A Penny for Your Thoughts

by Mindy Starns Clark

  I reached the awning and stepped onto the carpeting, looking around cautiously. Something about this bothered me, perhaps the fact that this spot was so much more isolated than the other had been. I stood in a sort of valley, hidden from the Smythe gravesite by a short hill that rose up between us. I was wishing now that I had called Perskie after all, and I walked the place off, headed for the relative safety of the big tree that bordered the cemetery plot.

  I had to walk past the freshly dug gravesite to get there, and as I went past, I couldn’t help but glance inside. Graves are always so much deeper than we expect them to be, I thought absurdly. Then, before I could even take another step, I heard sounds and saw movement, and suddenly I felt a body thrust against me and fling me forward. Then I was flying down, through the air, into the empty grave. I screamed as I fell, hitting the dirt at the bottom with a heavy thud, pain searing into my right side.

  I opened my eyes, looking up to see dirt walls—dirt walls a mile high, with blue sky beyond. Then I closed my eyes, waiting for more dirt to fall in on me, for me to be buried alive. But nothing came. I stilled my breathing and listened, but I couldn’t hear a sound.

  “Help!” I yelled. “Help!”

  I felt terror rising up in my throat as I realized that no one could hear me. The dirt walls simply sucked in all the sound I could make.

  I was in a grave. A freshly dug grave. Pushed in here by the same man who had been following me the day before.

  “Stupid!” I yelled at myself, then I grimaced at the pain that my outburst caused. I had let myself be ambushed, I realized, by a man who had been hiding behind a tombstone. A lot of good my weapons had done me; I’d never even had a chance to use them. Carefully, I sat up, reaching around to feel my right side with my left hand, running my fingers down my arm, pressing gingerly against my ribs.

  I didn’t think anything was broken. I tried leaning forward, leaning to the left, and though it hurt like heck, I could still do it. I pulled myself up to my knees and tried to catch my breath, forcing away the panic that sat at the back of my throat.

  I don’t know how long I sat there before I saw the paper on the ground. It was a plain sheet of white paper, pressed into the mud as if I had landed on it when I fell. Hands trembling, I lifted it by one corner and turned it over. It was a note, typed, to me.

  Welcome to the grave, it said. Drop this case and go home, or next time you’ll visit one of these in a casket.

  I let go of the note, watching as it softly fell to the ground. Whoever had done this had made a big mistake. Little did they know it, but they had crossed the wrong person now.

  I stood carefully, feeling an aching throb in my back. Looking upward, I analyzed my situation, wondering how I was going to get out. I pressed my hands against the walls, testing the dirt, finally deciding that the only choice would be to dig some hand- and footholds out of the wall and climb up. I used the billy club to start digging, gouging out holes at two-foot intervals. When I had dug as high as I could reach, I tested the holes. I pulled myself up a few feet before the dirt collapsed and I landed back on the ground. Ouch.

  I tried again, making the holes deeper and farther apart. This time, I was able to pull myself up higher and then stand there while I dug more holes.

  It would be slow going, I knew, but eventually I felt sure I could reach the top of the gravesite. I looked at my watch—there were only 15 minutes until the funeral would begin. I knew I’d never make it.

  I climbed up to dig a higher handhold and suddenly felt the dirt crumble under my foot again. I landed on my behind with a thud and let out a scream of pain and frustration.

  “Hello?” I heard. “Is someone there?”

  “Down here!” I yelled, as loudly as I could. After a moment, I saw the face of a young man peer nervously over the edge of the grave.

  “Ahhh!” he screamed when he saw me. “What are you doing in there?”

  He peered down at me in horror. I looked up at him, trying to remain calm, afraid he would bolt and I’d never get out.

  “Help me!” I said. “I fell in.”

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “No. But I can’t get out. I need a rope or something.”

  “Just a minute.”

  He disappeared, and while I waited for him I brushed the dirt from my clothes, picked up the threatening letter from the ground, and put it into my pocket.

  I wondered if Judith was responsible for this. If so, then whom had she gotten to do the dirty work for her? Was Spike on her payroll? Had he pushed me in here on her orders? I reminded myself that just because Judith was the one who had been vandalizing Sidra, that didn’t mean she had also murdered her father—or that any of my other suspects were off the hook.

  Finally, my young warrior returned, clutching what looked like a bright orange extension cord.

  “Don’t have any rope,” he called down to me. “Think this’ll do?”

  I told him to tie his end around the tree then toss the rest on down to me. He did as I asked, and soon I was using my footholds and the cord to half climb, half drag myself out of the hole. When I neared the top, I could feel him pulling me up as well. In the end, I landed in a heap on top of him, both of us gasping and exhausted. I sat up and looked at him. He couldn’t be a day over 16. He was wearing a gray uniform with Bud’s Rentals stitched over the pocket. Parked next to my car was a gray van with the same name, and I could see that the back doors were wide open, metal chairs piled high in the back.

  “We did it!” he exclaimed excitedly. “We did it!”

