Free Fundraising the Dead by Sheila Connolly Page A

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