A Penny for Your Thoughts

by Mindy Starns Clark

  I looked over at Marion’s plate, which by now looked rather unappetizing. My usual breakfast of poached eggs and toast didn’t seem appealing at all.

  “Maybe just a muffin or a bagel, something like that?” I answered.

  “Of course. Right away.”

  She took Marion’s plate and left the room.

  “How did your husband die, Callie?” Marion asked once we were alone. “Tom only said that it was an accident.”

  I took a deep breath, wondering how long it had been since I shared this particular story with anyone. I didn’t like talking about myself or my problems—especially not the saga of my late husband’s death.

  “We were on vacation,” I said reluctantly. “A boating accident.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Bryan was water-skiing. I was his spotter, and—”

  “His what?”

  “His spotter. I watched him from the boat while his brother was driving.”

  “I see.” She listened earnestly, her eyes glued to my face, almost as if she hoped to find comfort in my sad story.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “Bryan was a good skier. But it was getting near the end of the day and he was tired. He gave me a wave and let go of the rope. We were turning the boat around to swing back and pick him up out of the water when another boat came around the bend—one of those big, expensive cigarette boats. The guy driving it was drunk, going much too fast, not even watching where he was going. Before we could do anything about it, he drove that boat right into Bryan. Killed him instantly.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “By the time we reached Bryan, he was—” I stopped. The sight of my husband, floating dead in our wake, was an image I would live with the rest of my life. “He never had a chance.”

  “You poor dear.”

  “In any event,” I said, shaking my head, shaking the picture from my mind, “I survived. As you will survive.”

  “I suppose we have no choice, do we?”

  Angelina entered with a warm blueberry muffin and a glass of milk, which she placed in front of me. I ate slowly, remembering the pain of those first days of mourning. I wondered why the Lord saw fit to put me in a situation now where I was having to revisit so many of those feelings.

  “I have a question for you,” I said finally, changing the subject. “I’ve been wondering about Alan Bennet. Has he worked at Smythe for very long?”

  “About a year and a half. Judith has been pleased with his work.”

  I know, I thought. I saw how pleased she was with him last night.

  “Is he married?” I asked.

  Marion shot me a wry glance.

  “Handsome fellow, isn’t he?” she said. I colored, knowing that she thought I was interested in him personally.

  “Just curious.”

  “He’s single,” she replied. “Though there never seems to be a shortage of beauties in his orbit.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Alan was single. Judith was single. So why were they keeping their affair a secret, having a midnight rendezvous in a barn? I tucked that question away, determined to find the answer later.

  “Last night, Marion, you were about to tell me something important about Feed the Need. About the company? You said Wendell had concerns?”

  Marion glanced around then lowered her voice.

  “I don’t know much,” she said. “But I do know Wendell was very upset about certain financial matters there. If you’re looking for his killer, you might turn your attention in that direction.”

  I sat back in my chair and looked at her, wondering if she was insinuating something about her own son. He was, after all, the head of Feed the Need.

  “You started to say something about the money I came here to deliver,” I said softly. “The loan from the J.O.S.H.U.A. fund?”

  Marion nodded.

  “I know that loan was extremely important to Wendell, that the J.O.S.H.U.A. money was his last desperate hope to put things right.”

  I was about to question her further when we heard the sound of childish laughter coming down the hall. Marion’s face suddenly lit up, and she turned in her seat just as a young boy bounded into the room, followed by Sidra. As he came in, I was struck not just by his enthusiasm, but also by his sheer physical beauty. About 11 or 12 years old, he was a gorgeous child, with what was obviously his mother’s dark eyes and hair and perfect olive skin.

  “Carlos!” Marion cried happily as the child came to her and gave her a hug.

  “Gosh, where is everybody?” he said, dropping a big backpack and sleeping roll on the floor. “I gotta show you what I got.”

  He bent down to dig in the backpack, and Marion glanced at me with a wink.

