twos. People were leaving and being replaced in a steady stream, their purchases clustered around their feet. At the far end was a table of four men, who had no purchases and only soft-drink bottles on their table; they appeared deep in conversation. But they did not look out of place in the rich ethnic mix of shoppers. I touched Arabella on the arm, and she jumped. “Arabella, are you all right?”
She turned to me quickly. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Maybe I just overdid it a bit. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, as you can guess. Perhaps I’ll just catch a cab back to the museum. Please, you go on shopping. I’ll be fine once I get off my feet.”
“If you’re sure…” I said dubiously.
Her color was already returning. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll talk to you soon. And thanks for coming out to lunch with me!”
She turned on her heel and headed straight for the side exit, where I knew cabs lined up waiting. I watched along the long aisle until she left the building, then turned back to the cluster of tables. The four men had dispersed without a trace.
After making a few purchases of vegetables, I walked slowly back toward the Society. What could have startled Arabella so? I had a sneaking suspicion that she had unexpectedly recognized someone among the lunch goers. One of the men at the table? On the sidewalk I stepped aside, pulled out my cell phone, and hit a number-James’s private line. I didn’t have time to go through all those receptionists.
“Nell?” James’s voice at last. “What’s up?”
“Do you have a picture of Nolan Treacy?” I said without preamble.
“Of course. Why?”
“Could you email me a copy to my office? I’m on my way back there now.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain when I get to my office. Please?”
“Okay.”
“Thanks.” I hung up before he asked for more explanation.
Back at the Society I hurried to my desk, nodding briefly to Eric as I passed. I sat down at my computer, logged into my email, and found James’s message, with an attachment. When I opened the attachment, it was a single image. I printed it out, then studied it. It clearly wasn’t recent, and the quality was poor-it was badly pixilated.
Was this one of the men I had seen at the Market? I couldn’t say for sure, but neither could I rule it out.
As I sat with the picture in my hands, the phone rang. Eric appeared at the door and whispered, “It’s that FBI agent,” not that James could possibly hear Eric if he was on hold. Or maybe he could: I had no idea how far the capabilities of the FBI stretched.
“Thanks, Eric. I’ll take it. Oh, and could you close the door behind you?”
When he was gone, I picked up the phone. “What’s this about, Nell?” James demanded.
I took a breath. “I just had lunch with Arabella Heffernan, at her invitation. We went to the Reading Terminal Market. After lunch we were strolling around and she stopped suddenly and looked like she’d seen a ghost.”
“And?” James said impatiently.
“It occurred to me that she might have seen her ex-husband among a group of men sitting at a nearby table. That’s why I asked you for the picture.”
“Was it him?”
“Hard to tell. This is an old picture, right?”
“Yes, maybe fifteen, twenty years ago. Nobody’s had any official reason to photograph him since, not here in the U.S. at least-and he’s a foreign national, so it’s not like we have access to his driver’s license or anything. What did you see?”
“A bunch of ordinary-looking guys having a soda in a busy place. Seriously. That’s all I can tell you. But Arabella went white and hightailed it out of there as fast as she could. She took a cab back.”
“Hmm. I’m going to have to talk with Ms. Heffernan.”
“James, don’t chew her head off, please. She looked honestly surprised, and none too happy. If that was what she was even looking at. She claimed not to feel well-it’s possible it could have been the smoked eel or something else that turned her off.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. Talk with you later?”
“I’ve got that meeting tonight. Call me when I get home?”
“Will do.”
And he was gone. I felt bad about siccing the FBI on Arabella. Of course, if she
With a sigh, I turned back to the reports on my desk.
CHAPTER 19
I approached my first Executive Committee meeting as president of the Society with a little trepidation. The Executive Committee-the subgroup that actually ran the place-met once a month, but the Christmas holidays had intervened in December, and I think the board members, still reeling from the events of the fall, had wanted to give me a little breathing room in my new position before meeting again. I’d kept the key players informed, at least. For the meeting now I’d prepared all the reports that I thought were needed, but I wasn’t sure if they were going to be enough. I hated committing to paper our lack of progress in several significant areas. But I was doing the best I could. I hoped they would recognize that. Sure, I’d known the members of the board for years, but in an entirely different role. I still had no idea how they would treat me after my sudden elevation to leadership. I knew I had Marty as my champion, but it would take more than one person in my corner to make this work. Plus the board was still reeling from a slew of unwelcome revelations a couple of months earlier, and I had to address their concerns and look like I was handling things. I wasn’t sure what I could tell them that would reassure them, but I had to try.
Most of the members smiled at me as they walked in, which I chose to interpret as a good sign. It felt really strange to be standing at the head of the table when the members congregated in the board room. I’d sent Eric home: the board secretary could handle the minutes from this meeting. Marty gave me a nod when she walked in and took her seat.
At five thirty I began. “Thank you for coming-I know how busy you all are. I’ll try to keep my remarks brief, since it hasn’t been long since our last meeting, but that one was a bit unusual.” A couple of the board members chuckled. “I can report that we don’t appear to have lost any ground since then, although the holiday season is historically slow. At least it gave us some breathing room. If you’ll look at your information packets…” I led them through the reports that they should have read but probably hadn’t: membership status, the final income numbers from our November gala (the last bright moment before the storm), and the status of acquisitions and major grant proposals (nil for both). The treasurer provided a simplified update on the state of our finances, which were, as usual, precarious.
When we’d run through the formal reports, I said, “I’ve had some success in filling some of our vacant positions. I’ve hired Shelby Carver to fill my former slot. I hope she’ll introduce herself to you soon.”
An emeritus member rumbled, “I hope you’re being careful filling positions these days. Background checks and the like. We don’t want to make the same mistake again.”
I debated about how to respond. It was all too easy to fabricate resumes and even cover your tracks in this electronic age, and I’d been relying on Melanie’s due diligence-and my gut reactions-with Shelby and then Eric. “Shelby is very well qualified, and she’s already provided a lot of help. Of course, she’s barely started, so I can’t speak to her fundraising abilities, but give her a chance to settle in. In addition, I’ve hired a new assistant.”
“He’s a he, isn’t he?” the secretary asked. Predictably it was John Rittenhouse, one of our older board members. “He sounds young, on the phone. Nell, you’ve got to remember that this person represents the Society and is often the first contact that our major donors have with us. He has to be right for the position.”
“I understand your concern, and I haven’t offered him the position on a full-time basis yet-he’s on probation.
