Dead Letters

Dead Letters by Sheila Connolly

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Authors: Sheila Connolly
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
    Published by the Penguin Group
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    This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
    DEAD LETTERS
    A Berkley Prime Crime eSpecial / published by arrangement with the author
    PUBLISHING HISTORY
    Berkley Prime Crime eSpecial edition / February 2012
    Copyright © 2012 by Sheila Connolly.
    Excerpt from
Fire Engine Dead
by Sheila Connolly © 2012 by Sheila Connolly.
    All rights reserved.
    No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
    For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
    a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
    375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
    ISBN: 978-1-101-56834-7
    BERKLEY ® PRIME CRIME
    Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
    a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
    375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
    BERKLEY ® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

“Damn,” I said as the folio of documents I had pulled from the shelf fell apart in my hands and the fragile papers inside scattered across the floor. Instinctively I looked around to see if anyone had observed my clumsy handling of the precious antique letters, which was stupid because I’d made a point of waiting until the building had emptied before venturing into the stacks for my search.
    The library stacks of the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society were never crowded, since the general public was not allowed into them to browse at will. But after hours, at night, they were dark and silent and more than a little creepy. I had worked in the building for years and knew it well, but even I had to fight a sneaking fear when I was alone there. Maybe it was the weight of history looming over me—and there was plenty of it—or maybe it was something more.
    But I was not here for my own enjoyment: I was on a mission. A few days earlier, Arthur Biddle Logan, elderly scion of several of Philadelphia’s oldest and most respected families, had requested an appointment with me—Eleanor Pratt, commonly known as Nell, president of the Society. I had never met the man in my former role as fundraiser, but I knew Mr. Logan on sight, and I certainly knew of his sterling reputation in Philadelphia social circles. I also knew that he avoided anything that smelled of a request for contributions of any sort, so the fact that he had approached me was intriguing. Of course, I had informed him that I would be happy to schedule an appointment at his convenience, while mentally licking my chops

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