That we did, strolling the blocks with ease. Ian told me all about his soup kitchen, about the money from Tom that got it all started. I listened with interest because this had taken place several years before I came to work for Tom.
“Of course, he didn’t head an official foundation back then,” Ian said. “He was just a wealthy man with a yen for giving to needy causes. Wendell put the two of us together, and even though Tom didn’t know me from Adam, once he took a look at my business plan for the soup kitchen, he pulled out his wallet and wrote me a check for $5000.”
I smiled, knowing that sounded exactly like something Tom would do.
“Of course,” Ian continued, “I know that must sound like a piddling little sum to you, considering the amounts you people dole out these days. But it was a godsend for me, I’ll tell you. That money made the difference that got us off and running.”
“I’m so glad.”
We chatted about his soup kitchen until we reached the end of the lighted sidewalk. As if prearranged, we both stopped and turned around and headed back toward the funeral home.
“My late wife loved strolling at night,” he said wistfully, out of the blue. “Especially on an evening like this when the temperature is pleasant and the sky is so clear.”
“My late husband was the same way,” I replied. “Loved being out at night, loved looking at the stars.”
We glanced at each other and smiled, acknowledging without words that we were both members of the same club—a club that neither of us wanted to belong to.
We were silent for a moment after that, each of us lost in our thoughts. My mind drifted from memories of my own happy marriage to that of Derek and Sidra and their current marital disaster.
“So, Ian,” I said, forming my words carefully as we walked, “I assume you are aware of the odd things that have happened to Sidra lately.”
“Yes, I am.”
“What can you tell me about it? Obviously, she’s in a lot of pain.”
“It’s an awful situation.”
“How did it start?”
Ian looked at me, apparently deciding how much he should say. As the family’s pastor, he surely had some confidentiality issues. On the other hand, he knew that I was an experienced professional on an investigation. Anything he told me might help to unravel this mess.
“I’m here to find out who murdered Wendell,” I said softly. “I think this business with Derek and Sidra might be related to it.”
He nodded, finally coming to a stop at the edge of the parking lot. If he was going to tell me this tale, I assumed, he was at least going to do it where we couldn’t be overheard.
“I can tell you things that I learned from Marion because she asked me to. But anything that I may have heard from Sidra is of course confidential.”
“Of course.”
“It all started a few months ago,” he began, “following an argument between Sidra and Derek. Apparently, Derek had bought Sidra a sable coat as a gift, but when she learned what it cost, she had had a fit. Despite the fact that they could well afford it, she accused him of having changed, of having becoming materialistic and wasteful. He was hurt by her accusations, not to mention her rejection of his gift, and they went to bed angry. The next morning when they got up, the coat had been slashed to ribbons.”
I realized that was the coat I had discovered earlier, in the box at the top of Sidra’s closet.
“That, however, was just the beginning,” continued Ian. “Derek blamed Sidra; Sidra blamed Derek. A few weeks later, Derek found his good leather briefcase, filled with important papers, submerged in a bathtub full of water. The next day, there was a bouquet of black roses waiting on the front step. The envelope was addressed to Sidra, and the card said, ‘Black is for death. I wish you were dead.’”
“Oh my goodness,” I whispered.
“Sidra was so frightened she wanted to move back to Honduras. But Derek refused to let her take Carlos with her. With Sidra’s history of mental problems, she knew he had her over a barrel and that she had no choice but to stay. She’s been suffering in silence ever since, but I know she’s got to be at the end of her rope. Out of the whole family, I think only Wendell truly believed that she wasn’t doing these things to herself.”
“And now he’s dead,” I said.
“Yes. Now he’s dead.”
We began walking again, across the parking lot toward the funeral home.
“Let me ask you a question,” I said. “What do you really know about Sidra’s mental state?”
“Sidra had…some problems, a few years back. She’s much, much better now. But for some people, I think it’s easier to blame her ‘condition’ than it is to consider that this might be something else entirely.”
