Fire Engine Dead by Sheila Connolly

groups in the nineteenth century. They had proliferated rapidly and generated a lot of competitive spirit, that sometimes went beyond friendly and resulted in pitched battles on the streets, not to mention sabotage.
    Did either deeply ingrained aspect of Philadelphia firefighting apply to the situation at the Fireman’s Museum now? Could politics have played a role in the warehouse fire? Was that event intended to discredit the fire department in some way? Surely the museum must look foolish when their collection of fire-related memorabilia burned to a crisp. But who stood to benefit from their downfall?
    Or was there a personal element? Had someone hated Allan Brigham? Was there some deep, dark secret about his exit from the fire department? That was a question James was better suited to answer. Or did someone have personal issues with Peter Ingersoll, strong enough to seek to destroy his museum to hurt him? Or was the museum itself the target? I had no way to answer any of those questions. Certainly I’d picked up no rumors of that kind of animus within our community. James was right: it would be better to let the police and the FBI deal with the whole thing.
    Benjamin Franklin had coined the phrase
an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure
in urging greater attention to fire safety. I agreed in principle, but was there a way to apply it to my job? I amused myself on the train ride into the city on Monday with muddling metaphors: a lot of my job seemed to consist of putting out fires—figuratively, of course. No doubt there were some issues smoldering belowthe surface. Was I ready to take the heat for the decisions I made? The other passengers on the train must have wondered why I was smiling as I ran through increasingly silly analogies in my head, but at least I arrived at the Society in a good mood.
    I greeted Eric when I walked in, and by the time I had hung up my coat he had appeared in my doorway bearing coffee—with Latoya hard on his heels. I would have liked a moment to absorb a little caffeine, but since Latoya had braved my den a second time, she must think this was important.
    “Good morning, Latoya. Would you like some coffee?”
    “No, I’m good.” She sat down in front of my desk. “Listen, I made a few calls, as you asked, and everybody was uniformly enthusiastic about Nicholas. He’s smart, he’s meticulous, he’s thorough. I think he’d be a wonderful addition to our staff.”
    I sat back and sipped coffee, reflecting that I had seldom seen Latoya so enthusiastic. “Thank you for following through, Latoya. I’m inclined to agree with you. If you feel comfortable with Nicholas, then I believe you should offer him the position. After all, you’re going to be the one working most closely with him. And you’ll have to bring him up to speed on our existing records and monitor his progress. All right?”
    Latoya gave me a rare honest grin. “That’s fine, Nell. I’m glad we can move forward. I’ll get in touch with him today.” She stood up, but before leaving she said simply, “Thank you.”
    I sat back in my chair, relieved. I’d actually made Latoya happy, and with Nicholas’s hiring we would fill the last large remaining vacancy in our staffing, and we could finallybegin to sort out our stalled cataloging issues. I’d have something positive to report at the next board meeting. Things were definitely looking up, and it was still only Monday. I had high hopes for this week.
    I should have known it wouldn’t last. A few minutes later I looked up to see Marty bustling into my office. She dropped casually into a chair and grinned at me. “I’ve got you a registrar!”
    “You what?” I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach, and it wasn’t from the coffee.
    “A replacement for Alfred.”
    I sighed. I had, in the space of a morning, gone from no registrars to a surfeit of them. “Uh, Marty, I think Latoya’s already made an offer to a candidate.”
    “Well, tell her to