“So not only were you one of the last two people to see Mr. Smythe alive,” Detective Keegan said, “you’re also the one that came back and discovered his body an hour later?”
Detective Keegan was a short man, his aged but boyish-looking face topped by coarse, reddish hair that bristled out over his ears. Though I knew what he was insinuating, I wasn’t worried about being incriminated in any sort of crime here—if, indeed, a crime had even been committed. Wendell’s secretary, Gwen, had seen me leave Wendell’s office while he was still perfectly alive and well. She could attest to the fact that I hadn’t returned for an hour—as could any number of people in the Smythe offices, including Alan Bennet, who had found me working away at his desk.
As we talked, the detective seemed to figure out that I wasn’t someone of whom to be suspicious, but in fact quite the opposite—someone who could provide valuable information about the entire situation. Though the medical examiner still hadn’t identified the cause of death, it seemed as if the detective suspected foul play, particularly when I described the sounds from the bathroom and my subsequent pursuit of someone running from the office. All in all, we seemed to agree: Something just wasn’t quite right about the death of Wendell Smythe.
Luckily for me, having grown up surrounded by cops, I knew the lingo of an investigation, not to mention the fact that I was a licensed private investigator myself. I made sure to mention my lieutenant father and my detective brother more than once. I didn’t bring up my own experience in investigations or my law degree. You never knew how information like that might go over with cops; I thought it would be best to just coast along on my family’s laurels for the time being.
When Keegan was finished with his questions, he thanked me for my cooperation.
“Of course, I’m sure we’ll be speaking with you again,” he said as he swung the door open. “So you’ll understand why we have to ask you to remain in the area, at least for the next few days.”
I had known it would be coming, but that still didn’t make it any easier to hear.
“I live near DC,” I said, feeling guilty and selfish even as I pleaded with him to let me leave. “Surely I can go on home and then come back up here if necessary.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Keegan replied. “For the time being, I’m afraid I must insist that you remain nearby.”
“But I don’t have any clothes, I don’t have anywhere to stay, I don’t—”
“Excuse me, Detective,” a woman interrupted, suddenly standing before us. “Mrs. Webber will stay with me. There’s plenty of room.”
I looked at the woman, wondering why she seemed familiar to me. She was petite and attractive in a well-preserved sort of way, with expensive hair and clothes, a meticulous manicure, and a rock the size of Gibraltar on the ring finger of her left hand.
“I’m Mrs. Wendell Smythe,” she said to me, holding out her hand. “Marion.”
Of course. The portrait on the wall in Wendell’s office. She had been striking in her 20s and was now an elegant beauty in what I guessed to be her late 60s.
“Thank you, Mrs. Smythe—” I said, shaking her hand.
“Call me Marion, please.”
“Marion. But I couldn’t possibly impose. I’ll get a hotel room—”
“Nonsense,” she interrupted. “My house is huge, with tons of empty bedrooms. Sticking you in a hotel after what you’ve been through today would be unspeakable. I won’t take no for an answer. And Wendell wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
I had a feeling she was right about that. I studied the woman in front of me, wondering how she could be so strong. Then I noticed the shaking of her fingers and the pale face beneath her carefully applied makeup. Something told me to accept her gracious offer, that the kindest thing I could do under the circumstances was to become a temporary guest in her home.
I thought about that as we drove through the city. She had a large beautiful Cadillac with a driver, and I followed behind in my Saturn, wondering if I could be of particular comfort to her because I was a widow, too. Though it wasn’t a condition I would wish on anyone, I did have to admit that it gave me a certain empathy. Bryan had been dead for three years, and I still found myself sometimes awakening in the middle of the night, then gasping with pain when I became fully awake and realized he wasn’t there next to me—and wouldn’t ever be again.
Now I tagged along as Marion’s Caddy sped westward out of the city under a gray cloudy sky. We drove for about half an hour before turning onto local roads that wound through suburbs dense with new housing developments. Once we reached a more rural area, I realized that the terrain itself was lovely, with rolling hills and thick trees bursting with the colors of autumn. We finally began passing what could only be called “estates”—gorgeous properties with beautiful stone houses and acres of fence-lined pastures. We slowed and then turned into a long winding driveway that led to one of the most beautiful estates of all. From what I could see as I parked the car, there was a huge main house, several other smaller buildings, a pool, a greenhouse, and, around back, what looked like a barn and some pastures.
It was all a little much, considering the fact that half of their business was supposedly the nonprofit kind.
I reached the front door just as the driver of Marion’s car was helping her up the front steps. He was a huge man, tall and quite heavy, though I couldn’t tell if his bulk was mostly fat or muscle. He had dark eyes and hair, with a neatly trimmed beard and a slightly stooped posture. Once inside, Marion dismissed him with a thank-you and then took my arm, leaning on me for support as we headed through the foyer, the elegant, antique-laden decor not unlike that at the Smythe offices.
I learned a long time ago not to be impressed with money—how much a person made, how much a person owned. It seemed to me that the Bible had a lot to say about the things of this world, and I really did believe that the only important treasures were the ones we stored up in heaven. On the other hand, I wasn’t immune to the aesthetic pleasures that money and good taste could provide, and I looked around at our gracious surroundings as we walked.
