A Penny for Your Thoughts

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Yum. I bet your arteries are so thrilled.”

  “My arteries are healthier than a horse on megavitamins. What can I do for you today?”

  I told her briefly what was going on, and instantly I could hear her voice switch over to business mode. Harriet may have been a real character, but she knew her stuff. As the financial director of our little foundation, she was the one to make the decision in this matter.

  We chatted for a while, Harriet putting me on hold occasionally to speak with the bank. Eventually, I pulled my laptop out of my briefcase and set it up in a clear area on the desk in front of me. While Harriet worked out the finances, I fiddled around with our standard loan contract, inserting the name of the company and the principals and amending a few clauses. Together, it took us about 20 minutes to work everything out, but in the end Harriet and I were both satisfied that we had managed to set up a simple low-interest loan from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation to Feed the Need.

  After that, I headed down to my car to get my little printer from the trunk. Back upstairs, I returned to the empty office I had been using, connected the cable from computer to printer, and set it to work. As the loan contract slowly printed, I sat back in the chair and looked around the office, wondering what exactly a Vice President of Production for an international clothing company did. Posted on a giant bulletin board that lined one wall were sketches of clothes, swatches of fabrics, and a world map covered with marks and scribbles. The stacks on the desk were mostly contracts and faxes. The only personal item in the entire room was a framed 5x7 photo of a man who looked handsome but fake, like the photo that comes with the frame when you buy it.

  Then, like a mirage, the fake man suddenly appeared in real life, swinging open the office door and stepping inside. He was tall and immaculately dressed, with fine blond hair and chiseled features.

  He didn’t see me behind the desk at first, but as he turned, he drew up short, catching his breath.

  “Hi,” I said. “Sorry to startle you. I was just borrowing this office for a minute.”

  He seemed out of breath and disheveled, with something like anger or irritation on his face. I didn’t blame him. He didn’t know who I was, and I felt sure he wasn’t happy coming in to find a total stranger at someone else’s desk.

  “I’m Callie Webber,” I said, coming around the desk and extending my hand. “From the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation.”

  He hesitated, obviously taking in my Ferragamo shoes, my ostrich-skin briefcase, my Donna Karan suit. He, too, was well dressed in an Italian suit and what looked like a Hermes tie.

  “Alan Bennet,” he answered finally, proffering a smile and shaking my hand. “VP of Production for Smythe. How do you do?”

  “So this is your office,” I said, wondering what kind of man kept a photo of himself on display on his own desk.

  “Yes,” he said. “I was just out running some errands. Bank, post office, things like that.”

  I nodded, explaining that Gwen had offered me the room while he was out, but that as soon as my printer was finished I would be able to get out of his way.

  “No hurry,” he insisted, gesturing for me to take a seat again behind his desk. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his door then came and sat across from me, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his cuffs, flashing me a sudden grin in a manner that suggested instant intimacy. Somewhat disquieted, I averted my eyes. I’d been a widow for three years, and I was not at all comfortable with the rhythms of casual flirtation.

  “I take it you’re here on business?” he asked, glancing toward the printer. There was something a little too aggressive about the man, and I was glad suddenly that my printer pages came out from the machine in a face-down position.

  “I’m here meeting with Mr. Smythe,” I said evasively.

  “For Feed the Need business or Smythe Incorporated?”

  I felt strangely reluctant to answer his questions. As an experienced “snoop,” I always hated when someone tried to turn the tables on me. I ignored his question, changing the subject.

  “VP of Production, huh?” I said. “I imagine you travel a lot.”

  “A fair amount,” he replied. “But I don’t mind. It’s an exciting job, full of—”

  We were interrupted by a knock, and then a young woman stepped into the room, looking toward Alan Bennet adoringly. I recognized her from the Feed the Need office next door.

  “I’ve got the budgets for Haiti and the D.R. that you asked for,” she said, holding out a small stack of papers. He took the papers from her and asked her some questions about them, the woman smiling shyly at him as they spoke. He was stunningly handsome, I’d give him that. But with his blond hair, bulging biceps, and model-perfect jaw line, he wasn’t at all my type. I preferred the quiet, understated good looks of my late husband, Bryan. He was the kind of man you didn’t double take on the street for, but when you looked into his eyes and listened to him speak, you knew he was good-looking through and through.

  “Sorry about that,” Alan said after she left. “I’ve been helping out with Feed the Need’s finance department. Their CFO’s on maternity leave.”

  I was surprised, thinking again of the blurry line between these two ventures. It was bad enough that they already shared a building and a brochure. Crossing over to share fiscal responsibilities was really pushing it!

  “Nonprofit accounting is quite different from regular accounting, isn’t it?” I asked evenly.

  “Somewhat,” he replied.

  Somewhat?

  I thought of my own introduction to nonprofits, from a class at law school. “What you have to remember,” my instructor had said, “is that while a for-profit’s goal is to make money, a nonprofit’s goal is to spend money, seeing that when all is said and done there’s none left over except the minimum required to keep it going.” I had found it an odd mind-set to get used to, though of course nowadays I worked with nonprofits almost exclusively.

  “So you said you’re from a foundation?” Alan asked.

