A Penny for Your Thoughts

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “What happened to the nurses?”

  “We let them go. But Ralston was fired before that anyway. He was bad news, almost from the day he started.”

  “Bad news, how?”

  Derek pressed a finger against his chin absently as he thought.

  “From what I recall, we made the mistake of hiring him without checking his references first. He had sticky fingers. Stole some cash from Dad’s dresser, some jewelry from Mom. We let him go fairly quickly.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  Derek shrugged.

  “I don’t know. Maybe six months ago. Why do you ask?”

  I shook my head.

  “Too complicated to explain,” I said. “Why didn’t you check his references before hiring him?”

  “He came here on a recommendation. From Alan. Ralston had worked for Alan’s aunt or something.”

  “What did Alan say when he found out the man was a thief?”

  “He was mortified and furious, of course,” Derek replied. “But what can you do? Sometimes things like that happen.”

  “I guess so.”

  I asked Derek to describe the man.

  “Big muscles. Brown hair. Not too bad-looking. Funny haircut, though. Kind of spiked up in the front.”

  I thanked Derek for his help, then headed on to my car. As I drove, I thought about what I had just learned. A former nurse! By limiting my search to people whom Wendell would freely allow to inject him with insulin, I hadn’t even considered former employees. Still, if this man had been let go under difficult circumstances, what would Wendell’s reaction have been to the man now appearing in his office, slipping in through the back way? Somehow, I doubted that Wendell would’ve allowed this guy to inject him—unless, perhaps, it was done at gunpoint.

  I pulled onto the Schuylkill expressway, knowing I needed to give this information to Duane Perskie because he was running the man’s prints for me. I called him after putting on my earpiece, expecting to leave a message on his voice mail. Much to my surprise, however, he answered on the second ring. I continued to drive as we talked.

  “Callie!” he said when he realized it was me. “I was just trying to reach you at the Smythes’. What a mess I’m in here.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Those prints you asked me to run? I was doing it on the QT just as a favor. But one of the names set off some red flags with Keegan and Sollie, not to mention the FBI. Now they wanna see you and me ASAP.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “The red flag was for Mitchell Ralston.”

  “Ralston, Rathbone…the guy went by several names. Real name is Monty Redburn. He’s got a rap sheet long as my arm.”

  “Why was he flagged?”

  “He’s being sought in connection with Smythe’s murder. Don’t know how he fits in, exactly, but now I’ve got to explain why I was running his prints and where I got them. You’ve got to come in.”

  I glanced at the clock, thinking about Harriet. She would be at the train station in less than 20 minutes. So far, traffic was very light, but I knew I couldn’t depend on that. Once I picked her up, we had lots to do, important work that might clear up the questions hovering over this entire investigation. I knew that if I went to the police station instead, I would be stuck there for hours, answering their questions, telling them everything I had done and been through since my investigation began.

  “Duane,” I said, “I’m really sorry and I owe you big on this one, but I’m not coming in. Not just yet.”

  “What?”

  “You have to put off the meeting. I’ll contact you in a few hours.”

  “But Callie, you can’t—”

  “Please, Duane. I’m sorry. I’ll be in touch.”

  He was quiet for a long moment before exhaling loudly.

  “Just a few hours,” he said. “I can’t hold ’em off any longer than that.”

  “I promise,” I said.

  I hung up and was just slipping the phone into my purse when I heard the odd sound of a motor gunning.

  I looked up, shocked to see a red pickup truck filling my rearview mirror; Mitchell Ralston or Monty Redburn or whatever-his-name was at the wheel.

  Bang!

  He rammed his truck into the back of my car! I felt the force of it thrust me forward, and I gripped the steering wheel tightly as I tried not to lose control.

  I looked around frantically, trying to size up my situation, blaming myself for being so wrapped up in my phone conversation that I hadn’t seen Redburn behind me.

  Bang!

  He hit me again, this time propelling me sideways into the cement median. He had chosen the place for this ambush well; we were driving along a several-mile strip of road construction, an area with no shoulders and absolutely no way to go but forward. On each side of the two lanes were four-foot-high concrete walls with only about a foot’s leeway between them and the road.

