A Penny for Your Thoughts

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Tomorrow?” I said loudly. A woman looked at me from across the aisle, and I lowered my voice. “You don’t want me to check them out first?”

  “The founder is an old friend of mine,” Tom said. “Wendell Smythe. A wonderful man. I have no doubt his operation is everything it claims to be.”

  “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look—”

  “The problem is that their need is fairly pressing. Seems that they want to put a bid in on a building that’s up for auction, and they need a quick $250,000. I see no reason to delay.”

  I exhaled slowly, thinking about my immediate plans. I had been working so hard lately; I really didn’t want to jump right into another case. I had things to do. I was going to get off this plane, make my way home to my little cottage on the Chesapeake, and spend the week winding down. My plans were no more ambitious than catching up on laundry, taking out the canoe every day, and tending to my personal e-mail. I hadn’t been home for more than a few days at a time for the last month; even my poor dog, who lived with a neighbor whenever I traveled, was starting to feel like a distant memory.

  “Callie,” Tom said, interrupting my thoughts, “I know you miss your little Maltese. But it’s only a one-day assignment, and the packet is already waiting for you at the apartment in the city. Spend the night there, zip up to Philly in the morning, and you’ll be home by tomorrow night. Then you can take a whole week off if you want. Paddle down those little tributaries to your heart’s content.”

  I smiled, wondering how it was that a man I had never met could know me so well.

  “Everything I need is in the city?” I asked, thinking of the corporate apartment the foundation kept near the Watergate. It was nice, if a little sterile, and I did keep a toothbrush and an extra change of clothes there. I supposed a quick trip to Philadelphia wouldn’t kill me. At least I knew my way around because of an internship I had done there one summer as a law student. Though I hadn’t liked the law firm enough to accept their offer once the internship was over, I had kind of liked the city. It had a certain attitude about it, a traditional yet funky dichotomy I found intriguing. Though I didn’t plan to stick around town a moment longer than necessary, it would be nice to drive through Philadelphia again. “Okay, I’ll do it,” I said finally.

  We concluded our call, and I slipped the phone back into its holder. Once I got to the apartment, I would call Lindsey, the teenager who always kept my dog, and tell her she would need to keep her just a little bit longer. Then I would go through the packet of information about the agency in Philly and call it a night.

  I leaned back and looked out at the sky, which was a dark purple now, the gray clouds silhouetted against the horizon. I felt at peace, satisfied with a job well done, eager to finish this one minor errand tomorrow so I could begin my little vacation.

  It’s a good thing I didn’t know then how the following events would unfold, that my little trip the next day was going turn into something altogether different than either Tom or I could ever have predicted. In my years as a private investigator, I’d seen a few dead bodies, sure.

  But I certainly didn’t expect to run into one on this particular errand.

  Two

  According to the sign, Feed the Need was on the sixth floor. I pressed the button and then waited, checking my reflection in the silver elevator door.

  I adjusted the stiff, tweedy fabric of my skirt, thinking that this was not one of my favorite suits but that it would do for this quick errand. I had hopes of getting in and out within an hour, something that probably wasn’t possible. Once I had handed over the donation and the initial excitement had passed, the recipients almost always insisted on giving me a tour of their facilities, introducing me to some of their workers and taking me out to lunch or dinner. Usually, I didn’t mind. Today, however, I just wanted to get out of there and go home. I wondered if they would think me rude if I begged off with a “prior commitment.” Closing my eyes, I could just picture that prior commitment—all seven excitable, furry pounds of her, waiting for her long-absent mother to hurry home and give her a treat of beef jerky.

  I got off of the elevator on the sixth floor and found myself facing an elaborate silk flower arrangement on an antique table. Subtly lighted on the wall above the flowers was a large brass plaque, directing me to turn left for Smythe Incorporated or right for Feed the Need. I turned right and walked through a glass door into a small but elegant reception area. The petite young woman at the desk was on the phone, but she caught my eye, gesturing to let me know she would be with me in a moment. As I waited, I looked around the small room and finally sat on a beautifully upholstered couch, picking up a brochure from the coffee table.

  Smythe Incorporated and Feed the Need, the brochure said on the cover. Two businesses, one leader, one heart.

  I was glad to read the brochure, relieved to find even a little bit of information about the place to which I was about to hand over a quarter of a million dollars. I hated this, showing up somewhere knowing nothing about a company. But it was, after all, Tom’s money. If he said Feed the Need was legit, who was I to question that?

  The woman was on the phone long enough for me to read the entire brochure. It was well written and professionally presented, and from it I learned that Tom’s friend, Wendell Smythe, headed a clothing manufacturing business called Smythe Incorporated. Headquartered here in Philadelphia, Smythe’s holdings included one domestic plant and sixteen foreign ones, and their clothes were distributed nationwide under several labels, a few that I recognized. The brochure went on to talk about the nonprofit part of the business: It was on a visit to one of his clothing plants in Southeast Asia that Wendell Smythe first began to recognize the problem of world hunger, the brochure said. Apparently, that led him to start a sister company called Feed the Need, whose sole purpose was to supply food, farming equipment, education, health care, and clean water to hungry children and their families throughout the world.