  “Carlos, you haven’t met our guest. This is Callie Webber, she’s—”

  “Hi,” he said, flashing me a friendly grin, cutting her off. “Here it is!”

  From the bag, he pulled a small trophy, a wood-based golden statue of a young man holding up a soccer ball.

  “Second place,” he said. “Isn’t it cool?”

  “Your mom must be so proud,” Marion said, glancing at Sidra and taking the trophy from Carlos. She studied it carefully.

  “You get to keep the team’s trophy?” I asked.

  “Nah,” he answered enthusiastically. “The team got a giant one, to go in the case in the front hall at school. The players each got these little ones.”

  He chattered on, and I realized suddenly that he hadn’t yet heard the news that his grandfather was dead. I could see a somber look come back into Marion’s eyes, and I knew she, too, was hesitant to destroy the happiness of this ebullient child.

  “Is that a soccer star I hear in there?” Derek called excitedly from the hallway, and then he was in the room with Carlos in his arms. I took a final bite of my muffin, then pushed away from the table.

  “We’ll talk later,” I whispered to Marion, touching her hand as I stood to go. She nodded, distracted by the loving scene between father and son. Sidra had taken a step back and was waiting somberly in the corner.

  “It was so cool, Dad,” Carlos was saying as I left. “The bus broke down, and we got to stay an extra day! The driver was really mad ’cause somebody from the other team put water in our gas tank and—”

  “Carlos, we have something to tell you,” Derek interrupted. “Let’s go in the living room where we can sit down and talk about it.”

  “Why?” Carlos said. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, son,” Derek answered. “It’s about your grandfather.”

  Fifteen

  I headed upstairs, picked up my keys and my briefcase, and then came back down and went outside, away from the emotional scene that was taking place with Carlos. I went out through the kitchen and walked along the rear of the house, beside the pool. I passed the greenhouse and had just reached my car when I overheard two angry voices speaking in a foreign language. It sounded as if the voices were coming from the back side of the garage. I put my briefcase in my car and then quietly shut the door and followed the sounds.

  My intention was to eavesdrop and try to make out what they were saying, but I was spotted before I could get close enough to listen. Just as I rounded the corner, Nick came striding out from behind the garage, gesticulating wildly in the air.

  He stopped short when he saw me, his face turning red.

  “Are you alone?” he asked.

  “Who is it?” a female said from behind him. Angelina stepped out and looked at me. “Is anyone with you, Callie?”

  I shook my head, wondering what could possibly be going on.

  “What is it?” I asked. The two of them looked at each other, then motioned for me to follow them. Apprehensively, I walked around behind the greenhouse, past a row of trashcans, to the back side of the cabana.

  “Nick saw it when he was putting out the garbage,” Angelina said, gesturing toward the trash cans nearby. “He wants to alert the family, but I say this is not the right time. They are in
the house now, telling Carlos that his grandfather is dead. I do not think they need to know about this right now, too.”

  We stopped walking when we reached the cabana, and I stared, stunned, at what I saw. The back side had four windows across the wide expanse of the building. There was nothing remarkable about the architecture or the landscaping, nothing remarkable about the building at all, except for one thing: The sills of each of the four windows was now coated and dripping in a dark, red liquid that looked very much like blood.

  I gasped, taking a step closer.

  “It is not real blood,” Nick said. “Just food coloring in Karo syrup. Derek had it tested the last time.”

  “The last time?”

  “Yeah. A few weeks ago, they found this stuff all over the side of Sidra’s car.”

  “I don’t understand,” I whispered, shaking my head, thinking of the knife in the photo last night and now this. I felt a wave of nausea rising from the pit of my stomach. If Sidra really had done this herself, then she truly was one messed-up girl.

  “It is kind of hard to explain,” Angelina said softly. “Things like this—they have been going on for months. Stupid vandalism, usually targeted at Sidra.”

  “Like what?” I asked, pretending I hadn’t already heard part of this story before from Sidra herself.