  I nodded, glancing toward my printer. Glad to see it was on the last page, I stood and let it feed directly into my hand.

  “Yes, though I’m not much of a number cruncher,” I said. “I leave that to the experts. I deal more in legalities.”

  “I see. Is there something I could help you with around here?”

  I could tell he was dying to know exactly who I was and what I was doing. Though I doubted the J.O.S.H.U.A. loan needed to be kept secret, you never knew who was privy to what information in any given company. I had learned a long time ago to keep my mouth shut and keep myself out of it.

  “No thanks,” I said simply. “I’m all done here now.”

  I gathered up my papers, put away my computer, and unplugged my printer. Once I was loaded up and ready to walk out, I thanked the man again for the use of his office.

  “No problem,” he said warmly. “But here, let me help you.”

  Despite my protestations, he took the printer from me and then insisted on carrying it to Wendell’s office.

  We headed there side by side. I glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised to see that I had been working for nearly an hour. Mrs. Smythe would be here soon, I realized, ready to give me a tour of the office and take me to brunch. Then I could head out into the Pennsylvania sunshine, maybe take one nostalgic stroll around Independence Square, and head for home. Hallelujah.

  When we reached Gwen’s office, she was back on the phone. She flashed us a quick smile and waved us through to Wendell’s door. Alan knocked once and opened the door just as I had done earlier. This time, however, the office appeared to be empty.

  “Wendell?” Alan called.

  There was no response except for a muffled “thump” from behind a closed door to the far left. Looking mildly embarrassed, Alan turned to me, lowering his voice. “Ah,” he said, “I believe he’s indisposed for the moment. I’m sure he’ll be right out.”

  “Of course.”

  Apparent
ly, Alan intended to wait there with me for Wendell to come out of what I assumed was his private rest room. I put down my briefcase and computer and reached out for the printer.

  “Well, here,” I said, taking it from him. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

  “Oh, okay,” he replied, having no choice then but to go. “But don’t leave without stopping in to say goodbye.”

  He flashed me another luminous smile, his teeth straight and perfectly white. Once he had stepped out the door, I set the printer on the chair and let out a long, slow breath.

  My hope was that Wendell and I could wrap this up in a matter of minutes. All I needed to do was go over the contract, get some signatures, and present the check. As I waited, I glanced around the room, noting the healthy ficus tree in the corner, the obligatory diplomas on the wall. To my right was a lovely portrait painting I had noticed earlier, and I walked over to it to get a better look.

  The painting was exquisite, though somewhat dated. It featured a fresh-faced young woman in her early 20s, a half smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes. She sat in a wicker chair, a fuzzy kitten curled in her lap. Judging from her clothes and hairstyle, the painting must’ve been from the early 1950s.

  As I was turning away from the painting, I froze, my heart suddenly in my throat. On the floor, nearly hidden behind the massive desk, Wendell Smythe was sprawled facedown across the floor.

  I ran to him, grabbing his shoulder and turning him toward me. His eyes were open, his skin the odd pallor of a dead man.

  “Wendell!” I yelled, shaking his shoulders. When he didn’t respond I put my fingers on his neck and then his wrist, feeling for a pulse.

  There was none.

  I ran to the door and threw it open, startling Gwen, who was still on the phone.

  “Quick!” I said. “Call 911! It’s an emergency!”

  She stood, dropping the phone, one hand to her mouth. I dashed back into the room and over to the lifeless man. She followed me into the room and used the phone there, yelling in a frantic voice to the operator, “Hurry! Please hurry!”

  I started CPR, even though I felt sure it was in vain. As I worked—15 pumps, two breaths, even and strong—I noticed that the trash can was on its side, its contents scattered on the floor beside him. Among the balled-up papers and pencil shavings were a syringe and some medical-looking implements. Glancing toward the bathroom door, I called out, but there was no reply.

  I looked at Gwen as she hung up the phone. Her hands were visibly trembling, her face as pale as the pearls on her ears.

  “Who else was in here besides him?” I asked her, breathing hard as I pressed rhythmically against Wendell’s chest.

  “No one,” she rasped. “W-why?”

  “Because someone’s in there. Is that a bathroom?”

  “Yes. It has an exit out the other side, though.”

  “Do you know CPR?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Take over.”

  She was frozen in shock. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her down next to me—that seemed to jolt her into action. She leaned forward over Wendell’s body and slid her hands into place on his chest, taking over my rhythm. I got up and ran to the bathroom door, knocking loudly. There was no reply, but I thought I could hear movement from the other side. I tried the knob, but it was locked.

  “Is someone in there?” I yelled, pounding on the door. There was no answer, just the faint sound of another door opening and then closing.

  I stepped back and tried kicking the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. I pulled my shoes off and was about to try a harder kick when Gwen called out.

  “Wait!” she said, still pounding in vain on Wendell’s chest. “A pencil…the hole in the doorknob…”

  I pulled a pen from my pocket and poked it into a small hole in the center of the doorknob. I heard a click and twisted the knob.

  “Got it.”