Marion continued to lean on me as we went past a handsome study on the left and through the formal dining room to a small drawing room off to the right. As she settled onto the couch, she explained that just as her husband, Wendell, had had his study across the way, this was her little “getaway” room, her personal sanctuary. Though it wasn’t exactly my style, I found the delicate laces and the pale blue-and-yellow floral patterns oddly soothing. After I made sure she was comfortable on the couch, I allowed myself to sink down into an especially cushy armchair on the side.
“I just have to say how sorry I am that you’ve been caught up in all of this,” she said, placing her hand on mine. “I feel terrible, especially now that they won’t let you go home.”
“Please,” I said quickly, “don’t apologize. It’s just one of those awful things that can’t be anticipated. Right now the last thing you need to be worrying about is me. I’m more concerned for you.”
She was silent a long moment as tears slowly filled her eyes. She was reaching into her purse for a handkerchief just as a young maid came bursting through the doorway, speaking with a hint of an Italian accent.
“Mrs. Smythe, I am so sorry! I just heard the news on the radio, coming back from the grocery store!”
“Angelina,” Marion said, suddenly overcome with emotion, “can you believe it?”
The young maid came into the room, seemingly oblivious to my presence. She was very distraught, and she went to the couch and wrapped her arms around Marion. This attractive girl appeared to be in her early 20s. She wore a black, slightly-too-large maid’s uniform with a white apron, her straight dark hair twisted into a tight braid on the top of her head.
“Such a good man,” the young woman cried. “Such a good, good man!”
“I know, Angelina, I know,” Marion sobbed as the two women held each other, rocking slowly back and forth. Though I was a l
ittle startled to see a woman of Marion’s class and generation interacting so intimately with a member of the household staff, I was glad. I thought it was telling of the kind of person Marion Smythe must be.
I was also glad she had someone with whom she could share her grief. I still remembered that horrible feeling after Bryan died, that there was no one left to hug me, to cradle me. His funeral was filled with polite cheek kisses and somber handshakes when the whole time what I really needed was a pair of capable arms around me, holding me as tightly as possible, whispering that it was okay to let myself go.
The young maid did this for Marion, rubbing her back as she cried. Unsettled by the depth of their grief, I closed my eyes and did the only thing I could think of to do: I prayed for them, prayed that the Lord would fill their minds with understanding and their hearts with peace. After a while, the room grew more quiet, their sobs fading to a few shaky sighs.
“Wendell was a very devout Christian,” Marion said to me, wiping at her eyes and trying to pull herself together. “That’s my only consolation, that I know right now Wendell is with God, in heaven.”
I felt the same about Bryan, and Angelina voiced similar thoughts about her beloved grandparents. Finally, the young woman excused herself, returning a few minutes later with some hot tea and promising to have the cook whip up some soup. Marion and I drank the tea, rehashing the events of the day. She bemoaned the fact that had she arrived an hour earlier to her husband’s office, she would’ve been able to see him while he was still alive. I felt badly about that, knowing she had set her timing to coincide with mine so she could take me to brunch once my work with her husband was finished. Now, instead of coffee and soup at Bookbinder’s Restaurant, she and I were sharing tea and tears in her drawing room, and Wendell was dead.
“I only spoke with your husband for a few minutes,” I said, “but he seemed like such a nice man, such a pleasure to be around.”
“Oh, he was. Warm. Funny. Genuine. And so smart, so capable. Now all I have for my last memory of him is the quick kiss he gave me this morning as he left for work. Typical morning rush, you know. ‘I’ll see you at the office,’ he told me. Those were his final words to me.”
We sipped tea silently after that, and as she sat on her lovely sofa and stared off in the distance, I started to feel restless, wondering what I was going to do about clothes and toiletries. Finally, as if reading my mind, Marion put on a brave smile and said it was time for Angelina to show me to my room, insisting that I borrow some of her daughter’s clothes until I could pick up a few things of my own.
“It’s our fault you’re here, Callie,” she said against my protestations. “Please let us make you feel at home.”
I thanked her and then followed Angelina through the dining room, back to the foyer, and up the main staircase. As we climbed the stairs, I asked the young maid how many people lived here.
“Well,” she said, counting off on her fingers, “there is Mr. and Mrs. Smythe; their daughter, Judith; their son, Derek; his wife, Sidra; and their son, Carlos. Oh, and my brother Nick and me. That’s eight.” She faltered a bit, then continued sadly, “Until today, of course. Seven, now that Mr. Smythe is gone.”
We reached the second floor, and she led me past a cozy alcove and down to a room at the end of the hall, a lovely bedroom/bathroom combination decorated in muted peaches and greens.
“I will be back in a minute with some clothes for you,” she said after opening the curtains to reveal a nice view of the expansive grounds. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”
Once Angelina was gone, I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out my cell phone. While dialing Tom’s private line, I wondered if he had already heard the news about his friend Wendell or if I would have to be the one to break it to him.
He answered on the first ring.