  I wasn’t unfamiliar with hunger relief organizations; I had done research on Save the Children and the Christian Children’s Fund in the past. But Feed the Need was much newer and smaller than those organizations. According to the brochure, Feed the Need sponsored 75,000 children in 23 different countries and had an annual budget of around 30 million dollars.

  Sponsorships of needy children provide the funds to change their lives, the brochure proclaimed above a line of black-and-white photographs of beautiful, exotic-looking children with dirt-smeared faces and big sad eyes.

  It was slick, I would give them that. But I questioned the wisdom of operating a nonprofit business in such close proximity—both literally and figuratively—with a for-profit business. Even this brochure, touting both ventures at once, seemed nervy and inappropriate to me. Lines blur. Lines that should divide the two types of endeavors like night and day.

  I tucked the brochure into my briefcase, standing as the receptionist hung up the phone.

  “Sorry about that,” the woman said. “May I help you?”

  She looked to be about 19 or 20, attractive except for the wispy, too-long bangs that covered half of her eyes—fashionable, perhaps, but irritating nonetheless.

  “Yes,” I replied, handing her a business card. “Callie Webber, here to see Wendell Smythe?”

  “Of course,” she answered, taking the card. “I’ll walk you back.”

  She came around the desk, revealing a slim-cut skirt and stylish, chunky-heeled shoes. She held the door for me as I stepped through into the offices of Feed the Need.

  I looked around as we walked, surprised at the size of the place. It was huge, with a decor that seemed more appropriate for an upscale law firm than a charity. Still, the workers were quite busy, and there were a lot of them—milling around the cubicles, talking on the phones, typing into computers.

  The receptionist explained the layout of the office space to me as we walked through. Apparently, the clothing business filled one side of the floor and the hunger relief business the
other, hence the left-or-right choice in the hall by the elevator.

  “And since Mr. Smythe is the president of both divisions,” she said, reaching for a door on the left, near the back end of the giant room, “his office is right here in the middle.”

  She held open the door for me, then gave a little wave and left. I found myself stepping into yet another reception area; straight across from me was an identical door that was probably the entrance from the for-profit division on the other side.

  The walls were lined with file cabinets, and at the massive oak desk in the center of the room sat an older woman, on the phone, with a tasteful brass plaque on her desk identifying her as Gwen Harding. She was neatly attired in a beige suit, and her only adornment was a pair of exquisite pearl earrings. She glanced up as I walked in, her manner radiating—above all else—efficiency.

  “Out of the question,” she said into the phone. “Mr. Smythe’s surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Perhaps a dinner session this evening?”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, briefly closing her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was clipped and precise.

  “But if you can’t meet with him today, it’ll be at least three or four weeks before he’s available again. Hold on, please.”

  She pressed a button on the phone and then turned her attention toward me.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Smythe,” I replied. “Callie Webber? From the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, smiling politely and gesturing toward the door behind her. “Go right in. He’s expecting you.”

  I knocked lightly on Mr. Smythe’s door, then opened it to reveal a large and sunny office, the entire back wall lined floor to ceiling with windows. The view was a lovely cityscape of Philadelphia, that familiar skyline that I had grown to love during the three months that I had lived and worked in this city. At the center of the room was a huge gray marble desk, and the man behind it stood as I entered.

  “Come in,” he said warmly, extending a hand as he walked around the desk. “I’m Wendell Smythe. I know without you even telling me that you must be Mrs. Webber. Call me Wendell.”

  “And you call me Callie, please,” I said, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Wendell quietly shut the door behind me, then he took my arm and led me to a comfortable leather chair, offering me coffee, which I declined.

  “That’s an interesting name. Callie. What’s that short for? Caledonia? Callista?”

  “It’s just Callie,” I replied. “Not short for anything.”

  He returned to his chair and sat down, entwining his fingers and resting his hands on the ample bulk of his stomach. He was a stout man, perhaps 50 pounds overweight, attired in navy slacks, a blue-and-beige-striped tie, and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He had a friendly face and smile. His head was about half-bald, his skin tinted a reddish-white. I could tell that at one time he must’ve been a handsome man, though the years and the pounds had blurred his features. Absurdly, I realized that he reminded me a bit of Santa Claus. Without much imagination, I could picture him in a red suit with white fur trim, giving away toys and belting out some hearty “Ho ho ho’s.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you driving all the way up here to Philadelphia today,” he said. “Tom tells me he had to twist your arm a bit to get you to do it.”

  I felt my face flush, but before I could respond, he continued.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Tom and I go way back. I was giving him grief about not delivering the money himself, but he said he was sending his favorite emissary instead. Now that we’ve met, I can see why he talks about you so much.”

  “Oh,” I laughed, “you flatter me.”

