Free Fundraising the Dead by Sheila Connolly Page B

dragged on . . . and on . . . and on. Charles had retreated to his office, with the door firmly shut. It was noon before the gurney carrying Alfred’s bundled body shuttled down the elevator and out the service entrance that opened onto the alley at the rear. There was only one news person hovering outside, and he had the savvy to stake out the back door to get a good shot. How did the media know so fast? It occurred to me that I should touch base with Joan, our communications director, about the public statement she was working on. There was no way to cast this sad event in a positive light. Alfred had died alone, and no one had noticed. I wondered if there was anyone to write an obituary for him.
    But instead I sent the staff back upstairs and I went to see Charles, breezing past his loyal assistant Doris Manning, who glared at me but said nothing, her eyes pink, a tissue wadded in her sleeve. Once inside his office, I shut the door.
    Charles sat behind his handsome desk, looking appropriately sorrowful. I dropped into one of his guest chairs with a sigh of relief. “No more surprises?”
    “This morning wasn’t enough? No, the detective and I made nice noises, and I informed her that Alfred was a valued employee and a pleasant person. I’m not sure I ever exchanged more than ten words with Findley—he seemed to scurry out of my way every time he saw me.”
    “That sounds like Alfred,” I agreed. “He really didn’t like people much, but he was good at his job.”
    “You knew him well?”
    “I got to know him a couple of years ago when I came to him for information I needed for a grant proposal I was working on—you know, how many widgets we had, and how many of them John Hancock had handled, that kind of thing. He always came through, and quickly. It will be hard to fill his shoes—especially at his salary level.”
    “Hmm.” Charles seemed distracted. “I don’t suppose we could divvy up his tasks among other staff members?”
    “No,” I said firmly. “You know that as well as I do. It takes a specific mix of skills to do what he did. But I’m sure we don’t have to rush to advertise the position, at least until he’s been properly buried.” The Society’s cataloging had waited years already, and another week or two wasn’t going to make any difference. Unless that list he’d left me . . . no, I wasn’t going to go there, not now. “We need to release a statement of some kind, and it should go out under your name. You want me to work with Joan to put it together?”
    “Fine. I trust your judgment. What a tragedy.” Charles lapsed into silence, and I studied him. He looked weary—and he had had more rest than I had.
    “It is.” I stood up. For a brief moment I wavered, wondering if I should tell him about Marty’s concerns, but looking at his face, I decided it could wait until after I had talked to her and really scoped out the extent of the problem. If it was a false alarm, or if I could make it just go away, it would save wear and tear on everyone. “Well, let me get to work on that with Joan. She’ll have a contact list—I don’t know what the deadline is for tomorrow’s Inquirer . Drat—she’ll have to get something onto the website, too. And you should tell Doris to start contacting the board members—we don’t want them to get blindsided by this.”
    “An excellent point.” Charles, ever the gentleman, stood up to see me out. He laid a reassuring hand on my arm. “And, Nell? I am sorry you had to be the one to stumble onto this. I hope you’re not too upset, because I need you to help me—help the Society—through this difficult time.”
    Well, it was nice that he had thought about it. But I had no intention of lapsing into a fit of the megrims, whatever they were. I would soldier on, and I would save any mourning for poor Alfred until later, when I got home. Which might be a while.

CHAPTER 8
    The next day was Saturday. The Society was usually open to the public on