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Authors: Sheila Connolly
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arrived there I found Peter Ingersoll, looking pale. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped and turned toward me.
“Hello, Peter. Quite an impressive event,” I said.
“It is. Of course, our firefighters deserve it. You know Jennifer, right?”
I hadn’t seen Jennifer, who was standing on the other side of Peter, looking equally unhappy. “Of course—hello, Jennifer.”
“And this is my brother Scott.” Peter gestured toward a man standing behind Jennifer. If Peter hadn’t introduced me, I never would have pegged him as Peter’s brother: Scott stood half a head taller and must have outweighed Peter by fifty pounds. “Scott works as a security guard part-time at the museum—well, when there’s anything to protect. There hasn’t been since the collections went into storage.” Peter swallowed hard.
“Good to meet you, Scott,” I said, extending a hand. Scott took it reluctantly and shook it, mumbling something, then turned his attention back to the procession. I noticed that he laid a hand on Jennifer’s shoulder.
“And this is Gary O’Keefe, our curator,” Peter added, and another, older man, moving clumsily, came forward to shake my hand.
“We appreciate your help, Ms. Pratt.”
“No problem—that’s what the Society is here for.” I turned back to Peter. “I’ve collected at least part of the information you asked for. Can we get together so I can show you?”
“Of course. Let me call you after I get back to the office and we can set a time,” Peter replied.
“That’s fine. Are you going to the burial? Did you know the man?”
“Not personally, no. I just came to pay my respects. I feel so bad about what happened, like the museum is somehow responsible for his death.”
Peter’s mind seemed to be somewhere else, not surprisingly, so I decided to resume my search for lunch. “I’ll talk to you later, then,” I said, and turned away. It looked as though crossing Market Street would be out of the question for a while, so I headed back toward Chestnut Street, where I knew I’d find plenty of restaurants. After lunch, the afternoon passed quietly, until I was interrupted by another call from James.
“You sicced Marty on me,” he began without preamble.
“I did not,” I replied tartly. “She came to me after drawing the same conclusion that I did, based on the newspaper photo. I warned you she might. I just confirmed what she suspected. Was I really supposed to lie to her? She was mad at me because I had told you before I told her.”
He sighed. “All right. Can you keep her out of this?”
“Marty? Not a chance.”
“I was afraid of that. I suppose I should have known she’d end up in the middle of this. I assume you’ve told Marty that she has to be discreet about it?”
“I did, but if you see her, can you repeat that? You don’twant her asking people the wrong questions, or maybe I mean asking the
wrong people
questions. If you know what I mean.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” I could hear the sound of a door closing on his end before he continued. “Listen, the autopsy showed that the guard was dead before the fire began.”
I felt a chill. So it was arson
and
murder. Had the dead watchman been party to the arson, or an innocent bystander? “At least he had full honors for his burial. You were right—the procession was very impressive. What was the cause of death?”
“A blow to the head,” James said, “but there’s more than one way it could have happened. For the moment the police are treating it as suspicious rather than accidental. Please, keep that to yourself unless it’s announced officially.”
“Of course.” The news saddened me. The fire was bad enough on its own, but this made it tragic—and complicated. “Have you shared the information about the fire engine with the police?”
“No. I’m not sure where that fits, and I’d rather they didn’t know, unless they figure it out for themselves. At which time I’ll be happy to
“Hello, Peter. Quite an impressive event,” I said.
“It is. Of course, our firefighters deserve it. You know Jennifer, right?”
I hadn’t seen Jennifer, who was standing on the other side of Peter, looking equally unhappy. “Of course—hello, Jennifer.”
“And this is my brother Scott.” Peter gestured toward a man standing behind Jennifer. If Peter hadn’t introduced me, I never would have pegged him as Peter’s brother: Scott stood half a head taller and must have outweighed Peter by fifty pounds. “Scott works as a security guard part-time at the museum—well, when there’s anything to protect. There hasn’t been since the collections went into storage.” Peter swallowed hard.
“Good to meet you, Scott,” I said, extending a hand. Scott took it reluctantly and shook it, mumbling something, then turned his attention back to the procession. I noticed that he laid a hand on Jennifer’s shoulder.
“And this is Gary O’Keefe, our curator,” Peter added, and another, older man, moving clumsily, came forward to shake my hand.
“We appreciate your help, Ms. Pratt.”
“No problem—that’s what the Society is here for.” I turned back to Peter. “I’ve collected at least part of the information you asked for. Can we get together so I can show you?”
“Of course. Let me call you after I get back to the office and we can set a time,” Peter replied.
“That’s fine. Are you going to the burial? Did you know the man?”
“Not personally, no. I just came to pay my respects. I feel so bad about what happened, like the museum is somehow responsible for his death.”
Peter’s mind seemed to be somewhere else, not surprisingly, so I decided to resume my search for lunch. “I’ll talk to you later, then,” I said, and turned away. It looked as though crossing Market Street would be out of the question for a while, so I headed back toward Chestnut Street, where I knew I’d find plenty of restaurants. After lunch, the afternoon passed quietly, until I was interrupted by another call from James.
“You sicced Marty on me,” he began without preamble.
“I did not,” I replied tartly. “She came to me after drawing the same conclusion that I did, based on the newspaper photo. I warned you she might. I just confirmed what she suspected. Was I really supposed to lie to her? She was mad at me because I had told you before I told her.”
He sighed. “All right. Can you keep her out of this?”
“Marty? Not a chance.”
“I was afraid of that. I suppose I should have known she’d end up in the middle of this. I assume you’ve told Marty that she has to be discreet about it?”
“I did, but if you see her, can you repeat that? You don’twant her asking people the wrong questions, or maybe I mean asking the
wrong people
questions. If you know what I mean.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” I could hear the sound of a door closing on his end before he continued. “Listen, the autopsy showed that the guard was dead before the fire began.”
I felt a chill. So it was arson
and
murder. Had the dead watchman been party to the arson, or an innocent bystander? “At least he had full honors for his burial. You were right—the procession was very impressive. What was the cause of death?”
“A blow to the head,” James said, “but there’s more than one way it could have happened. For the moment the police are treating it as suspicious rather than accidental. Please, keep that to yourself unless it’s announced officially.”
“Of course.” The news saddened me. The fire was bad enough on its own, but this made it tragic—and complicated. “Have you shared the information about the fire engine with the police?”
“No. I’m not sure where that fits, and I’d rather they didn’t know, unless they figure it out for themselves. At which time I’ll be happy to
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