spread around her feet. We tried to keep an eye on her, since other than this little foible she was a sweetheart, but sometimes there just weren’t enough people to go around. We were hoping we were mentioned in her will, and her estate was rumored to be substantial. Her father had been a board member in the 1920s.
    The discussion faltered. Normally I would give a wrap-up of the financial side, mostly for Charles’s benefit, but I didn’t have any of my notes, which were still on my desk. Still, it was at least a bright spot. “This is still a rough estimate, but it looks like we should clear about thirty thousand, after we pay the bills.” Polite applause. I went on. “Did everyone like the caterer?” Nods.
    “Great desserts,” someone added.
    “Well, there are plenty of leftovers in the staff fridge, so enjoy. The caterer wasn’t too expensive, so if he did a good job, I’d be happy to have him back.”
    Fred, the building supervisor, cleared his throat. “They were a little slow on the cleanup. I had to stay until they finished, to lock up, and it was close to one.”
    “Thanks for mentioning that, Fred. Next time I’ll tell them to beef up the staff on the back end, okay? Sorry you had to hang around so late.” He nodded, mollified.
    Joan Sartain, our communications director, spoke for the first time. “Nell, I’ll draft a public statement for Charles to approve. We should say something.”
    She was right, but I wasn’t sure what we could or should say right now. “That’s a good idea, Joan, but can you hold off until we know a little more? Maybe by the end of the day we’ll have a clearer idea of what happened.”
    I had nothing more to add, and I was worried that the meeting was going to degenerate into questions about Alfred—questions I didn’t want to answer even if I could. Luckily we were interrupted by a commotion in the hall. At first I could hear only the bass rumble of Officer Johnson’s voice, alternating with a shriller and insistent female voice. Belatedly I realized it had to be Marty, arriving for her nine o’clock meeting, which had completely slipped my mind. Rich and I exchanged a glance; apparently he had reached the same conclusion.
    “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