“The first time I saw Sidra, she was sitting in the doorway of her mother’s hacienda, embroidering a shirt collar. She was so beautiful—and only 17. I was 20.”
“In Central America?” I asked. He nodded.
“I went there with my dad,” he said. “I liked going, liked the scenery and the culture. But I was changed after that trip. I wanted to get back. I wanted to get back to her.”
“You finished seminary first.”
“I’d always felt the call to be a missionary despite the fact that Dad wanted me to come into the business with him. Once I met Sidra, my mind was made up. I knew the Lord wanted me to be a missionary to Honduras. Sidra and I started writing, and we fell in love through our letters.”
After graduation, Derek explained, he worked things out with the mission board and headed south, where he and Sidra were soon married. They lived in her small village and built up a church and a school there.
Their life was fulfilling but not always easy. A devout Christian, Sidra was the perfect helpmate for Derek’s ministry. But as a woman of relative privilege who had been educated in Buenos Aires, Sidra found labor conditions in her homeland simply appalling. She often railed against the huge holes in the local labor laws that created sweatshops, holes that allowed children to work 12-hour days and women to spend seven days a week hunched over their sewing machines.
“She verbally attacked my father the first time they met, calling him a capitalist pig,” Derek said, smiling at the memory. “Once he got her to calm down, they had a real conversation. After that, Smythe Incorporated became a humanitarian leader in the clothing industry, a leader in eradicating poor labor practices. My father and Sidra found a common ground, and together they accomplished a lot. They even managed to have some laws made there.”
“Your wife strikes me as a very capable woman.”
To my surprise, tears suddenly filled Derek’s eyes.
“I seem to have lost sight of that lately,” he said.
“So why were you so convinced it was her doing all of this crazy stuff, Derek? What’s the big secret in her past that made you and your mother convict her without even a trial?”
“There’s no big secret,” he said, shaking his head. “Sidra’s manic depressive. When she was pregnant with Carlos, she quit taking her medications and ended up having a nervous breakdown. I brought her up here to Pennsylvania to have her treated.”
“Is that when you moved back to the states?”
“No,” he said. “We took a year’s sabbatical and stayed here until Carlos was born. After that, she was able to go back on her medications, and it wasn’t long before she was fine again. When our year was up, we returned to Honduras. We stayed another six years after that.”
“Has she had any other episodes like that?”
“No. As long as she stays on her medication, Sidra is fine.”
“So what made you finally give up missionary life, Derek?”
He wiped at his eyes and looked off in the distance.
“I don’t know exactly,” he said. “Restlessness. Frustration. To be honest, I think I began to question whether it was God who had led me to be a missionary or just my own adventurous leanings. By then, Carlos was of an age where I found myself wishing for him the things I had had as a child. Soccer teams and American movies and horseback riding. I realized I didn’t want the life of a missionary any more. I wanted the life I had grown up with. I wanted the life of privilege.”
“So you moved here and bought the Jaguar and the fur coats and all the things you’d been missing out on.”
“Hey,” he said, frowning, “it’s not like I sold out. I’m head of Feed the Need. We’re doing wonderful things all over the world.”
“I know.”
“And coming here permanently gave Sidra the chance to go back to school and get her nursing degree.”
“That’s good.”
“With my father in such poor health, I knew I would be needed here anyway,” he continued, sounding even more defensive. “Just because I happen to prefer indoor plumbing to a hole in the ground doesn’t make me a bad person.”
“No,” I said, “it doesn’t.”
The quiet settled between us as Derek angrily ate his breakfast. After a few minutes, Carlos stuck his head out of the door and called to us.
“Hey, Dad!” he said enthusiastically. “I got the high score on Death Match!”
Derek gave him a thumbs up, and Carlos went back to his video game.
“He’s thriving here,” Derek said, looking after his son.
“Something tells me he’d thrive anywhere,” I replied, wondering if Derek was so deep into reacquainting himself with his “life of privilege” that he couldn’t even see the danger zones for a boy living in modern-day America, the areas where his child needed his father’s guidance and protection—and censorship.
Beyond all of that, though, I couldn’t help but imagine the gulf that had been widening between this man and his wife since they came to the States. As Derek accumulated and experienced the finer things, his wife must’ve felt as though she was looking on from a vast distance, wondering where the selfless, dedicated man she once knew had gone.
Derek looked at me, his fork paused in midair.
“What is it?” he asked. “Obviously, you want to tell me something, something more than just the fact that it’s my sister who’s been ruining my marriage and my life. What is it?”
I sat back, wondering myself. What did I want to say? That his marriage was worth saving? That he was lucky that the person he loved was still alive, still around to patch things up with? I lowered my voice and leaned forward.
“Your problem is solved, Derek. Sidra isn’t the bad guy here, and neither are you. Now what are you going to do about it?”
“Too much damage has been done,” he said, shaking his head, looking down at his plate. “She’s perfectly sane, and I’ve been treating her like she was nuts.”
“You can make it up to her.”
“It’s too late.”
“Why won’t you fight for your marriage?” I demanded, but he wouldn’t reply.
I felt my stomach lurch, and I was angry with him, angry with myself for even caring.