“So, in your opinion, she’s not doing these horrid things herself?”
“In my opinion, no, she is not.”
“Do you fear for her safety?”
“I fear more for her marriage, not to mention her child’s sense of security. I think if someone were out to harm Sidra, they would’ve done so by now. This stuff is all so juvenile, so theatrical. I don’t see it so much as a threat to her physically as it is a threat to her emotionally.”
“But now Wendell’s been murdered!” I exclaimed. “Don’t you think it’s possible that someone has upped the ante and gone over the edge? That Sidra might be next?”
He was thoughtful for a moment, one finger pressing nervously against his chin.
“I hadn’t thought if it that way,” he said finally. “I suppose perhaps we all should take it more seriously now.”
“Even before Wendell’s murder,” I said, “I just don’t see why the Smythes wouldn’t contact the police. At the very least, you’d think they would’ve installed a better security system.”
We reached the door of the funeral home. Ian hesitated, pausing thoughtfully.
“As for Marion,” he said, “she’s so completely convinced that it’s Sidra that she won’t even consider any other possibility. She’s terribly afraid that calling the police or hiring a security company will only prove her daughter-in-law’s precarious mental state. Maybe even force them to commit her, like before.”
“Like before? Sidra was in a mental institution?”
Ian colored, looking uncomfortable, and I knew he felt that he had outstepped the bounds of confidentiality.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m just trying to get a better handle on what’s going on.”
“I think it’s all perhaps best expressed in the words of John Donne,” he said, accepting my apology with a nod. “‘As states subsist in part by keeping their weaknesses from being known, so is it the quiet of families to have their chancery and their parliament within doors, and to compose and determine all emergent differences there.’”
“In other words, it’s a family matter, and they’d like to keep it that way?”
“Exactly, my dear,” he replied, opening the door. “That’s it exactly.”
Twenty-Five
Back at the house once the wake was over, the remaining friends and family members seemed reluctant to disperse. Even Sidra didn’t head immediately to the cabana, but instead came into the den with everyone else and sat on the couch in the corner with Carlos. It seemed as if they all needed to be together, to rehash the events of the evening, and though I was exhausted, I was glad. My head was also spinning with the sheer quantity of people who had been there. I wanted to sit back and listen to what everyone else had to say.
I also was interested in watching Alan Bennet and Judith Smythe. They were friendly but not too personal, their relationship seemingly befitting a boss and her employee. I looked around at the others and wondered if anyone besides me knew they were romantically involved.
It wasn’t long before Angelina came into the room with a tray of delicious-smelling hot hors d’oeuvres. Marion, eyes closed in her chair next to the fireplace, reached out and took the girl’s hand.
“Angelina,�
�� she said in a tired voice. “This is not a night for serving us food. You and Nick come, join in, and relax with everyone else. It’s been a hard day.”
“No, no,” said Angelina, placing the tray on a low table in a central spot. Carlos came over and began snacking immediately. Having missed dinner, I, too, was hungry and would’ve loved to dig in, but I didn’t want to appear too overeager. “This is time for family.”
“Callie’s just a friend,” Marion said, waving toward me. “So is Alan. And Ian. Please. I insist.”
Angelina hesitated in the doorway and then smiled.
“Nick is heating up a couple of different things. When he is all done, we will bring them in and join you.”
“Good.”
“And I expect every one of you to eat some,” Angelina added. “Everybody just picked at their dinner. You do not want to hurt Nick’s feelings.”
Next to me, Derek chuckled as Angelina left the room.
“She’s right about that, Mother. You haven’t been eating much.”
“Who can eat, darling? My heart is broken.”
The conversation went on from there, and I listened quietly, eating a few of the heavenly hors d’oeuvres as they were brought in. At one point, I offered to help with the coffee and Angelina accepted; together we brought in a large bubbling coffeepot, a tray of cups and saucers, and the sugar and cream. Once everyone was served, she and Nick sat on a low bench along the wall and joined in the conversation.
