Thirty-Four
The trip to the Perskie Detective Agency was uneventful, but by the time I got back to the Smythes’ house my side was aching and I was exhausted. It was around four in the afternoon—too late for a nap, too early to go to bed for the night. Wishing I could take a little canoe ride, I parked the car around back and headed for the house just as Sidra and Carlos came out of the cabana.
They were dressed in bathing suits, carrying towels. As I watched, they walked to the pool and set the towels on a wrought-iron table nearby. Suddenly, a dip in the pool seemed like the most wonderful notion in the world.
“Callie!” Carlos called out as he saw me walking up.
“Hi!” I said, pausing near the back door. “May I join you?”
“Of course,” said Sidra. “Please do.”
I headed upstairs, changed into my bathing suit, and came back down as quickly as I could. By the time I got back to the pool, Sidra was sitting on the side, her feet dangling in the water, and Carlos was doing cannonballs into the deep end.
I set my towel and my briefcase on the table next to theirs. I was going to offer an explanation about the briefcase by saying I thought I might catch up on a little paperwork poolside. But Sidra didn’t even seem to notice, and I was glad. From now on, I wouldn’t risk having anything else taken from my room when I wasn’t there.
“A lovely afternoon for such a sad day, isn’t it?” Sidra said, adjusting her sunglasses.
“Yes,” I agreed. “It is.”
The sun was bright but the air was chilly, and I headed down the steps quickly, finding the warm water to be an invigorating counterpoint to the cool air. I slipped under the water and then surfaced, face upward, relishing the heavenly relaxation that came with a heated pool.
As I leaned back in the water, floating gently, Sidra stood and stepped into the water, easing down the steps. How stunningly beautiful she was. In a bathing suit, she could’ve been a contestant for the Miss Universe pageant.
“This feels so nice,” she said, relaxing into the water. “Carlos and I couldn’t quite figure out what to do with ourselves this afternoon.”
“I know what you mean. Days like this are always tough.”
She leaned back, letting her long brown tresses float out behind her. I did the same, thinking again how nice it would be to have a pool like this of my own.
“I just hope Marion doesn’t think us disrespectful for coming out here,” Sidra said softly. “But Carlos was going stir-crazy. I thought this would be a nice break for him.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m sure Marion would understand.”
I, too, felt a little guilty for swimming on such a somber day. But my shoulders were stiff and my side was still throbbing from my fall this morning. I knew the warm water would be the perfect antidote to my pain.
As Carlos played energetically in the deep end, Sidra and I languished in the shallow, floating and softly chatting. This was really the first conversation she and I had had when she wasn’t hysterical or crying, and I found her to be a fascinating woman, very articulate. As we spoke, I asked about her life in Honduras, about what it had been like to move to the foreign culture of the United States.
“It’s one thing to learn English, which I did as a child,” she said, smiling. “Quite another to speak ‘American.’”
She told me a funny story about her early days here when she was told they used napkins to wipe their mouths at dinner.
“In my village, ‘napkin’ is the word for—how do you say it?—a diaper. I thought we were all expected to wipe our mouths with diapers!”
I laughed out loud, trying to imagine this girl and her dinnertime faux pas. She talked about how much Carlos liked it here, how many friends he had made, how he was excelling in school. I avoided any talk of the knife in the photo, and she didn’t ask. As for her disintegrating marriage, I had said what I had to say to Derek that morning; I could only hope that when everything came to light, he would be the one to take things from here. I thought it was his place to tell Sidra about Judith, not mine.
As Carlos perfected his back flip, our talk turned inevitably to Wendell Smythe and to the wonderful relationship he had shared with his grandson.
“Wendell would sit there,” she said, pointing to a wrought iron chair placed beside the pool at the deep end, “for hours on end, coaching Carlos with his dives. He never raised his voice, never lost his patience.”
“Did Wendell use the pool much himself?” I asked.
“Almost every day,” she said. “He liked to wade in up to his waist, then climb on his inner tube and float around.”
I smiled, trying to picture it.
“Of course, that was up until the last few weeks.”
“Too chilly for him?” I asked.
Sidra shook her head.
“He didn’t want to take his shoes and socks off,” she said. “He was hiding his feet. Didn’t want anyone to know.”
I sat up in the water, remembering the notation I made from the coroner’s report, severe ischemia of the toes and feet.
“Didn’t want anyone to know what?”
“Ugh…Callie, it was awful,” Sidra said. “Gangrene.”
“In his toes and feet?”
“All the way up past his ankles,” she said. “Apparently, at first it was just one toe. But Wendell knew what that meant. He was going to put it off for as long as he could. He wore the circulation stockings and everything, but in the end it didn’t help.”
“I don’t understand.”
“From the diabetes,” Sidra said. “You can get gangrene. The toe starts to turn purple. Once it sets in, you have to amputate.”
“Amputate the toe?”
Sidra shook her head.
“No, by the time Marion finally realized what was going on and made Wendell go to the emergency room Sunday morning, all ten toes and both feet were involved. He was scheduled to have both legs removed at the knee yesterday. That’s the only blessing in his death, really—it happened before he had to go through the operation.”