“Three years ago,” I said, my voice a furious whisper, “I watched my husband—the husband I loved and cherished and promised to be with until death do us part—get killed. Killed in a senseless accident by a drunken boater who wasn’t paying attention. When it was over, I held my husband’s lifeless body in my arms.”
Derek’s eyes were wide with surprise.
“So don’t look at me,” I whispered, “and tell me ‘it’s too late’ for anything. My husband is dead, Derek. That’s what you call ‘too late.’ Everything else is just an excuse.”
I picked up my purse, pulled out a twenty, and slapped it onto the table. Then I stood and walked out of the restaurant and to my car as quickly as my trembling legs could carry me.
Twenty-Nine
By the time I reached the house, I didn’t feel like seeing or speaking to anyone. Fortunately, the place was quiet, and I made my way up the stairs and to my room without encountering a soul. Once there, I threw myself across the bed and tried to clear my mind of every thought and every emotion. Instead, all I could see was Bryan. Bryan, grinning at me as we climbed on our bicycles for a bike ride. Bryan, stepping from the shower and teasing me with a shy smile. Bryan, losing himself in concentration as he studied the paperwork in front of him.
Bryan. Three years might as well have been three days for all my heart had managed to let go. I pressed my hands against my eyes and tried to wrench myself away from the images that filled my head. I wondered, not for the first time, if I would ever get through a single day without thinking of him, without missing him. I told myself, as I always did, how lucky I had been to have him in my life. Better five years in a wondrous, near-perfect marriage than 30 years in a miserable one. Still, I thought, I’m ready to bargain; maybe a little
less happiness and a little more time? How about that, God? Do we have a deal?
I sat up, shaking my head. When you try to strike a deal with God, it’s time to change the subject.
I headed for the bathroom and a hot shower, letting the water pound away the thoughts from my brain. I knew that part of my problem was sheer exhaustion, and I thought back over the most recent run of cases I had worked. While my canoe sat mostly unused and dusty in my shed at home, I had jetted off to five different states in the last three months. Usually, extra work like that gave me an escape, a way to distract my mourning heart. But I think this time I had pushed it all too far. Between my fatigue and the events of this particular case, I was near the breaking point. The only place I really wanted to be right now was out on the water with an oar in my hand, paddling along the Chesapeake. Instead, I was a prisoner of Pennsylvania with an ongoing murder investigation as my only distraction.
After my shower, I took extra care applying my makeup, fixing my hair. Going through the motions was somehow soothing, and I felt myself lulled into a sort of numbness, my best defense when all else failed.
Once I was done, I looked at the clock and realized I still had nearly two hours before it was time for the funeral. After my sleepless night, a nap would’ve been a good idea, but I knew my brain was spinning far too much to let me fall asleep. What I really wanted was to spend that time doing something physical like swimming or jogging. I decided, instead, to use this time to take a look at the things that were stashed behind the radiator. I pulled out the paper bag from Sidra’s cabana and the blank pad of paper and the paintbrush that I had swiped from Judith’s suite.
It was a normal brush, about four inches wide, and I studied the base of the bristles for any trace of red fake blood. Though I couldn’t see any, I went into the bathroom, filled the basin with a little water, then pressed the brush under the water, working it against the side of the sink. After a moment, my suspicions were confirmed: The water turned from clear to vaguely pink.
I wrapped the brush in a towel, then carried it to the closet and stuck it down among my dirty clothes. Carlos, Derek, and I knew that Judith was the one doing these things to Sidra. The question that remained now was why?
I reached for the blank pad from Judith’s room, wishing I had access to an ESDA. Electrostatic Detection Apparatus was just a fancy name for an instrument that let you analyze sheets of paper for writing indents, sometimes as deep as 20 sheets into the pad. Instead, I would have to rely on the old-fashioned method—a pencil rubbed lightly across the paper.
It didn’t take long, and what I found was rather disturbing. Once I was finished, I held the paper in front of me and read it again, to be sure: It was information, jotted in a row down the page, about me. It started with my full name. Under that was my license plate number, and under that was the make, color, and model of my car. I continued reading my age, my job title and place of employment, where I went to college and law school, and my current home address. That was it, all in a row, Callie Webber in a nutshell.
I was still studying the page when I was startled by a knock at the door. I shoved the pad into the paper bag, slid it under the bed, and went to the door.
I opened it to see Angelina holding out a big FedEx box.
“Hi, Callie,” she said. “You have a phone call. And this came for you.”
I took the box and put it on the bed, seeing Eli’s return address in the corner. The old rascal had sent me a box of goodies despite my telling him not to. He must’ve called Harriet at the office and gotten my current address from her.
“Where should I take the call?” I asked.
She motioned for me to follow her, and she led me down the hall to the lovely sunlit alcove at the end. It held an upholstered window seat, and next to the seat was a recessed shelf in the wall, with a telephone.
“Thanks,” I said, taking my seat. As I picked up the receiver, Judith came out of her room and headed for the stairs, giving me a vague smile and a wave as she passed by.
“This is Callie,” I said into the phone.
“Callie Webber?”
The voice was muffled and high pitched, though I couldn’t quite tell if it was a man or a woman.
