A Penny for Your Thoughts

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “May I help you with somethin’?” the man’s voice called. I crossed the quiet street and walked closer to the window.

  “I’m looking for Pastor Quinn,” I said. “Does he live here?”

  “He lives here, yes.”

  “Is he here now?”

  “Right now? Well, yes. Right now he’s lookin’ out the window at you.”

  It took me a moment, and then I laughed.

  “Come on in,” he said, pointing toward the door. “I’ll meet you in the dining room.”

  I walked to the door and turned the knob, stepping into a warm, roomy kitchen. It had an industrial dishwasher and double ovens, and through a large doorway I stepped into a room with seating for about 20.

  “This is nice,” I said when he came in. “I bet you can feed a lot of people in here.”

  “Even more than you’d think, lass,” he answered. “Have a seat. How can I help you?”

  I pulled up a chair at the corner table and sat.

  “My name is Callie Webber,” I replied. “I’m here on an investigation.”

  “An investigation?” he asked. “A policewoman, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s a private investigation,” I said. “But if you’re Pastor Quinn, you can really help me out.”

  “I’m Ian Quinn. You got somethin’ to ask me, child?”

  “Sidra Smythe,” I said. “Do you know her?”

  “Do I know her?” he cried. “She’s one of the Lord’s angels, she is. Comes to church almost every day, helps out in the church office, even cooks with the soup kitchen in here on the weekends.”

  “My.”

  “A lovely girl. So what is the problem?”

  “I need to know if she was at Bible study here on Monday morning. Around 10:30 or 10:45.”

  He sat back and squinted intelligent blue eyes at me.

  “Same time of day that her father-in-law was murdered, is that what you’re asking?”

  I hesitated for a moment, startled by his bluntness.

  “She’s not necessarily a suspect,” I finally replied. “Right now, it’s still sort of a process of elimination.”

  He leaned forward and rested both elbows on the table, looking at me earnestly. He seemed to be in his late 60s or early 70s, robust and healthy, with a tinge of a suntan on his face and the wiry body of a runner.

  “Well, about fifteen other parishioners and I can tell you that Sidra Smythe was here for ten o’clock Bible study on Monday morning. She led the prayer. Got here well before ten.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  “Around noon—not until after she had helped straighten up after the service and helped us set up the tables for our Wednesday night prayer meeting.”

  “Good.”

  I could tell he was feeling defensive, and I felt bad that I’d had to challenge the integrity of one of his beloved parishioners. I was quiet for a moment, wondering how I could keep him talking, maybe get him to shed a light or two on Sidra’s relationship with Derek. I wondered if he knew about the “incidents” at the house. Finally, I made a big show of pulling my notebook from my purse, flipping to the list of suspects, and scratching off Sidra’s name.

  “Thank you so much,” I said. “That’s one down at least.”

  “Glad I could be of help.”

  “It’s my understanding that Sidra and her husband are separated,” I said. “In your opinion, is she—”

  “That’s enough questions,” he said abruptly, standing.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I stood as well.

  “I’d like to know who ’tis exactly that you’re working for,” he said as he escorted me toward the door.

  “The family,” I said. “Well, Mrs. Smythe, in a way.”

  “Don’t tell me Marion suspects her own daughter-in-law of murder?”

  “Goodness, no!” I said, hoping I showed enough shock at the question to get back in his good graces. “I’m working on behalf of the family. I’m just establishing ironclad alibis so there won’t be any questions further down the line.”

  “I see. Well, good luck to you then.”

  “Though I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this conversation to Sidra. Marion doesn’t really want the rest of the family to know that I’m investigating, and for the time being I need to keep it that way.”

  “As you wish.”

  “The police will probably contact you soon with the same questions that I had. Just tell them what you told me.”

  “Of course,” he said, and then he opened the door and held it as I stepped out.

  “Pastor Quinn—” I started, turning back around.