  “I’ve been hearing things about the ‘wonderful Callie Webber’ for a few years. I’m just glad we finally had a chance to meet. You’re vitally important to our boy. I hope you know that.”

  “‘Our boy’?”

  “Tom, of course. He’s like a son to me, you know. And anyone who is as dedicated to his foundation as you are is A-OK in my book.”

  The man had a certain energy that was infectious, and I decided right away that I liked him. He spoke in no-nonsense terms, cut straight and to the point. I decided to be blunt in return.

  “I believe Tom told you this isn’t our usual procedure for giving out money,” I said, lifting my briefcase and resting it on my knees. “But it’s his money. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

  “You may rest assured, my dear, that it will be repaid in full with ample interest. I only called Tom because I needed some cash fast. We’re not very liquid around here right now, I’m afraid. I had a feeling Tom could help us out.”

  I hesitated, pulling the check from its slot in my briefcase and holding it in my hand.

  “Repaid?” I said. “I was under the impression that this money was a grant.”

  “No, it’s a loan. Most definitely a loan.”

  “In that case,” I said, fingering the check, “I need to make a phone call first.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No, no,” I said, tucking the check away. “We’ve made loans before. But it’s done differently, from a different account. I just need to speak to our accounting people to see if I can go ahead and give you this check or if it should be handled another way, like with a wire transfer.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I’ll need to put together our standard loan contract. Shouldn’t take too long; I have my laptop with me. Still, if there’s an empty office I could use somewhere…”

  “Certainly,” Wendell said, standing. “Come with me.”

  He led me back into Gwen’s office, where she was just hanging up the phone.

  “Mrs. Webber needs a telephone and a little privacy,” Wendell said. “Can you help us out?”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “I’ll be in here when you’re ready,” Wendell said to me. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Oh, and Callie?” he said, pausing in the doorway. “My wife’s coming into the city in about an hour, and she’d love to give you a tour of our facility here and then take you to brunch over at Bookbinder’s. A little thank-you for your trouble. This sounds terribly rude, but I’m just too swamped with all of this business today to join you.”

  “It’s not necessary for her to take me out,” I said, thinking of the long drive home that awaited me. As much as I liked Wendell, I didn’t relish the idea of a long lunch in a fancy restaurant with his wife.

  “I insist,” he said, and I knew that he meant it. Companies always did this. They always insisted, and they always thought they were doing me a favor.

  “That would be lovely,” I replied finally, thinking it was easier just to give in and get it out of the way.

  “Excellent. I know Marion will enjoy getting to know you. Though you have to watch out for her—she’s a bit of a matchmaker where Tom is concerned.” Wendell gave me a smile and a friendly wink and then returned to his office, pulling the door shut behind him. I felt an odd flush of some emotion I couldn’t identify. A matchmaker for Tom? What did he mean by that? Tom was my boss. Besides, technically, we’d never even met!

  “Would you like to use my phone?” Gwen asked, looking distracted. I noticed she had an appointment book open on the desk in front of her, and that it was marked all over with notations.

  “Actually, it might take a little while,” I said. “Is there an empty office around here with a desk I could use?”

  “Let’s see. There’s nothing very private at Feed the Need. Let’s take a look over here.”

  She led me through the opposite door into the Smythe Incorporated side of the building. It was similar to Feed the Need in size and decor and just as busy. Gwen led me around, asking two people before finding a vacant office.

 
“This is our VP of Production’s office,” she said, turning on the light. “According to his assistant, he should be gone for a while.”

  “This is fine,” I said. The room was large and sunny with a full but organized desktop. Gwen showed me how to use the phone to dial out and then excused herself, pulling the door shut behind her.

  Three

  As I dialed the number of my home office I glanced at my watch and realized I was probably going to catch my coworker and dear friend Harriet in the middle of her morning goodie break. Our office was located in the embassy section of Washington, DC, two doors down from a French bakery where they made heavenly pastries each morning. Harriet said sometimes the smell of the baking breads was so strong, it was like the old cartoons where a puff of smoke would float into the room and take on the form of a human hand, beckoning the smeller like a temptress. Never one for resisting good food, Harriet usually followed the smell all the way back to the bakery, where she would buy something delicious before returning to the office and settling down with her bounty.

  “J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation,” I finally heard in the clipped, nasal voice of our receptionist, Margaret. “How may I direct your call?”

  “Hey, Margaret, it’s Callie. Is Harriet in?”

  “Just coming through the door,” she said. “Hold on.”

  I waited, picturing Harriet heading to her desk to take my call, her hands loaded with treats. Though I usually worked either from my home or out on assignment, I tried to make a point of going into the office as often as I could. It was a two-hour commute each way, but it kept me involved with the regular goings-on there that a less frequent visitor might miss.

  “Hey, Callie, what’s up?”

  “Hey, Harriet,” I said. “Now don’t get the phone all sticky.”

  “You just hush,” she said. “It was sticky buns yesterday. Today it’s a cheese Danish.”