Despite the somber occasion, things did begin to lighten up somewhat after that. I think it started with Carlos trying to eat the cheese from around an hors d’oeuvre, which made Marion giggle, which in turn made us all laugh. We were punchy and exhausted and in need of a release.
Everyone began tossing out memories of Wendell—good memories of happy times. Obviously, this was a man who had been loved by those close to him. I listened to their stories, thankful that this was a family who believed in the Lord. Though they were mourning Wendell now for their own loss, behind the mourning was a joy, a complete assurance that he was with his Maker. I wondered how it would feel to mourn the death of a man who hadn’t had the assurance of heaven?
The only odd thing about the whole evening was that no one mentioned the fact that Wendell had been murdered. To listen to them, one would think he had gone in his sleep or suffered a heart attack. I suppose that was probably how it felt because his health had been so bad. Still, I thought it odd. If my father had been murdered and the killer had not been caught, that would be the only thing on my mind.
After about an hour, the conversation began to die down and the small crowd dwindled somewhat. I carried the cold coffeepot back into the kitchen, then headed for the pantry to put away the sugar. I just had my hand on the doorknob when I heard a noise from inside, and I hesitated, listening. I heard it again—a distinctive whisper coming from behind the pantry door. Carefully, I pushed it open without a sound, just far enough to peek inside. The room was small and narrow, the size of a walk-in closet, with shelves lining each of the walls, floor to ceiling, which were stacked with cans and dry goods. Down at the other end, I could still hear whispering, and I strained to listen.
“Nick will kill me,” the voice said, and I recognized it immediately as Angelina’s. “You know that he will.”
A man responded but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Heart pounding, I pushed the door a little farther and dared to stick my head far enough in so that I could see.
What I saw nearly made me gasp. There, in the back corner of the pantry, was Angelina in a fervent embrace with Alan Bennet—the very same man I had seen about to make love to Judith the night before!
“He does not want us to be together,” Angelina moaned, eyes closed, as Alan slowly ran a trail of kisses down her neck.
“But I want us to be together,” he whispered urgently. “I need us to be together.”
“I know,” she cried. “I know. But Nick will kill us if he finds us!”
She offered Alan only slight resistance, and soon his hands were working the buttons down the back of her blouse. Watching, I thought of the photo in her bedroom, of the scribbled hearts and the notation “our special place.” The other half of “our,” I realized, must be Alan Bennet. I pulled the door closed and then stood for a long moment in the hall, heart pounding. Surely it was only a figure of speech; the girl didn’t really fear for her life, did she? Nevertheless, this new development was shocking. I wondered if Judith had any idea about Alan and Angelina.
On the other hand, I wondered if Angelina knew anything about Alan and Judith.
Twenty-Six
I awoke with a start, and it took me a minute to figure out where I was. The lights were off, but the faint glow of the moon spilled in through the window, and slowly I could make out the four walls of the guest bedroom in the Smythes’ home. The clock said 12:35 A.M. I must have fallen asleep.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. I remembered coming up here and sitting on the bed, thinking I would rest my eyes for just a moment. Now I had a stiff neck and two bobby pins stabbing me in the back of the head.
I reached up and massaged my scalp. Letting my hair loose, I shook it out and then caught my breath. My dream. In my dream, I had taken down my hair from a ponytail, shaking it slowly while Bryan watched from the doorway. He had loved my long hair, had loved running his fingers through it. In the dream, he had come to me and taken my hand, pulling me outside into the dark night to look at the stars.
It seemed so real.
I stood and went to the bureau, reaching for a brush, stroking it through my hair vigorously. I hadn’t dreamed about Bryan in a long, long time. Why now did this have to happen, this awakening of my memories, this eclipsing of time?
My heart pounded with the memory of the dream. It had been this way in the beginning, in the weeks after his death when all I’d wanted to do was to sleep, to hide, to disappear. Bryan came to me in my dreams sometimes, and I had spent those early days in a tranquilized stupor, waiting for the sleeping visions where he was still alive and life was back to normal.