“Yes?”
“I need to speak with you.”
“Who is this?”
“That’s not important. Can you meet me in an hour?”
I hesitated, and after a moment the person spoke again.
“I have information that you’ll be interested in. Something important I need to tell you.”
“Why do we have to meet?” I asked. “Why can’t you just tell me now over the phone?”
“I have to show you something. One hour. Meet me in the cemetery, next to the Smythe family plot.”
Now my interest was piqued. What could this person possibly need to show me there?
“The funeral’s today,” I said. “There will be people around.”
“Funeral’s at 11:00,” the voice said. “Meet me at 10:00.”
“How will I—”
“Just be there.”
The line clicked and my caller was gone.
I hung up the phone and returned to my room, sitting on the side of the bed. I should leave now, I decided. If Eli had taught me anything, it was that you don’t ever head into a situation like this unaware. If we were meeting at 10:00, I would get there at 9:15 and scope the place out first.
I thought about calling Duane Perskie for backup, but I hated the thought of taking up any more of his time. I would be fine, I decided. In a place that public, what could happen?
Bending over, I slid my stash from under the bed and returned it to the better hiding place behind the radiator. Then I went to the closet, pulled out the same black clothes I had worn to the wake the night before, and slid them into a bag with some shoes and stockings. I grabbed Eli’s box and headed out, knowing I could change clothes in the bathroom of the funeral home after my meeting at the gravesite of Wendell Smythe.
Thirty
It was another gorgeous day with the sun shimmering in every direction and the new fall colors just peeking from the trees. The cemetery wasn’t far from the funeral home, and I found it easily, turning between two large marble posts at the entrance. The place was lush and expansive with the rolling hills dotted with memorials and tombstones that ranged from the incredibly ornamental to the tastefully simple and everywhere in between. It looked as if Wendell’s wasn’t the only funeral here today; there were several funeral awnings set up throughout the cemetery. Wendell’s, however, was the only one teeming with activity at this time. A funeral home van and a florist’s truck were there, and about five men milled about the gravesite setting up chairs and bringing out flowers.
I drove past the site and continued on as the road looped around the far side of the cemetery and back again. When I was near a mausoleum, I turned my car around and pulled over to the side. I could see Wendell’s gravesite in the distance, though I was far enough away that I doubted any of them would notice me. I turned off the car and reached for Eli’s box, slicing the tape with the point of my key. Knowing him, there would be a pair of binoculars in there—just what I needed. I finished ripping the tape, flipped the lid open, and looked inside.
“God bless him,” I whispered, reaching inside and pulling out the items one by one. Eli had sent a pair of binoculars, some handcuffs, a miniature camera, and a digital voice recorder. For my protection he had also included a billy club and a can of pepper spray, but no gun. Despite my training and proficiency, Eli knew I didn’t like handling guns and hadn’t since my brother had been shot in the line of duty years ago. Michael’s accident had totally thrown me for a loop, and though he eventually recovered, I found that I was never comfortable around guns and ammunition after that. Besides, I swung a pretty mean club. For now that would have to be enough. Leave it to Eli to take care of me from a thousand miles away.
I put everything back in the box except the binoculars, which I
pulled out and pressed against my eyes. They were small but very powerful, and through them I could easily observe the goings-on at the gravesite. I studied the men who were there, watching as they went about their duties without much conversation. Mostly they just went back and forth, back and forth, pulling out chairs, setting them up, going back for more chairs. I put the binoculars down and just watched them with my naked eye until about ten minutes before ten, when I saw a new car pull into the cemetery.
I put the binoculars back up to my face, watching as the car came to a stop near the gravesite. It just sat there for a long moment, though I couldn’t see inside because the sun glared off of the windshield. Finally, a man got out and I gasped, recognizing him as the same fellow who had followed me through Philadelphia, the young man with spiky hair who lost me outside of the jewelry store.
He wasn’t driving the red pickup now, but a plain blue sedan of some sort. As I watched, he crossed over to talk to one of the workers and handed him a piece of paper. When he was finished, he got back in his car and drove off.
I waited until ten o’clock sharp before I started up my car and drove it to the gravesite. I got out and made my way over to the green AstroTurf that had been spread on the ground under the awning. I hesitated, wondering what to do next, when the same workman I had seen interacting with “Spike” came over and asked me if my name was Webber.
“Yeah,” I said, my right hand cradling the canister of pepper spray deep in my pocket. “That’s me.”
“I got a note. Some guy left it here for ya.”
He handed me a piece of paper, which was folded with my name scribbled on the outside. I took it gingerly and opened it.
It said, Too many people here for us to talk. Meet me at the first canopy, by the big tree.
I slid the note into my pocket, glad that Duane Perskie had given me a fingerprinting kit.
I got back into my car and headed toward the front of the cemetery. I knew the place the note was talking about—it was another funeral site, with the requisite green awning and ground-covering AstroTurf, but this one was devoid of any activity. I parked nearby, grabbed the billy club and the pepper spray, and then walked down the hill toward the awning, noting the absence of the blue sedan and the man who had been in it.
A Penny for Your Thoughts Page 19