  The door swung open to reveal a very large and elaborate executive bathroom. It was empty. Across from me was another door, and I stepped through it to find a long, narrow hallway. I ran down the hallway to a metal door marked Exit—a door that was only now slowly falling to a close. Swinging it open revealed a stairwell, and from below I could hear the brisk patter of feet going down the cement steps. I looked down through the center of the stairwell but couldn’t see the person running.

  “Stop!” I called out, my voice echoing in the cement chamber. There was no reply except the hastening of the footsteps on the stairs. Glad I had already kicked off my high heels, I started my descent in stocking feet, hiking my narrow skirt high enough to allow my legs full range of motion.

  I had gone down about three floors when I heard a door somewhere below me open and then close. Then all was silent except for my gasping breath and the pounding of my heart. I continued down three more flights, then burst through the door into the busy first-floor lobby.

  There were plenty of people there, heading in all directions, though no one that looked suspicious or out of place. Glancing around, I could find no doorman or security guard. It was just a typical downtown office building, anonymous and vaguely chaotic.

  Still in my stocking feet, I ran out of the front door and looked up and down the street, hoping to catch sight of someone running away, but again there was no one running, nothing unusual. There was a cab parked in front of the building, the driver leaning lazily against the hood.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Did you see someone come out of this building just a moment ago?”

  He looked down at my bare feet, then back at my face.

  “Why ya wanna know?”

  “It’s an emergency,” I rasped. “Did someone come running out of here ahead of me?”

  He shrugged.

  “Lotsa people been in and out. Nobody running.”

  “Out of breath, maybe? Sweating?”

  “Not that I noticed. Say, what happened? Somebody steal your shoes or something?”

  I didn’t bother to reply. I returned to the lobby and walked around it, trying to decide which way I would’ve gone if someone had been pursuing me. There weren’t that many choices, really, just the elevators, the front doors, or the stairwell on the opposite side of the lobby. I opened the door to that other stairwell and listened, but I couldn’t hear any movement overhead.

  I closed the door to the stairs and walked around the lobby one more time, looking for some sort of video surveillance cameras, but there were none that I could see. Finally, I gave up, stepping into the stairwell just as I heard sirens drawing closer in the distance.

  Wearily, I started back up the stairs. There was always the chance that what I’d heard was not the person getting out of the stairwell at the first floor, but at the second. When I reached that door, I stepped through and let the door fall shut behind me.

  It was a quiet hallway, lined on each side with small offices. I walked slowly down the hall, peering into each office door. There were a variety of businesses, all of them calm and quiet and seemingly normal. Nothing out of the ordinary on this floor.

  Finally, I gave up and returned to the stairwell, slowly walking up the remaining five flights to where I had begun.

  When I reached Wendell Smythe’s office, my shoes were right where I had left them, though now the room was filled with people and commotion. I pulled the shoes on as I observed the paramedics working over Wendell’s body, cops milling about the room, curious onlookers crowding in the doorway. There was a buzz of nervous energy—almost panic—and things seemed on the verge of getting out of control when one of the cops took charge and herded the crowd away, finally closing the door in their faces.

  Gwen hovered in the corner, sobbing.

  “Oh no! Oh no!” she kept saying, two dark black streaks of mascara running down her wrinkled cheeks. I went to her and kept a comforting arm about her shoulders as we watched.

  Wendell was dead, that was for certain. The paramedics had already checked for vital signs—feeling his pulse, pulling back his
eyelids, flexing his stiffening fingers. Now, taped to his chest were wires that led to a small machine. As they studied the machine, one of the cops pulled out a notebook and began jotting down some notes.

  “Estimated time of death?” the note taker asked.

  “Not too long ago,” one of the paramedics answered, reading from a piece of paper that had printed out from the machine. “Body’s still warm. I’d say he’s been dead ’bout 30 minutes. An hour at the most.”

  I could’ve told them the same thing: Wendell Smythe had met his end during the brief period of time I had sat in another man’s office, talking on the phone, typing on my computer, tinkering with a stupid loan contract.

  “Anybody call the coroner yet?” the cop asked, scribbling into his notebook.

  “He’s on his way.”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, turning my gaze from the man’s body to the lovely view out of his window.

  The man was dead. Incredible.

  I felt a lump lodge in my throat, a lump I couldn’t seem to swallow away no matter how hard I tried.

  Four

  I felt guilty, but there it was: All I really wanted to do was go home. The whole time the police questioned me, I had to work hard not to picture my dog, my house, my little hand-hewn canoe sitting forlornly in my shed, just waiting for me to slide it out into the water and climb aboard. How I longed to be out on the water, paddling away the knots in my shoulders, breathing in the scents of peace and quiet and wilderness, falling into the rhythm that comes over me like a trance—wiping away all other pain, all other feelings except a oneness with myself and my Creator.

  Instead, I sat in a spare office of Feed the Need in my itchy wool suit, describing for the fourth time exactly what had transpired from the moment I entered Wendell Smythe’s office until the moment the paramedics arrived. Even as I spoke, I felt overwhelmed with a pervasive sense of sadness and loss. I had spent no more than five or ten minutes with Wendell Smythe in total, but even in that short time I had found him to be a charming and vibrant man. The fact that his life had ended at some point during the one hour we were apart boggled my mind.