Read Online Fundraising the Dead by Sheila Connolly - Free Book Online Page B

were checks, they would need to be processed—entered in our database and prepared for deposit. Charles had said they were substantial, so it was important to take care of them quickly. I should remember to take care of that later today after the meeting.
    One envelope was thicker than the others, and sealed. I slit the top and pulled out a sheaf of folded papers, which turned out to be a printed, single-spaced list several pages long.
    Alfred’s list of the missing items.

CHAPTER 7
    In the lobby Officer Johnson stood squarely in the center, feet planted apart, pointing staff members toward the room under the stairs with the barest minimum of speech. I threw him a quick false smile and went to find the employees.
    Inside the room most of the staff was sitting around the table, looking sleepy, dopey, grumpy, and in a few cases, hungover. And now they were trying out anxious and frustrated.
    Charles wasn’t there, and I wondered what the staff knew from Officer Johnson. Since it appeared that I was the only person in the room who actually knew anything, I’d have to be the one to tell them. I moved to one end of the conference table but not before laying the pastry box I’d snagged from upstairs in the middle of the table. “Sorry there’s no coffee, but I figured you must be hungry.” A number of people made a grab for the goodies, but their eyes returned to me quickly.
    Latoya Anderson was the first to speak. “Nell, can you tell us what’s going on?”
    I cleared my throat. “I am sorry to tell you that Alfred Findley was found dead in the third-floor stacks this morning.” There was an immediate outcry from the staff, and I paused until the hubbub died down. I saw that Carrie, my bubbly membership coordinator, looked ready to cry, and even our unflappable head librarian, Felicity Soames, had paled, shutting her eyes.
    I took a deep breath before going on. “I found him, and I called the police immediately. It looks like he fell and hit his head.” I decided to leave out the blood. “We don’t expect to open to the public today, under the circumstances, and if you want to leave, that’s all right, and you won’t be penalized for it. But if you feel up to it, maybe we should just go ahead with our planned meeting, while everybody’s memory is still fresh?”
    For a long moment I wondered what they would decide, and I had to admit, it sounded pretty callous to talk about the party with Alfred dead upstairs. Luckily they seemed to welcome the idea of a distraction, and no one protested. And that made me wonder—had anyone even cared about Alfred?
    “All right, then. Let me say first—great job last night, one and all. Definitely our best event in living memory—and that’s saying something, given the average age of our guests.” A few people laughed feebly at my joke. “Does anyone have any general comments before we review what the attendees said? Any problems, issues?”
    I looked around the table. Nobody was evading my eye, so I had to assume there were no major complaints in the offing. Or maybe they were all in shock.
    We worked our way through the guest list. Various people had had conversations of various durations with various guests, and we picked through them, looking for any hints about that person’s current opinion of us. The ones who seemed happiest, we would tap for a larger role in the organization: board membership, sooner or later; a volunteer committee; or a bigger donation. The unhappier ones I would have to sound out and try to placate. Then there were always the chronic whiners, the ones who never thought that they were getting the attention they deserved. Usually they were getting exactly what they deserved, which was the same courtesy we extended to everyone, if a bit more saccharine, since we had all long since pegged the whiners as permanently discontented. Still, that was the way things worked in this business, and at least they had paid for their seat—well, most of them