The far end of the room held a large locked glass case; inside were three shelves covered in black velvet. On the shelves were neatly arranged but very old pieces of clothing. It wasn’t until I had finished looking at all of them that I saw the list, typed neatly and resting on the top right corner. It was an identification key, describing each piece. As I read it I realized that this was a collection of antique clothing, with items like “Tall-crowned man’s felt hat with curled brim, circa 1770,” and “Double-breasted frock coat with lined pocket and bound edges, circa 1855.” I smiled, thinking that collecting antique clothing was a clever hobby for a man who had made his fortune in the clothing industry. I wondered what some of the pieces were worth. Judging by the lock on the side of the case and the security wiring that ran discreetly around the perimeter of the glass, I decided that this must be a fairly valuable collection.
I was just scanning the room for signs of a safe when I heard sounds coming through the wall. I listened to the muffled rise and fall of angry voices from next door, and though I couldn’t make out any of the words, I realized that Derek was no longer alone in the den.
Silently, I went to the door, turned off the light in the study, and let myself out. I hesitated in the foyer, looking toward the door of the den. It was too exposed, too out in the open, to risk standing there with my ear pressed against it. Instead, I headed out of the front door and around the outside of the building, pacing off the distance until I was just about even with the den.
I could hear the angry voices much more clearly from here, and I took a step closer to the open window, crouching down on the grass beneath it. I could now make out nearly every word that was being said, and I quickly discerned that there were just two people in there—a man and a woman.
“…considering what’s happened today,” the man was saying, “that you’d lay off. Just lay off for one day. But no. Not you. The old tricks just keep coming.”
“Look who’s talking!” the woman replied, her words tinged with a slight accent that sounded vaguely Hispanic. It wasn’t the Italian lilt of Angelina; this was a different accent, a different voice. “The master of dirty tricks. Don’t tell me it wasn’t you who put those dead roses at my door.”
“Here you go again. Sidra, do you really think anyone believes you when you make these ridiculous claims? Anyone?”
“Your father believed me.”
“My father’s dead.”
“And isn’t that just so convenient for you?” she retorted.
The man gasped.
Then there was a long, weighty silence. I held my breath, wishing I could chance a peek through the open window. I heard no movement or speech, but after a while the man spoke in a soft, controlled voice.
“I won’t even dignify that with a response.”
More silence, and then the woman spoke.
“I’m changing the locks on the cabana. Carlos is starting to have nightmares.”
“If he’s having nightmares,” the man responded furiously, “it’s because of all the crazy ideas you’re putting into his head!”
I heard a door open and then slam shut, and I quickly glanced in the window to see the back of a head of curly grayish hair. The man, Derek, was standing in the center of the room, facing the door, fists clenched at his sides.
Silently, I moved away from the window, wondering why Wendell Smythe’s death could possibly be “convenient” for his son. I headed around back, hoping that the woman, Sidra, was going now to the cabana. As I rounded the far corner, I heard the back door open, and I hurried along the building so that I “accidentally” almost collided with her.
“Excuse me!” I said, taking a step back. She looked at me, startled, her face a study in agony. In spite of the red eyes and wet cheeks, she was strikingly lovely in an exotic sort of way. Her features reminded me of old portraits of Spanish royalty; she had dark, almond-shaped eyes, straight black hair, and a perfect olive complexion.
“Sorry,” she said with the same slight accent I had heard through the window. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Who are you?”
“I’m a houseguest here,” I said, watching as she swiped angrily at the tears on her face. “Are you okay?”
“It’s just…the death and all,” she said. “It’s been a difficult day. I’m sorry.”
With that, she continued onward in the direction she had been heading. I turned and watched as she circled around the pool toward the cabana—a large, understated building with a row of French doors facing the pool. She opened the door on the end, stepped inside, and pulled it tightly shut behind her.
I could hear a car starting in front of the main house, and I jogged along the side of the building in time to see a navy blue Jaguar pull out from the long driveway onto the road, Derek at the wheel.
Without hesitating, I pulled my keys from my pocket and climbed into my own car. I started it up and also headed down the long driveway, pulling out onto the road in the same direction he had gone.
I caught up with him a few blocks away, and I held back, letting one and then two cars slip between us. I didn’t know what I hoped to accomplish by following him, but I felt it wouldn’t be prudent to let him drive off like that, unobserved. I thought of one of Eli’s favorite sayings, that sometimes it is in anger that we reveal our truest selves. I wondered if that would be true of Derek Smythe, if there was anything I could learn by following him now.
After only a few turns, the Jaguar slowed down, its right blinker flashing. I was surprised to see a brown wooden sign indicating a state park. I watched as the car turned into the parking lot, and then I drove on past, waiting until I was out of sight around a bend before I pulled into a driveway and turned around.
I got back to the park in time to see Derek climbing from the driver’s side of the Jaguar and slamming the door. Without even a glance around, he headed off toward the park. I pulled into the parking lot and slid my Saturn into a space at the other end of the row. Once he was around the first bend and out of sight, I quietly climbed from the car and took a look around.
