Monument to the Dead Read Online Free Page B

Plaza, where I would descend to the train platform that lay under the
     plaza.
    “I should get the New Jersey report tomorrow, or maybe the day after. Maybe you’ll
     see something that I wouldn’t.”
    “It’s been known to happen, you know.” I grinned. “Don’t work too late.”
    “I’ll be fine. Good to see you again, Nell, even if it was over the report on a dead
     woman.”
    “Anytime. You know that.”
    I watched him as he strode off, headed for his office on Arch Street. Definitely worth
     watching. Then with a sigh, I turned to enter the station and wait for my train home.

CHAPTER 3
    The next morning it was overcast, as was my mood. A death in the “family”—that is, the small community of museum administrators and all
     the personnel who kept such places going—was always a sad event, no matter how long
     expected. Philadelphia was an old city, one that still retained a certain Quaker reserve;
     a city that had faced down bankruptcy a decade or two ago, and whose interest groups
     still fought tooth and nail for whatever funds were available. It felt crass to peruse
     obituaries to see who might have left us something, but “Bequests” was a line item
     in our annual budget, and we needed to keep our eyes open. It occurred to me that
     maybe James had been asking indirectly if any museum administrator would be likely
     to hasten the death of someone who was expected to leave a tidy sum in her will. I
     sincerely hoped not, although I certainly knew of some presidents or board chairs
     who spent more time hand-holding high-dollar donors than they did with their own families.
     If one had a standing date for tea and crumpets at elderly Mrs. High-Dollar’s house,
     how hard would it be to slip something extra into her cup of Darjeeling? And if an
     eighty-five-year-old woman dies, apparently in her sleep, is anyone going to do a
     battery of tests looking for an exotic poison? Not likely. Such grim thoughts occupied
     me for the balance of my ride into the city.
    And gave me an idea.
    I arrived at the Society feeling more energized than when I had left home. I greeted
     Eric, nodding at his offer of coffee.
    “Remind me what’s on the calendar for today?” I asked.
    “You have a meeting scheduled at eleven with Phebe Fleming from the Water Works” Eric
     replied promptly.
    “Oh, right—she wanted to talk about some kind of joint project. Let me know when she
     arrives.”
    When Eric left for coffee, I went into my office and settled myself at my desk. I
     picked up the phone to call Shelby.
    “Hey, Nell,” she answered quickly. “You need something?”
    “I’ve got something I want to discuss with you. Nothing bad, just an idea for some
     forward planning, and I think you can help.”
    “I’ll be there in two minutes.”
    Since her office was only twenty feet away, she could have made the trip quickly,
     but when she walked in I realized that she had intercepted Eric in the staff room
     and arrived with coffee for both of us. She deposited one mug on my blotter, then
     asked, “Door open or shut?”
    Here we go again.
“Shut, please.”
    She shut the door, sat down, and said, “What’s up?”
    “I was thinking—” I began.
    “Always a dangerous pastime,” she said with a grin.
    I ignored her. “What do you know about how boards at places like ours are put together?”
    “Is this a trick question?” When I shook my head, she said slowly, “Well, I guess
     I’d have to say there are a few important criteria: members have to know something
     about and care about the particular specialty of the museum, whether it’s art or history
     or knitting or teapots; and they have to have money, or at least know a lot of people
     with money. And they have to be a good fit with the other members of the board—or
     at least, not actively feuding with any of them.”
    “That’s a pretty good summary. And how do we identify prospective board members?”
    “You really have been busy with