  “Thank you,” I replied. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

  “That was like Silence of the Lambs or something,” he said, his eyes still wide with excitement. “You know, the way he kept that woman down in that pit?”

  “Afraid I didn’t see that one,” I said, feeling grateful that I hadn’t. I stood, brushing off my pants, and then thanked him one more time before heading to my car. If I hurried, I’d still have time to get cleaned up, change my clothes, and make it late to the funeral.

  Then I’d sit back and watch to see just who looked surprised to see me.

  Thirty-One

  I cleaned myself up in the bathroom of a nearby service station. I had planned to change at the funeral home, but once I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the dirt and mud streaked in my hair and on my face, I knew I’d better not chance running into anyone. I did the best I could, washing my face and rubbing my hair with damp paper towels. I repaired my makeup as quickly as possible before pulling on the outfit I had brought along.

  By the time I arrived at the funeral, Ian was well into his eulogy. I hesitated inside the doorway, debating whether to slip quietly into a seat in the back row or head closer to the front where I might have a better chance of being spotted by the person responsible for my little trip into the grave. In the end, I compromised: There was an aisle seat, about a third of the way up, and I headed there, knowing I could watch the faces of the people as they came down the aisle when the service was finished.

  In the meantime, I sat back in my seat and tried to relax and listen to Ian. His voice was warm and melodic, but the words were lost on me. All that had happened so far in this day had left me more shaken than I wanted to admit. Now I sat with my hands clenched in my lap, feeling a tremble deep in the pit of my stomach while a dull roar vibrated inside my head.

  My fingernails are dirty, I thought as I glanced at my hands in front of me. I had managed to clean my hair and my face. The fact that my nails were filled with dirt had escaped my attention. With a sort of odd fascination, I held my hands out in front of me and studied the effect. It looked like a French manicure, but with brown tips instead of white.

  The funeral service ended with a prayer and then instructions on leaving the parking lot in the vehicular procession to the cemetery. The family would depart first, so we all stood at our seats as soft music played.

  Marion led the way, Derek firmly
supporting her arm as they headed up the aisle. She looked absolutely distraught. The black veil over her face did not hide her sorrow. I caught Derek’s eye, and he acknowledged me with a slight nod.

  Next came Judith, walking with two older gentlemen who I assumed were relatives. She also noticed me as she went past, though if she felt surprised to see me, it didn’t show on her face.

  Then came Alan Bennet. He headed down the aisle with the general crowd, deep in conversation with another man. As he neared me and then his eyes met mine, he seemed to visibly flinch. He stopped talking, his face suddenly pale.

  Bingo.

  “Callie,” he said, trying to recover, forcing a smile. “Thank you for coming.”

  He reached out to shake my hand and I hesitated, feeling a strange calm sweep over me. It made things much better, knowing my enemies. I took his hand, debating whether to make some wry comment like, “Please excuse the dirt under my nails. I was doing a little digging this morning.” But I didn’t necessarily want him to know that I knew it was he. Instead, I remained silent, giving him an enigmatic smile before he moved on.

  I drove myself to the cemetery, my little Saturn near the end of the procession. As I dutifully followed the car in front of me, I thought of Tom’s exhortation that I remove myself from this case at the first sign of personal danger. He should know me better than that, I thought. He should know that an attack like this would only strengthen my resolve. I’m not about to duck out on this investigation now.

  I just wouldn’t mention to him what had happened.

  The graveside ceremony was simple and solemn, the mood quiet and orderly despite the tremendous number of people present. Now that I felt sure I knew who was responsible for my earlier incident, I put it out of my mind and tried to concentrate on the proceedings at hand. I listened as Derek delivered a touching tribute to his father and then watched as a woman stepped up to the podium. She was about 20, slim with long blond hair, and she began singing in a beautiful clear voice to the accompaniment of a young man on a guitar. When I realized what song she was singing, I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach.

  “When peace, like a river, attendeth my way…” she sang, the first line of the first verse of the hymn “It Is Well with My Soul.” It had always been my favorite hymn, but three years ago I had made the terrible mistake of choosing it to be sung at Bryan’s funeral. Now, every time I heard it I was instantly transported back to that moment when I stood next to his grave, listening to the music, realizing that the only man I had ever loved was really and truly dead.

  “When sorrows like sea billows roll…”

  I hated that song now, hated it in the way a stubborn student hates his teacher, in the way a soldier hates his drill sergeant. I knew there were lessons in that song for me, lessons I needed very much to learn. But I wasn’t even close to being ready to learn them. I knew the song had been written by a man whose life went from blessed to disastrous all in one year: First, he lost all of his money and nearly everything he owned in the great Chicago fire, then he lost his only son to sickness, then he lost his four remaining daughters when they were drowned in a shipwreck. As the man stood looking out at the ocean where his daughters had drowned, he had written this song, the refrain proclaiming that, in spite of everything, he would remain faithful to God and His will.

  “Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, It is well, it is well with my soul…”

  But it is not well with my soul! I had wanted to scream at Bryan’s funeral. He’s dead and I’m still alive, and all I want is one more chance to see him, to talk to him, to be with him.