  “Good day,” he replied, cutting me off. Then he shut the door, just as Gwen had earlier, telling me in no uncertain terms that our conversation was over. That is the second time today, I thought as I headed for my car, that someone has ushered me out of somewhere and then closed the door in my face.

  Twenty-Two

  The wake was scheduled to run from seven to nine at the Morrison Funeral Home, though the family was expected to arrive about a half hour early. I got to the house just as they were gathering in the foyer to leave, which was perfect timing as far as I was concerned. Now I had a good excuse for being late: I still had to get ready.

  “Oh, Callie, there you are,” Marion said, pinning a small gold brooch on her black lapel. Despite the somber occasion, she looked lovely in black, and for a moment I could glimpse in her face the portrait of the young woman that hung in her husband’s office at work. “Would you like to ride in the car with us?”

  “Thank you, Marion,” I said, “but I need to freshen up first. I passed the funeral home earlier, so I know where it is. I’ll come along as soon as I’ve showered and changed.”

  “Alright, dear,” she said, distracted by the arrival of Judith, who was dressed smartly in what looked like a Versace suit and matching coat. Black, yes, but perhaps a bit too stylish for such a somber occasion. “It’s the Morrison Home, you know, just up the street.”

  “I know.”

  I watched as the family grouped up and left, Nick driving Marion, Judith, and Angelina in the Cadillac. Sidra and Carlos climbed into the Jaguar and waited as Derek showed me how to lock the door and engage the alarm when I left.

  “I’ve heard that people look in the paper for wakes and funerals so they can rob the house while everyone’s gone,” he said. “That’s just what we’d need—somebody digging through all our stuff while we’re not here.”

  If you only knew, I thought as I assured him that I would, indeed, set the alarm before leaving. Carlos gave me a wave as they drove off, and then I pulled the door shut and locked it, turning to face the Smythe home alone for the first time.

  I would start with the rooms downstairs that I hadn’t yet seen—namely, Nick’s and Angelina’s. Though I found it hard to suspect either one of them, I dared not leave even one stone unturned—or, in this case, one insulin injector unexamined.

  I headed for the kitchen, knowing that their rooms must be in the back wing. I found Nick’s room first, and I knew immediately that it was his because it held an entire bookcase filled with cookbooks. The furnishings were modest, with a queen-sized bed flanked by two bedside tables, a small sitting area by the window, and a great big dresser. Scanning the room, I could see that Nick was interested in golf—there was an unopened pack of tees on the dresser and several dirty pairs of golf shoes in the closet.

  Nick wasn’t very organized or neat, so going through his things took a bit of time. He apparently liked science fiction novels, and he had a few of them in the drawers of his bedside table along with several clunky pieces of gold nugget jewelry. There was nothing else of interest there or in the closet. I was amazed at the size of his clothes, and I pulled out one pair of pants just to hold them up to myself. I realized my entire body could fit inside one of his pant legs. I wondered what he weighed.

  It wasn’t until I got to the dresser draw
ers that I hesitated. In one drawer, among the paper clips and hard candies and Kleenex packs, I found a small bottle of injectable insulin.

  Gingerly, I lifted the bottle by its metal lid and held it up to the light. It was about half full with less than an inch of clear liquid in the bottom. I memorized the words on the label and wondered if a coroner could determine if this was the same brand that had been injected into the body. Heart pounding, I put the bottle back where I found it and slid the drawer shut.

  Angelina’s room was next. It wasn’t nearly as cluttered as Nick’s, nor as large. It was a simple room, painted an airy light blue with a white bedspread on the bed and a few knickknacks on the dresser. The closet held surprisingly few clothes—so few, really, that I flipped through the lot of them, counting three uniforms, two dresses, two pair of jeans, and about four shirts, finally coming to a huge navy blue overcoat at the very end. I pulled the coat out and held it up, wondering what it was doing in there. Checking the collar, I saw that it was a woman’s size 24—much larger than Angelina, who was about a size eight. I looked in the pockets, but they were empty.