I realized that this wasn’t a park in the usual sense—there was no playground or baseball diamond. Instead, it featured a walking and biking trail that wound alongside a broad, shimmering river—probably some branch of the Schuylkill. Through the dense autumn foliage I could see the man I was following; he was walking briskly up the path, arms swinging at his sides. Though it was probably still a good half hour before dark, the sun had already reached the horizon, and it seemed especially dark among the foliage. Nevertheless, I took off after Derek, staying as far back as I could without losing sight of him altogether. He walked for a while, and I had just begun to wonder if he was simply doing his evening exercises when he finally stopped walking and stepped off of the path, moving toward the water.
I quickly glanced behind me and then ducked into the trees myself. As quietly as possible, and without looking too suspicious in case someone happened upon me, I advanced. There was a broad tree about ten feet behind Derek, and I thought if I could reach the base of that tree, I could scramble up out of eyesight and shimmy my way down a big branch far enough to be able to see what he was doing by the water.
I moved slowly but steadily, and by the time I had reached the high point of the tree, I had a sudden image of myself—Callie Webber, dignified widow, Director of Research for the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation, all-around straight-laced attorney—hanging from a tree limb in the middle of a state park, trying to spy on a man who may or may not be pertinent to my investigation.
It wasn’t a pretty sight.
I heard the laughter of some children, and through the trees I spotted a family walking up the trail in our general direction. I waited until they were about even with my tree to make the last scooting movements down the limb. They had a dog with them, and his playful barking provided enough of a distraction for me to get where I was going without being heard by the man beneath me.
I lay against the rough bark, peering down a
t my target. He was sitting at the edge of the water, staring off into the distance, absently tearing a leaf into tiny pieces and tossing them into the current. He was talking to himself. He was crying.
“…falling apart, it’s all just falling apart.”
I couldn’t understand everything that he said, but I certainly got the gist of what was going on. He was sobbing. Sobbing and trying to pray. This was a man in pain, come to a place where he could be alone and grieve the death of his father. I listened as he moaned, calling softly for “Daddy,” praying for help with his pain. He prayed also for God to change the angry heart of his wife, and I knew instantly that he was talking about Sidra, that here was a man whose life was falling to pieces before his very eyes.
I swallowed hard, shame burning my face. This man deserved to be alone in his grief. He had come out to this place in the country, this quiet, empty, riverside park where he could find solitude for his thoughts and prayers. As carefully as possible, I made my way out of the tree. When I reached the ground, I crept away until I was nearly out of sight, then I took off running, and I ran all the way back to the car, the darkness finally enveloping me as I climbed inside. Shame on you for being so persistent, I thought as I started my car. Shame on you for having to butt into his business at all.
Eight
By the time I arrived back at the house, it was almost completely dark outside. As I turned into the driveway, I saw that it was filled with cars, and I realized this must be close friends and family come to offer their condolences. I parked my car around back, near the garage, and got out, glancing around at the lovely estate that surrounded me. The pool was still and inviting, its dark calm water suddenly irresistible to my exhausted soul. I decided that perhaps later I would come back out and take a quiet dip before bedtime.
I glanced toward the cabana next to the pool, noting that there were several lights on inside. I took a chance and headed there now, despite the fact that I wanted to get into the main house while Marion’s visitors were still there and perhaps mingle and meet a few of them.
Still, this seemed a good time to question Sidra. I hoped she would be alone; I wondered where the child, Carlos, was and why I had neither seen nor heard him thus far.
I reached the door of the cabana and rapped on it lightly, and after a moment the door swung open to reveal a sobbing Sidra. If she had been crying before, right now she seemed positively hysterical. Though I didn’t know her, I felt the urge to wrap my arms around her and tell her it would all be okay.
“What do you want?” she asked, not unkindly. She stood in the doorway, clutching a handkerchief to her cheek, her shoulders shuddering from stifled tears.
“I just wanted to see if you were okay,” I said. “Obviously, you’re not.”
She seemed to sense my honest concern, and after a moment recognition came into her face.
“You’re the woman Marion invited to stay here, the woman who found Wendell’s body.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t realize that earlier. Come in.”
I stepped up into the cabana and pulled the door closed behind me. I looked around, noting the tasteful but subdued beige-and-brown decor of the living room/kitchen. The place looked like what it was, a poolside cabana that had been converted temporarily into an apartment.
“I know we don’t know each other,” I said, “but I was worried about you. You seemed so distraught earlier. And now, even more so.”
That set her off. She let out a sob, catching it in the handkerchief pressed to her lips.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’m just so frightened, so confused. So many things have happened, and then the roses and now the picture…”
She pointed toward a shelf of photos, and I stepped closer, taking them all in. There were several photos of Sidra, as beautiful in pictures as she was in person, along with quite a few small framed photos of a handsome little boy.