In the years since, of course, I had moved past all of that, and in fact most dreams of him these days were almost always odd, disjointed, and blurry. Yet the dream I’d had this time was as clear and memorable as in the early days, as if he had really come to me, as if it really happened. Please, Lord, I prayed, why this? Why now?
I put down the hairbrush, turned on the lamp, and retrieved my Bible from the bedside table. It isn’t fair, my mind cried as I flipped through the pages for some sort of verse, some sort of message to comfort me.
There was solace there, but I was too agitated to find it, and finally I set the book aside and got down on my knees, pleading with God to heal my aching heart. How could a wound tear open after three years, a wound as fresh and painful as it had been that first day? I want my husband back! I want Bryan in my life again, as alive and real and happy as he was in my dream.
My plea felt unheard, though I knew it wasn’t. In the end, I simply recited the Lord’s prayer, letting its familiar rhythm soothe my aching heart. Once my prayer was over, I wiped the tears from my face and stood, going over to the window and gazing out across the wide expanse of lawn. It was a beautiful night, crisp and clear.
I felt a little more calm, but still there lingered an infinite sadness. I sat in the chair next to the window and counted the stars and thought about Bryan and how much he had loved the night sky. He knew the names of hundreds of stars, and when we were first married, we would take our sleeping bags out into the backyard and look up at the sky and make up names for the ones he didn’t know. We called one CB220—for Callie and Bryan and February twentieth, the day we were married. I tried to find CB220 now, and as I did I felt an ache of pure loneliness, a pain so agonizing that it made me double over.
“I miss you,” I whispered, the tears starting up again. “Bryan, how I miss you so.”
I cried, as quietly as I could manage, but still I cried. After
a while, I wasn’t even crying for me anymore; I was crying for Marion, for all the women I knew who had loved their husbands and then lost them. I cried for the babies Bryan and I would never have. I cried for myself, for the lonely life I had carved out of a little house on an isolated stretch of the Chesapeake, with only a few close friends and a dog to keep me company. I cried until I didn’t have any more tears. I cried until the sharp pain of loss turned to a dull ache. Then I sat for a long time, staring out at nothing, wishing this job could be finished and I could return to the peace and quiet of my own life, to the safety of a place that didn’t make me continuously confront my own unspeakable loss.
Twenty-Seven
Despite my own personal sorrow, I had a job to do. At 2:00 A.M., I knew it was time to put on my surveillance gear and get on out to my hidden perch in the tree house. I dug through my pile of clothes and pulled out black pants and a black sweater. The only shoes I had were my good Ferragamo pumps and a pair of sneakers on loan from Judith. I put on the sneakers and then pulled a pair of black socks on over them. I knew I would ruin the socks, but I also knew that it wouldn’t do if my bright white feet were spotted as I made my way across the lawn.
Once I was finished with the shoes, I turned my attention to my hair, fashioning it back into its tight chignon. Grabbing a blanket from the bed, I tightly rolled it up and tucked it under my arm, then stealthily headed out into the night.
It was quiet and cooler outside, and I closed the back door with only a faint click. The nearly full moon was both a blessing and a hindrance, and I knew that the sooner I got up into that tree house, the safer I would be. I made a wide arc around the garden and headed toward the back of the property along the fence. Once at the end, I saw there was no car parked there in Alan’s spot, no fresh footprints on the grass. Nevertheless, I crept to the barn and took a peek through the knothole, but the barn was quiet and dark.
Nearly running now, I crossed the lawn and reached the tree, quickly finding a ladder of boards nailed at 12-inch intervals up the side of the trunk. I climbed carefully until I reached the platform. Pulling myself through the hole and into the tree house, I looked around the small area, relieved to see that it was devoid of any nocturnal creatures and in fact held nothing more than an old faded comic book and a few spider webs.
A Penny for Your Thoughts Page 17