I was stunned. Why had no one mentioned this to me before? Worse than that, I realized, was that I hadn’t ferreted out this information on my own. Was I so out of practice as a detective that I hadn’t even thought yet to piece together the events of Wendell’s final days?
“Go back a little bit,” I said. “What happened Sunday?”
“Sunday morning, getting ready for church, Marion came into the bathroom just as Wendell was coming out of the shower. His feet were black, something he had managed to hide from her for several weeks.”
“Ugh.”
“As soon as she saw it, Marion called an ambulance and had Wendell taken straight to the hospital.”
“I can imagine.”
“The doctors said that the feet would have to come off. Wendell was very depressed and upset. We all were.”
“Of course.”
“They wanted to do the surgery on Monday,” Sidra continued, “but Wendell refused to have the operation then. He scheduled it for Tuesday instead. He said he needed Monday to finish some important things at work.”
Suddenly, I remembered Gwen on the telephone that first time I came into the office on Monday morning. She had been trying to reschedule a business appointment. Mr. Smythe’s surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning, she had said. If you can’t meet with him today, it’ll be at least three or four weeks before he’s available again.
Why hadn’t I looked into that further before now?
“The poor man,” I said, trying to imagine how it would feel to know you’d be losing both of your legs the following day.
“Wendell was devastated,” Sidra said, “and not just because he would be losing his legs. Until the gangrene set in, the doctors had been seriously considering letting him have a transplant. Now, all hopes of that had gone out of the window as well.”
“A transplant?” I asked, feigning ignorance. “You mean a donor kidney?”
; “Derek was going to give his father one of his kidneys,” she said. “His antigen match was 4, which is excellent.”
“Oh.”
“But on Sunday, the doctors finally nixed the whole thing. Wendell’s heart just wasn’t strong enough for two such serious operations.”
I thought about that, about a man who would’ve had both his legs and his new kidney essentially taken away from him in the same day.
“But I saw Wendell on Monday morning,” I said. “He was bright and cheerful and very charismatic. Certainly not like someone who was in the middle of such a crisis.”
“That was his way,” Sidra said, shrugging. “Believe me, I was his nurse. I know. He could always put his adversity out of his mind, could always make you feel like whatever was happening with you was so much more important than any old thing that was happening with him.”
“Amazing.”
“He may have put on a smile for you Monday morning,” Sidra said, “but I spoke with him at length on Sunday afternoon, and he was incredibly depressed—more than I’ve ever seen him.”
“I can imagine.”
“See, Callie, Wendell’s mother had diabetes, too. Thirty years ago, she died of infection from an amputation. Poor Wendell saw all that pain and misery that his mother went through. He would’ve done anything to keep from going through that himself. That’s why he was hiding his feet for so long.”
“How sad.”
I thought of my own Grandma Bessie’s death from cancer. It had been long and painful and I, too, had spent much of my time there at the end thinking selfishly about myself, praying that I would never suffer the same fate. I knew how Wendell felt.
“The saddest thing to me,” Sidra continued, “was that his murder was so pointless. He was such an ill man. There was a possibility that he wouldn’t have survived the amputation anyway, what with his heart and his general condition and everything. Unless the murderer was a complete stranger, it makes no sense. Everyone knew there was a chance he would’ve been dead within a day or two regardless.”
“How about Wendell himself? Do you think he knew he was dying? That he might not survive the operation?”
“I’m sure he suspected it. He had a pretty good handle on his condition.”
I thought about Wendell Smythe, about a man racing with the clock to get his affairs in order before he had to become so horribly incapacitated or possibly even die. I felt a surge of pity for him, dealing with his physical condition on top of the betrayal within his own company. I thought about my phone call with Tom on Sunday, the call that had sent me to Philadelphia in the first place. As tired as I was from my previous case, Tom wouldn’t even let me wait one day. Now I knew why: His dear friend Wendell urgently needed the money before he went back into the hospital.
Suddenly, a piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
Wendell Smythe didn’t need the J.O.S.H.U.A. money to put a bid on a building. There was no building—and Gwen must’ve known that; it was why she had acted so strangely when I had asked her about it. No, Wendell’s funds were all tied up in his business with no time to liquidate. He must have needed cash, and fast. That’s why he called us: He told Tom the money was for a building, but in fact Wendell was going to use the J.O.S.H.U.A. money to straighten out the financial mess at Feed the Need. Even though it meant lying to his friend, Wendell must’ve felt the ends justified the means because he was determined to set things right before he went in for the operation.
The question that remained, then, was who caused that mess in the first place? More importantly, I thought, was it worth killing for?
Thirty-Five
Dinner was at six, and I was glad. Between missing lunch and taking the afternoon swim, I was starving. By the time I made my way down to the dining room, I was surprised to see that the entire clan was there: Marion, Judith, Derek, Sidra, and Carlos. We took our places at the table, and I was flattered when Carlos insisted on the chair next to mine.
Derek led us in grace, and then the meal was served, a sumptuous parade of cream of asparagus soup, Caesar salad, roast, vegetables, and breads. Angelina served skillfully from the background.
