Read Online Fire Engine Dead by Sheila Connolly - Free Book Online Page A

tracking systems had failed to keep up, from the beginning. It was easy to imagine the very early days, when one curator/librarian could probably keep all the information in his head. Then had come the era of handwritten cards and the arrival of the first card catalog. Some order had been imposed, but as the collections expanded, classification systems had changed, and the physical distribution of the collections had changed even more often. By the later twentieth century the whole thing was all but out of our control. And then the digital age had arrived.
    Alfred had bridged that gap. He had been good at his job—in part because he had no real life or love outside of the Society—and he had been instrumental in transferring significant portions of the catalogs to a computerized format, and even overseeing the digitization of a portion of those catalogs so that our members could access them online. He’d made great strides forward, but we’d been stymied since his untimely death. For all my lack of familiarity, I recognized that software cataloging systems were essential to contemporary collections management, and it sounded as though Latoya’s candidate Nicholas might be a good fit. I looked forward to meeting with him and picking his brain.
    The morning’s confrontation with Marty had left me unsettled, and I needed to clear my head. I pulled on my coat and stopped to tell Eric, “I’m headed out to get some lunch. Tell anyone who calls that I may be a while.”
    “Right. You’re in a very important meeting and can’t be disturbed.” Eric grinned at me.
    “Exactly.” I made my way downstairs and out of thebuilding. On the front steps I paused, trying to figure out what I wanted. Mostly I wanted some space, and time to think. Maybe it was time to go back to the Reading Terminal Market—I hadn’t been there since lunch with Arabella a few months ago, and I recalled that I had promised myself to visit more often. Certainly its bright colors and sounds—not to mention the wonderful smells—would distract me from the thorny problem of the missing fire engine. I set off toward Market Street at a brisk clip.
    I had forgotten that the funeral for Allan Brigham would be taking place today, and that Market Street would be its route; it put a serious crimp in my plans. James had told me that firemen’s funerals in the city were important events, but I was not prepared for the scale of the parade that was unfolding before me. Somehow I had timed my arrival to coincide with the head of the procession. I had to stand on tiptoe to see anything over the fairly thick crowd. First came a pair of drummers and a bagpiper, leading a modern fire truck draped in black bunting; the casket, covered with a flag, lay atop the truck. Two uniformed firemen rode on the truck’s tailboard, flanking the casket. They were accompanied by a pair of Dalmatians, who sat still as statues, as though sensing the solemnity of the occasion. Additional firemen walked alongside the fire truck—probably some sort of honor guard. Following the truck were several groups of dignitaries—I saw the mayor and the city’s fire chief among the ones in the front. They were followed by a slew of local firefighters—I recognized the uniforms—and then by what must be visiting firefighters in different uniforms. Toward the rear was a long string of fire vehicles, and finally cars. The whole of the procession stretched over many blocks, nearly to the waterfront, headed to the imposingmass of City Hall. I couldn’t help but wonder whether this was a typical department funeral, or whether Allan Brigham had been particularly highly regarded in his community, even after retirement.
    The sidewalks on both sides of Market Street were crowded with spectators, although it was hard to distinguish between mourners and gawkers. I wasn’t sure which category I fit. Still, there was enough room that I could move to the front of the crowd without shoving, and when I