  “Dead roses at her door. Fake blood on her car. Torn up clothes. Angry notes.”

  “Do you have any idea who’s doing it?”

  I walked over to the window sill and leaned forward, smelling the oozing substance that dripped from the wood. Nick was right; it smelled like syrup.

  “No,” Angelina said, shaking her head. “Sidra thinks maybe Derek is doing it. Derek swears Sidra is doing it.”

  “Who do you think is doing it?” I asked, looking at them both. But neither would reply. Nick only shrugged while Angelina stared at the ground.

  I turned and leaned closer to the window, looking through the half-drawn shade at Sidra’s room inside. It was perfectly neat, the bed made, the lights off. Right now, Sidra and Carlos were obviously still in the main house with Marion and Derek. Looking into the cabana, I shivered, thinking that if it wasn’t Sidra herself, then whoever had done this must’ve come in the night while she was inside this very room, sleeping.

  “Sidra’s in danger,” I said simply. “Call it ‘vandalism’ or whatever you want; this kind of wacky behavior can only escalate from here.”

  “And we should tell her about this, right? Tell all of them?” Nick asked. Angelina rolled her eyes, but also looked to me for the decision.

  “Wait until you can get Derek or Sidra alone,” I said. “They both have to know. But you’re right. Carlos really doesn’t need this right now.”

  I sat in my car for a long time, thinking about the fake blood on the windowsills. It had been a terrifying sight, more frightening still because it was so odd. Food coloring in Karo syrup, painted on the windows like blood? Why would someone want to do that? I was still in my car when I saw Derek and Sidra emerge from the house with Nick. He led them around to the back of the cabana, and a moment later I could hear Sidra’s muffled scream. I assumed Angelina and Marion were distracting Carlos in the house.

  I started my car and pulled out, turning right from the driveway and then right again on the first road. It ran alongside the Smythes’ estate, and I followed it almost to the end where a low wire fence marked the back boundary of the Smythes’ property. I parked my car and got out, examining the shoulder of the road for tire marks where Alan Bennet might have parked his car among the trees the night before. There weren’t any telltale tracks, but as I headed for the barn I could see where he had crossed over the fence. There was a patch of tall grass bent down from footsteps, a bend in the wire where almost any full-sized adult could have easily climbed over. I did so now, making my way across the grassy field to the barn.

  I opened the door to the barn and stepped inside, propping open the door to let in the sunlight. It was a dark building, two stories tall, with an empty loft spanning half of the upper level. Along the wall to my left was a huge green John Deere tractor. On my right was an old couch with the same blanket I had seen spread across it the night before now neatly folded at the end.

  It was just a creaky old barn, filled with the smells of dirt and mold and damp hay. Though I didn’t exactly know what I was looking for, I stepped further inside and began poking around among the tool boxes and lawn clippers, hoping that something might turn up. In the back of my mind, I was wondering if a little mischief had been the ultimate purpose of Judith’s meeting with Alan out here the night before. It was just a hunch, but as I poked around, I hoped to find a bucket with traces of the fake blood or perhaps whatever had been used to wipe the blood on the windowsills. But my search turned up nothing, and finally I gave up.

  I exited the barn, sliding the board into place along the front of it. I realized that I had made an error in judgment last night by going to bed when I did. I should’ve gone into the main house, gotten out of my wet bathing suit and into some warm, dry clothing, and then come back out here to wait them out, to see what was on the agenda besides their little bout of hanky-panky. Now all I could do was wonder if their meeting here had been connected with the fake blood on Sidra’s windows.

  From where I stood, I could see Nick in the distance, alone now, hosing down the back of the cabana, the red liquid pouring from the windowsills, diluted by the hose water until it ran clear. About halfway between us I noticed a tree house built high into a large oak tree. I decided that if it was sturdy, it might be a perfect spot for surveillance. Tonight, I knew, I would come back there and man my post, watching to see if any new mischief was afoot.