“Looks like he was probably murdered,” Tom said after he realized it was me. “I just got off the phone with a friend in the Philadelphia police department. Wendell’s death has been tentatively classified as a homicide. I don’t have all the details of how he died, but it looks like someone gave him an overdose of insulin. Wendell had really bad diabetes, you know. Apparently, he died from insulin shock.”
I sat back on the bed, my head reeling. Here I was in the middle of things, and yet somehow Tom had more information about the situation than I did. Typical for the man who always seemed to know everything about everyone.
“Couldn’t it have been an accident?”
“Not likely,” said Tom. “The full coroner’s report should be released in the morning, but the police seem fairly certain that it was a premeditated act. Between the condition of the body and the fact that you chased someone from the scene, the cops are fairly certain: Someone gave him a lethal dose of insulin.”
“I thought diabetics usually gave themselves their own shots.”
“Not Wendell,” said Tom. “He had a needle phobia. Had other people do it for him whenever he could. Apparently, this particular injection was in a spot he couldn’t reach, so it had to be done by someone else. They’re thinking that whoever did this came into his office through the bathroom entrance—the same way you chased them out.”
“Do the police have any suspects?”
“Right now,” he said, “they’re not ruling out anybody. Coworkers, business associates. Family, which is of course ridiculous. But it’s a big list.”
“Incredible,” I said.
“It seems that the coroner found the injection sight clean and straight, with no sign of a struggle. Wendell willingly let whoever did this give him the injection. I think that’s telling.”
“I think so, too.”
Because Tom wanted to hear my version of all that had happened, I went through the entire story once again, pausing only when Angelina came into the room with an armload of clothing. She put it on top of the dresser and then left, closing the door softly behind her.
“That’s about it,” I said, finishing my tale. “Now I’m stuck here until the police decide I can leave town.”
“What did you do with the J.O.S.H.U.A. money?”
“Still have it,” I said. “The check is in my briefcase.”
Tom told me to hang onto it for the time being, to wait and see whether they planned to proceed with the purchase of the building before we handed over the money.
“Sure.”
“I can’t imagine what could possibly have happened to lead to Wendell being murdered,” he said somberly. “If you had known him, Callie, you’d understand my shock. He was my mentor, my hero. I’d have bet the farm he didn’t have a single enemy in the whole world.”
“All it takes is one,” I replied softly, picturing the man’s lifeless form lying on the floor in front of me.
“You know, of course,” Tom continued, his voice suddenly resolute and business-like, “we’ll have to run our own concurrent investigation. I’m sure the Philadelphia police department is competent, but I want to take things a step further. No expense spared here, Callie. Wendell Smythe was my friend. If he was indeed murdered, I want you to find out who killed him and why.”
I had had a feeling this would be coming. My head throbbed as the image of my little canoe, my beautiful tributaries, receded further still from my mind.
“I don’t have any contacts,” I said halfheartedly. “The Philadelphia police aren’t exactly going to open their files to me. They’ll only think I’m in their way.”
“I’ll take care of that,” he replied, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. In other words, he knew someone who knew someone—and with probably one phone call the whole homicide department would be laid out at my feet. Tom’s world always seemed to work that way.
“I’m not licensed in Pennsylvania, Tom.”
“Already looked into that. Takes at least 30 days to get a license there, so you’ll have to work under someone else’s. I’ve already contacted an old friend of mine, Duane Perskie of the Perskie Detective Agency. He says
it’s just a formality, that as long as you keep him posted, you can work on your own. You know the drill, Callie; we’ve done it plenty of times before.”
“But not in a criminal case, Tom. I haven’t done any criminal investigating in a long, long time.”
Tom knew that I had begun working for a private detective when I was in high school. I loved that job, and I had stayed with it through college and law school. I still kept my PI license current. But the day I passed the bar was the day I unofficially “resigned” as that type of private investigator. The next morning, I had traded in my Nike sneakers for a pair of Dolce & Gabbana pumps and headed for my new position with a law firm. My career had taken a few twists and turns in the eight years since then, but I still had no desire to go back to the gritty, full-time PI world of liars and murderers, coroner’s reports and crime scene photos.
“What are you talking about, ‘a long, long time’?” he asked. “You do investigations for a living.”
“I investigate businesses, Tom,” I said. “I check out their programs, their finances, their legalities. I’m not equipped to handle a murder case anymore.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“Callie,” he said finally, “you are better than anyone I have ever known at ferreting out information, at getting down to the truth of things. What difference does it make whether it’s a murder or a business? It’s still an investigation.”
“I don’t—”
“I’m not even asking as your boss anymore,” Tom said. “I’m asking you to do this for me, as a friend. Though of course I’ll pay you extra. I’ll pay you very, very well to do this for me. Please.”
I blew out a deep breath, frustration gripping like a headache at the back of my mind.
“My reluctance has nothing to do with money,” I said, thinking that the minds of the rich always seemed to go that way first.
“Of course not,” he replied quickly. “But you know what I mean.”
“What will Marion say to all this, Tom? She won’t want me snooping around here. Her husband just died, for goodness’ sake!”
A Penny for Your Thoughts Page 4