“Is this your son?” I asked.
“Carlos. He’s away at a soccer tournament.”
Looking down, I realized that one of the photos was on the floor, a lovely family portrait that had been shattered, a knife bored into it through Sidra’s face.
I gasped, kneeling down to get a better look. It was a framed 8x10 photo of the Smythe family, a nice professional shot like the kind people send in Christmas cards. In it, the family was posed artfully around a fireplace with Marion and Wendell seated at the center. I recognized Judith to their right and Derek and Sidra to their left with Carlos standing in front of them.
“Who did this?” I asked. The knife looked like an ordinary steak knife, but it had been driven right into the photo, broken glass radiating out from there like a spiderweb.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But it’s one of my knives. From in there.”
She gestured across the bar to the kitchen area. I stood and walked closer to where I could see a small butcher’s block with knives sticking out of little slots in the top. One of the slots was empty.
“When did this happen?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I guess it could’ve been any time in the last day, but I didn’t notice it until just a few minutes ago.”
“Did you call the police?”
She let out a small sob.
“They won’t let me,” she wailed.
“They who?”
“The family. Derek. His mother. They refuse to involve the police at all.”
I looked at Sidra, realizing suddenly that this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened to her.
“Why don’t you tell me about it?” I said, leading her to a chair. She sat, crying so hard that she couldn’t talk. She began growing hysterical, but I took her face in my hands and told her sternly to calm down. That seemed to surprise her enough to swallow back the rest of her sobs and stare at me with frightened eyes.
“What’s going on, Sidra?”
“Things like this,” she replied, her voice shaky. “They happen all the time now. Someone wants me out of here. Someone wants me dead.”
“Why won’t Marion and Derek let you call the police?”
“They don’t believe me,” she said miserably. “They think I’m crazy, that I’m doing this myself.”
“What?”
She was about to speak further when we heard a loud pounding on the door and both jumped. I left Sidra on the couch and went to open it myself. It was the maid, Angelina.
“I am sorry to bother you,” she said, looking from me to Sidra, confused. “But the school is on the telephone for you, Sidra. Something about the bus.”
“Are the kids okay?” Sidra asked, her eyes suddenly wide with terror.
“They are fine. It is just some sort of delay. They want to speak with the mother or the father, but Derek is not home. So I came to get you.”
“Thank you, Angelina.”
The maid turned and walked away. Sidra blew her nose, tucked away her handkerchief, and started for the door.
“I’ll wait here for you,” I said, frustrated that our conversation had been cut short.
Sidra shook her head.
“I shouldn’t have bothered you with this,” she said, waiting until I had stepped outside to pull the door shut behind us. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
I hurried to stay with her as she strode quickly around the pool and toward the house.
“What about the knife?” I asked. “Don’t you want it dusted for fingerprints?”
Sidra stopped walking and looked at me.
“How would I do something like that?”
“I’ll do it. Let me have it. I’ll get it checked out for you. No police. I promise.”
She hesitated, glancing toward the house.
“You won’t tell them?” she asked, indicating, I felt sure, Marion and Derek.
“That I checked it for fingerprints? No. This is just between you and me.”
“Go ahead then,” she replied, opening the back door. “But don’t ask me
any more questions. I can’t talk about it.”
She stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind her as I turned and walked back to the cabana.
Nine
I tried the doorknob on the cabana, surprised to see that Sidra had left it unlocked despite the act of vandalism that had so terrified her just moments before. I went straight for the kitchen where I dug around until I found an empty grocery bag. Then I went to the photo and knife on the floor and carefully slid the whole thing into the bag. That done, I went to the window and peeked out, glad to see that Sidra wasn’t yet on her way back from the house.
Because Sidra was Wendell’s nurse and thus a prime suspect, I decided to do a quick search of the apartment. I headed down a short hall, going first into the bathroom, which was perfectly neat and clean. A quick scan of the medicine cabinet revealed a large supply of prescription drugs, most of them tranquilizers, sleeping pills, and antidepressants. Carefully, I removed a wide pink comb from the bottom shelf, hoping it would have some clear prints of Sidra’s for comparison.
I went into the first bedroom, which obviously belonged to the boy. On the twin bed was a racing car bedspread, and posters of soccer players adorned the walls. I didn’t bother to search, though I did grab a plastic dinosaur by the tip of its tail from the dresser, again for fingerprint confirmation.
The two bedrooms across the hall were empty, though one of them held some cardboard boxes. I peeked inside a few, noting that one of them held a number of medical books, mostly about kidney disease, dialysis, or transplants. Glancing at my watch, I left the books there and headed for Sidra’s bedroom. Heart pounding, I rifled through her closet and her drawers, knowing she could return any moment. There wasn’t much to find, just some old family photos in one drawer and a pile of what looked like love letters in another. The letters were tied together with a purple satin ribbon, and on impulse, I grabbed the whole pack of them.
A Penny for Your Thoughts Page 7