It was a good thing that the food was so delicious, because the conversation was stilted at best with Derek eyeing Judith suspiciously, Sidra avoiding eye contact with Derek, and Marion lost in her own thoughts. At one point, I felt Carlos slip a piece of paper into my hand, and I wondered with a start if he had something important to tell me. I unfolded it as soon as everyone else was distracted with a new course of food, but it was just a typed page of numbers and letters.
“It’s my own secret code!” Carlos whispered enthusiastically. “I made it up this afternoon.”
I winked at him, folded the paper, and tucked it into my pocket.
“It says, ‘I want to be a secret agent, too,’” he whispered, and I gently kicked him.
Afraid that he might say something else, the rest of the meal seemed agonizingly slow. I just hoped Harriet and I could glean what we needed from the Feed the Need records tomorrow morning and then act before Carlos accidentally clued in the murderer that he was aware of my investigation. I didn’t want him to be in any danger.
I was feeling more and more certain that the financial funny business that Wendell had uncovered at Feed the Need was the root cause of his murder. Someone had been stealing money from the nonprofit organization by privately selling assets, terminating staff, and cutting costs. Wendell had caught them when he realized they were selling properties around the world and then diverting the proceeds. The question was, who had been doing it, and where was that money now? I was working out a theory, but I needed more evidence to support it.
“Sidra,” Marion said suddenly, raising her glass of juice, “I must tell you how pleased I am that you and Carlos have joined us for dinner tonight. We have been missing you at the table.”
I could see Sidra color slightly before she replied.
“We’re here out of respect for Wendell,” Sidra said. “Family is still family, especially on the day of burial.”
I glanced at Derek, who was looking at Sidra with deep emotion. She went back to eating, but Derek continued to watch her.
“Sidra,” he said finally. “May I speak with you privately, please?”
She seemed about to protest, but she looked up at his face, hesitated, and simply nodded. Together, they rose from the table, and I could see him take her elbow as he guided her from the room.
“I wonder what that’s about,” Marion said once they were gone.
“Probably more of their shenanigans,” Judith said, taking a bite of roast. I felt a surge of anger toward her, which quickly dissolved into disgust. Carlos jabbed me under the table, and I gave him a stern glance that I hoped would shut him up.
“So Marion,” I said, grasping for something, anything, to change the subject. “I’m sorry I haven’t yet extended condolences on behalf of my boss. I know he would’ve wanted to be here with you at this time if he could.”
Marion paused in her eating, her face surprised.
“But Callie,” she protested. “He was there.”
“Who?”
“Tom.”
“There where?”
“At the cemetery.”
“Tom was at the cemetery?”
“Yes. He sat right behind me, dear. You mean you didn’t speak with him?”
I was too embarrassed to admit that Tom and I had never actually met in person, that I wouldn’t have known him even if I had seen him.
“No—”
“Of course, he did seem to be in a bit of a hurry when it was over. But still…”
I felt like an idiot. Tom and I were finally in the same place at the same time, and he hadn’t introduced himself? He knew who I was, what I looked like. He could’ve—should’ve—spoken to me, even if he was pressed for time.
“I’m surprised you didn’t see him. He came by helicopter with Congresswoman Brown. They were so late they missed the ser
vice at the funeral home. But they made it to the cemetery in time for the ceremony there.”
“There was a helicopter at the cemetery?” Carlos asked.
“No, dear,” Marion said. “The helicopter landed at the Pike Ridge Airport. I had a car meet them there and drive them to the cemetery.”
I racked my brain, trying to remember the faces of the people that sat near the family. It was useless. I had been so thrown by the song the woman sang—not to mention my experience of being thrown into the empty grave—that I couldn’t remember what the casket itself looked like. I felt my face flush red as I realized Tom must’ve seen me crying. He must think I was nuts, sobbing at the funeral of a man I hardly knew.
Congresswoman Brown? I knew who she was. I had heard a speech of hers once at a Philanthropy Now convention. She was an eloquent and intelligent woman, a divorced mother of two with a pretty face and short auburn hair. Formerly a nonprofit attorney, she was now actively involved in the legislation and regulation of nonprofits. I wondered if she was also actively involved with Tom.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur with the four of us making uncomfortable small talk. Derek and Sidra never did return to the table, which I took as a hopeful sign. Obviously, he was telling her about Judith, perhaps even paving the way for them to work on their marriage. After dessert, I got out of there as quickly as I could; I wanted to be alone to think. My head was spinning, my stomach burning.
Tom had been at the funeral.
“Hey, Callie,” Carlos called to me as I headed up the stairs. I came back down quickly.
“What?” I whispered, glancing around. Marion and Judith had gone on into the den after dinner, but I still didn’t want to run the risk of being overheard.
“What’s next?” Carlos whispered. “Are you on the case? Are we gonna spy on anybody tonight?”
My stomach lurched. Carlos and I needed to have a little talk. I took his arm and led him to the nearest door, which was Wendell’s study. Swinging the door open, I realized the light was on and Angelina was inside.
A Penny for Your Thoughts Page 22