  I put the coat back and turned to Angelina’s dresser, a smaller, more feminine version of the one in Nick’s room. The drawers were all half-empty, though neatly organized with a small collection of socks, stockings, bras, slips, and nightgowns. The top right drawer held hair clips, bobby pins, and, in the back, several empty purses. There was a wad of cash tucked inside one of them; I counted out the money, realizing it added up to more than four thousand dollars!

  I put back the cash and closed the drawer, looking, finally, at the row of photos she had clipped to the side of her mirror. One was of an Italian-looking family, all smiling, clustered in front of a ristorante. There were several school-type photos of dark-haired, dark-eyed children with “to Aunt Angelina” scribbled on the backs. I looked closely at the next photo, showing Angelina wearing jeans and a T-shirt, leaning against the base of some sort of monument, grinning seductively at the camera. With her hair down, she looked very carefree and sexy. On the back of the photo she had scribbled some hearts and written “our special place.” I wondered who the other half of “our” could possibly be. Judging from the way she gazed at the camera, whoever took the picture was definitely the object of her affection.

  I tucked that photo back into place and then pulled down the last one. It was of a heavy girl with a chubby face and Angelina’s features. Thinking at first that it might be a sister, I did a double take when I realized that it was a picture of Angelina herself. She used to be overweight, I recognized with a start. That explained the ill-fitting uniform, the relatively small number of clothes in the closet. The size-24 coat must be hers, I thought, saved as a reminder of heavier days.

  I put the picture back, then left Angelina’s room and headed up the stairs.

  I wanted to start with Wendell’s dialysis room, but I wasn’t exactly sure where to find it. Opening a door near the end of the hall that I had originally assumed was a closet, I discovered a huge, sumptuous-looking black leather reclining chair next to a machine that was obviously the dialysis unit. Behind the chair were shelves filled with tubes, bandages, syringes, and other medical supplies. In front of the chair was a sturdy built-in cabinet holding a nice television, a VCR, and stacks of video tapes.

  I walked to the shelves of medical supplies, poking around until I found a small refrigerator containing two entire boxes of injectable insulin bottles, the same size and brand as the one I’d found in Nick’s room. At least I knew now that the killer, whoever it had been, wouldn’t have had any trouble procuring the murder weapon. All they had to do was come in here and take a bottle from the box.

  I closed the door to the dialysis room and crossed the hall to Derek’s suite. No wonder he still lives at home, I thought after I had opened the door to a gorgeous living room with a fireplace, comfortable furniture, and a wide-screen television discreetly tucked into the top half of a giant armoire. Two doors opened off of this room—one into what had obviously been Carlos’ room before his mother moved him out to the cabana, and one that had been the master bedroom for Derek and his wife. Now, I noticed, one half of the bed looked as if it hadn’t been touched. On the other half, the covers were pulled up but ruffled, as if Derek had sat there just a while ago, pulling on his shoes or fixing his tie. This room would be harder to search, I realized, because it was so big and held so many chests and cabinets and closets and drawers. Perhaps I could come back tomorrow, during the funeral, and dig deeper. For now, I did a cursory search, stopping for a double take at the shower/tub in the master bathroom, which was huge and so elaborate it came complete with a CD player and television.

  This is how the other half lives, I thought as I closed the door to the bathroom and scanned the interior of the walk-in closet. The right side was Derek’s, and I saw that his clothes were neatly organized by style and color. The left side had obviously been Sidra’s—it looked stripped of all but her heaviest winter clothes. There was a box on the top shelf, and I glanced at my watch before climbing up to peek inside. What I found startled me: It looked like a fur coat, sable if I wasn’t mistaken, but it had been cut into shreds. I folded the box shut and stepped back down, wondering if this was an example of the vandalism that had been plaguing Sidra.

