Fire Engine Dead by Sheila Connolly Page B

individual renters grouped together, and our area was the hardest hit. Seems odd to be wishing that they’d been a little more careless, doesn’t it?”
    “It must be devastating to lose so much, all at once. I can only imagine how I’d feel.”
    “But we look after our own,” Gary said. “We’ll have no trouble with the reopening.”
    I wondered briefly who he was trying to convince: me, Peter, or himself? “Peter, remind me how long you’ve been with the museum?”
    “More than five years now. Before that…” We rambled on about our respective careers, which carried us through the sandwiches. When the table was finally cleared, I wiped it off with a clean napkin and laid the envelope I’d brought on the table, pulling out the thick stack of photocopies. Both men leaned forward. “Here’s what my staff pulled together for you. It looks like you have—had—a very diverse collection. A mix of large and small items, including ephemera. I hadn’t realized how competitive the early firefighters were—all these contests!” I waved at an array of copies of newspaper clippings and color lithographs depicting large groups of firefighters trying to outdo each other, and spreading a lot of water in the process. “The Society might be able to lend you some broadsides and posters, if you’re going to try to recreate what you had.”
    “That’s very kind of you,” Peter replied. “You know, when we decided to renovate, we did review our display concepts. We have such limited space, and it’s important to use it effectively. At the same time, we have to appeal to a broad audience. As you might imagine, school groups are an important part of our programming, and they tend tohave different interests than visiting fire buffs, say. You don’t have that problem, do you?”
    “No, we’re not really display oriented, although we’ve done some small exhibits highlighting one or another aspect of our collections. But most of what we have is paper-based, and that’s usually neither eye-catching nor sturdy enough to be exhibited. But since we do have objects as well as documents, we still qualify as a museum, and you’d be surprised how many people walk in expecting to see things in cases somewhere.
    “Did you have any particular interest in firefighting when you joined the museum, or was it primarily a professional move?”
    “A bit of each. My father was a fireman in a small town, one of only a couple of full-time employees—the rest were volunteers. And of course most kids are fascinated by fire. A lot of adults, too.”
    “You didn’t want to follow in his footsteps?”
    “I couldn’t—I have asthma.”
    “Then the construction at the Fireman’s Museum must be hard for you.”
    “It has been. That’s why I really need to get out of the building every day. If I don’t, my lungs just close up. I’ll be glad when it’s finished.”
    “I was a firefighter myself,” Gary said, joining the conversation. “I had to retire after an accident on the job—that’s where I got this gimpy leg—but I’ve been with the museum since it was incorporated as a nonprofit, back in the seventies. Going on forty years now, longer than I’ve been married.”
    Gary must be older than he looks
, I thought. While Gary was talking, Peter picked up the sheaf of papers and leafed through it briefly, without stopping to examine any particularitem—including the fire engine pictures—then returned it to the envelope. “I really appreciate your putting this together for me, Nell. We’re going to be a lot more thorough with our documentation, going forward—and we’ll back things up, off-site, from now on. Talk about putting all our proverbial eggs in one basket! I knew it was poor practice, but until now, it was hard to convince the rest of the staff to do it properly. No offense, Gary.”
    “None taken, Peter. I’ve never been good at the paperwork side of things, and I’ve never had formal training in museum