  Without question, I wouldn’t be caught sleeping on the job again.

  Sixteen

  Traffic into the city was light, so despite all the delays back at the house, I still managed to arrive ten minutes early for my meeting with Duane Perskie, the local PI supervising my case. I took the exit for Independence Mall, then found a parking place nearby, right on the street—a miracle in Philadelphia, to say the least.

  We were supposed to meet at the Liberty Bell at ten o’clock; Duane had said he had a 10:30 meeting nearby. I glanced at my watch, slipped some change into the parking meter, and decided I would just have time for a quick stroll around my favorite part of town before meeting up with him.

  As I headed toward Independence Square, I thought of how much I loved everything about the historic district. Visiting the sights of Philadelphia always made me swell with a sort of patriotic pride—even more so, in a way, than the monuments and landmarks of Washington, DC. Though DC was certainly impressive and awe inspiring, I always found that whenever I passed the Library of Congress or the White House or the Senate buildings, I saw the hundreds of people in them working hard to keep the wheels of our nation’s capital turning. Philadelphia, on the other hand, was like a moment frozen in time, a turning back of the clock, a preservation of some of the greatest events in our nation’s history. I loved touring the Graff House, where Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, and Independence Hall, where the Declaration and the Constitution were signed. I didn’t have time to go there now, so I contented myself with walking along the blocks of the square, pausing to enjoy the gorgeous sun and perfect blue sky above me.

  I made my way back to the Liberty Bell a few minutes before ten and found a spot on a nearby bench. Despite the beautiful weather, the area wasn’t very crowded. There was just a smattering of tourists and the occasional businessperson out for a stroll. I tilted my face toward the sunshine and scanned the group of people that surrounded the bell until I saw the man I was looking for.

  “Duane!” I called, giving him a wave.

  He responded instantly, walking toward me, a large Styrofoam cup in each hand.

  “Hey, Callie,” he said in his distinctive Midwestern twang. “Thanks for meeting me down here. You really saved me some time.”

 
He offered me one of the cups, which turned out to be coffee. I accepted gratefully, drinking it black.

  “So how’s it going?” he asked. “Have you made much headway?”

  “I’ve got a theory,” I replied. “And a few suspects to go with it.”

  I told him about the insulin and the lack of a struggle, about my guess that the fatal injection had been given by someone Wendell Smythe knew and trusted.

  “I’ve been talking with the coroner,” Duane said, reaching into his inside pocket to produce a rolled-up manila file folder, which he handed to me. “Cause of death was definitely overdose of insulin by injection. The injection site was neat and clean. According to him, the man would’ve gone into a hypoglycemic attack almost immediately after that, which would’ve made him weak, dizzy and confused.”

  “Why was he on the floor?”

  “The coroner thinks he was trying to go for help, stood up, and passed out. Apparently, just three cc’s of regular insulin can take a diabetic’s blood sugar level down into the 20s. All alone like that, he didn’t have a chance. Probably died while he was passed out, somewhere between 10 to 30 minutes after his insulin shot.”

  “I see.”

  “I believe you discovered the body soon after that.”

  “Yes,” I answered, remembering the odd pallor of Mr. Smythe’s face and the startling feeling of a wrist that held no pulse. “And the stuff around him on the floor?”

  “All diabetes-related. He had a little kit he used to test his blood sugar.”

  “Prints?”

  “They got a partial off the syringe. Not very clear, but they’re working on it at the lab. They also got a hair, which they’re testing for a DNA match. Speaking of prints, here’s the fingerprinting kit you asked for.”

  From another pocket, he produced a small box, which I accepted gratefully and tucked away in my briefcase. I opened the report he had given me, scanning it as he continued.

  “The final blood sugar reading in the tester machine’s memory said 44, which is extremely low. The coroner thinks Smythe was given the insulin injection, got to feeling woozy, tested his blood sugar and saw that it was only 44, tried to go for help, fell down, passed out, and died.”