  I returned to the bedroom and quickly slid the drawers of the bureau open and shut. I was starting to feel worried now, knowing that soon I would have to give up this search and head for the funeral home. Though I didn’t know what I was looking for, I hesitated at a printout of medical data that was tucked away among some other papers. It was a medical workup of Derek, though much more thorough than a normal physical. The bloodwork listed the usual things like white blood count, red blood count, and cholesterol, but there were two pages of other tests, including a section about antigens and liver function. The whole thing showed probably ten pages of medical results, from bloodwork to EKG, but it wasn’t until I got to the end that I realized what I was looking at. The last page was a psychological profile of Derek, and at the top of the page, someone had written, “Pre-transplant Workup.”

  Transplant. I thought of Judith in Wendell’s office the day before, talking about her father. He was trying to line up a kidney transplant, but the doctors were about to pull the plug on that idea. I had assumed Wendell was waiting for an organ donor to die, but now I remembered that a kidney could come from a live donor as well. Had Derek been planning to give his father one of his kidneys?

  I quickly scanned the psychological profile. Derek was described as “a stable man with a strong Christian faith, a bit indecisive, but eager to help his father in any way possible.” At the end of the report, the psychiatrist had given Derek what essentially amounted to the transplant seal of approval.

  I put the report away and slid the drawer shut, then headed from Derek’s room to the opposite end of the hall and Judith’s room. Her suite was identical to Derek’s, though she had turned the second bedroom into an office. The desk itself was neat but functional, with the computer surrounded by stacks of papers. Next to the phone was a small blank pad of paper, the top page clearly indented, and I slipped the pad into my pocket. I was going through the other stacks of paper and looking in drawers when I first heard the noise. My heart stopped and I froze, listening. There it was again. Someone else was in the house and coming up the stairs.

  I darted into Judith’s living room and over to the door, peeking out. The hallway was dark, and all I could see was the foot of someone slipping into my bedroom, down the hall.

  This person, whoever it was, had come here for me. I wondered if it was the same guy who had been following me earlier in the city. Heart pounding, I scanned Judith’s room, desperately trying to think of a good hiding place. If her closet was as big as Derek’s, I decided, then that would probably be my best choice.

  Silently, I ran to the closet and stepped inside, glad to see that both sides were filled to overflowing with clothes. Pushing my way between
two coats, I climbed up on a small shelf about six inches high and flattened myself against the back wall, pushing the coats back into place in front of me. My face just peeked over the top of the hangers, so I crouched down, quietly removed a jacket from a hanger, and draped it over my head, covering everything but my eyes.

  I stayed there a long time, listening, wishing I had thought to arm myself with something before I hid, some sort of blunt instrument. There was a rack of shoes to my left, and I snaked my arm out through the clothes and ran my hand along the shelf, feeling among the shoes for the highest, sharpest pair of heels I could find. Near the back of the shelf, my fingers closed over something else, something that felt like a handle. I pulled it out, surprised to find myself holding onto a wide paintbrush. I paused, confused, then shoved it into my pocket and reached out again, this time grabbing a satin stiletto-heeled pump. I held the shoe close to my chest, knowing it wouldn’t offer much defense but feeling it was better than nothing.

  I could hear noises again, moving closer, and I knew that the person was in Judith’s living room and then her bedroom. I poised myself for action. If he did catch sight of me in the closet, my best move would be to spring out at him, immobilizing him with a heel to the face before running away.

  Finally, a shadow fell across the doorway to the closet.

  “Callie?” I heard. “Ms. Webber?”

  It sounded like the voice of Nick, the chef. I hesitated, trying to decide what to do. He was supposed to be at the wake; what was he doing here? Did he mean me harm?

  He stepped closer, and I knew I had a decision to make. Should I reveal myself to him, or keep hiding? I was certain only of one thing: If he did indeed mean me harm, there was no way I would ever gain the upper hand in such a confined space. He was just too physically overpowering.

  He had just turned to leave when I heard a distinct crack beneath me. In time that felt like slow motion yet was only a split second, the shelf under my feet split in two, causing me to lose my footing and tumble forward, through the clothes, onto the floor. Nick yelled, backing away as I landed at his feet on the ground. My heart pounding, I looked up at him in fear.