  Now, remembering the moment that I buried my husband, I felt a purely physical ache, a visceral sort of rage and sorrow well up in me like a volcano. By the time the song was over, I knew that my face was covered in tears, that it was all I could do not to let out a strangled sob. I was glad I was in the back row, hidden from those few there who knew me. I had hardly known Wendell Smythe; to be weeping at his funeral might’ve seemed odd.

  Blessedly, the ceremony ended soon after the song. The pastor said one final prayer, the family placed single roses on the top of the closed casket, and then they quietly made their way to their waiting limousines, the whole lot of them huddling together like mice in a rainstorm. I stayed where I was for a long time, walking to my car only after I realized that the crowd around me had begun to disperse. I think I might’ve stayed there all day, looking at the gravesite in front of me, reliving my own husband’s funeral, if I hadn’t been afraid to be there in the cemetery alone and unprotected.

  When I got back to the house I avoided the gathering of people in the living room and instead made my way through the foyer to Wendell’s study, closing the door behind me. I sat in his chair and wondered how on earth one person could so cruelly take the life of another. My Bryan had died in a horrible accident caused by a careless person; Wendell Smythe had had his life snatched from him by a deliberate action. But were their deaths really that dissimilar? Both were good men, men who loved their work and their wives, men who still had a lot left to give to those around them. The fact that Wendell was so much older at his death than Bryan had been at his still didn’t alter the tragedy of either of them. I wanted to find this killer not just for Tom’s sake, I realized now, but also for Marion’s. Anything less would be unfaithful to the memories of the men we loved.

  I don’t know how long I sat there. I heard cars in the front drive, doors opening and closing, people talking in the front hall. Finally, as the noises died off, the door to the study eased open, and Marion peeked inside.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, an odd expression on her face. “I saw the light on under the door and wondered. For a minute, I pretended it was going to be Wendell. But I knew better.”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied. “I was just sitting here thinking.”

  She stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind her.

  “Are you okay?” I asked softly.

  She nodded.

  “The doctor gave me some Valium,” she said, no slur evident in her voice, but a strange calm in her eyes. “I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through without it.”

  “I’m sure.”

  She stood quietly for a moment, her hands oddly still at her sides. She spoke again, after a moment, her voice sounding peaceful and resolute.

  “Ian did a beautiful job with the eulogy,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

  I nodded, not admitting I hadn’t listened to a word.

  “How about you, dear? You seem pale.”

  “I’m feeling sad,” I admitted. “Your husband’s funeral reminded me a little too much of my own husband’s funeral, selfish as that sounds.”

  “Not selfish,” Marion whispered. “Sorrow notwithstanding, we’re also allowed a little self-pity now and then.”

  She came over to the desk and sat across from me. Looking at her more closely, I realized that there was an odd sort of excitement in her eyes.

  “Right now,” she said suddenly, “I have some things to show you, Callie. Big things. Do you feel up to hearing about it? Because I found them in here, this morning. I think they’re important.”

  Thirty-Two

  I sat up straight, giving Marion my full attention.

  “You know I told you the other day that Wendell was concerned about Feed the Need, about the finances there?” Marion asked me now.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it finally struck me to look inside Wendell’s office safe. I thought he might have some papers or something, but I never expected to find all that I did. It’s truly astonishing, Callie. I think once you’ve looked all of these things over, you might find our killer.”

  I watched as Marion went to a large portrait of Thomas Jefferson on the wall. She swung the painting out on a set of hinges, revealing a wall safe behind. She deftly worked the lock, opened it, and removed a cardboard box.

  By the time she had carried it to the desk and opened it up, my c
uriosity was definitely piqued. Together we pulled everything out, and then Marion went through the various things, showing me what she thought each one meant.

  She held out a handwritten sign containing a word I didn’t recognize, and she told me that she remembered clearly the day Wendell found it.

  “It was on a trip to the Philippines,” she said. “We had an unscheduled stop in Manila, with a layover extended by several hours. There was a Feed the Need district office there, so Wendell and I decided to taxi over from the airport, drop in, and see everyone. Instead, all we found when we got there was this sign, written in Tagalog, hanging on the front door.”

  “What does it say?” I asked.

  “It says ‘closed.’”

  “Like, closed for the night?”

  “No, closed permanently. Out of business. The place was completely stripped, not a speck of furniture left, not a soul there.”

  “Without your knowledge?” I asked “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither did we. Wendell was so furious he tore the sign down and took it with him. Once our trip was over, he told me it was just a mix-up, that he had dealt with it. But now I’m wondering if that was the truth. I’m wondering how many other district offices were closed.”

  I sat back, fingering the crude sign.

  “Manila, you said?” I asked. Marion nodded, and I thought of my conversation with the attorneys’ office two days before when I was trying to find out about any real estate deals that were pending. We’ve already closed on Taipei…Manila…and Tegucigalpa, the woman had told me over the phone. I had asked her if Feed the Need had already paid in full. Paid? the woman had drawled. Heck no, y’all sold. The people who bought the places paid.