  I steered back from the median, yelling at the image in my rearview mirror. He kept coming though, so close that I could see the grin on his face. He was enjoying this.

  I slammed my foot down on the gas pedal and managed to put a few yards between us. I tried to use that time to grab my phone and hit redial. But before I could press the “send” button, the truck slammed into me again. The phone shot from my hand, clattering to the floorboard on the far side of the car and out of reach.

  “Stop it!” I screamed, racing through my options in my mind, desperately trying to figure out what to do. There were no other cars here, no choices but to go fast or faster. Still, my little Saturn was no match for his truck. I knew that if his intention was to kill me, he would more than likely succeed.

  I thought about slamming on my brakes, but I felt sure that he would simply crush me from behind, making my car look like an accordion. We were already going about 85 miles per hour. One good impact into that cement wall and my car would be scrap metal.

  I decided to take my foot off of the gas completely. As I slowed, he banged into me again, but I was ready for him. I steered against the push of his truck and then gunned myself ahead of him in a short burst. I tried that again, slowing until he almost hit me, then pressing down on the gas.

  Bang!

  He rammed into me hard. My head snapped back with such force that I thought I would see stars. Amazingly, my air bag didn’t deploy, but I still lost all control of the wheel. I felt myself spinning, spinning out of control, then the next thing I saw was the cement barrier rushing closer. I would’ve crashed into it if I hadn’t seen at the last moment a gap in the wall. I grabbed hard on the wheel and held on, suddenly steering to make a sharp right when I reached the break.

  I didn’t know where I was going as I turned, only that I was getting off of the road, away from the maniac in the truck. With my luck, I’m driving off a cliff, I thought as I pounded blindly down an incline, away from the road. When my car finally came to a stop, I was enveloped in a cloud of dust. I held my breath, eyes closed, praying that he was gone for good and that I was safe.

  “You alright, lady?”

  I opened my eyes to see six or seven men surrounding my car, looking in at me with concern. They were construction workers, all in jeans and hard hats. I nodded, opening my door with trembling hands.

  “Somebody ran me off the road,” I said, my voice hoarse.

  “We heard the noise,” one of the men said. “He was gunning right for you.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Road construction,” another one said. “We’re widening the lanes.”

  I stood up on unsteady legs and looked around at the packed-dirt lot that surrounded me. There were cars parked in rows in the dirt, and I could see the cranes and other equipment of heavy construction in the distance. Fortunately, I seemed to have landed in the one part of the area that didn’t have any vehicles in it. I realized that had I gone another 20 feet, I would’ve crashed into a group of workmen laying some cement.

  I turned to look at my car, fear welling
up in my throat when I saw what he had done. The car looked as though it had been through a major crash with paint scraped from the sides and the back crushed in like a cereal box. Only with God’s grace, I knew, had I survived.

  “You want we should call the police for you?” one of the men asked. I shook my head, knowing that the police were already looking for me.

  “Just tell me if there’s another way to get out of here besides the main road,” I said, my voice sounding much stronger now than I felt. I knew my only choice was to pick up Harriet and get this mystery solved before I was as dead as Wendell Smythe.

  The police would hear my story soon enough.

  Thirty-Eight

  Harriet was waiting when I arrived at the train station, a big tote bag clutched in each hand. As I pulled closer, I could see her face go from excited to appalled. She looked my vehicle up and down, her eyes wide.

  “What in the world happened to you?” she exclaimed. “I guess Philly traffic is even worse than DC, huh?”

  I got out and hugged her and then told her to lower her voice and get in the car as quickly as possible. She did as I asked, tossing her tote bags into the backseat before sitting down and slamming the door.

  “Don’t ask any questions just yet,” I said. I put on my blinker, trying to pull back out into the line of traffic. “Please use your phone and find me the nearest car rental place.”

  “Were you in an accident?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I’ve got a cousin here in town,” she said. “Maybe we could run out there, and you could borrow her car. I was hoping to squeeze in a visit anyway.”

  “Harriet,” I said evenly, “thanks for the offer. But I’d be more comfortable with a rental.”

  We found a nearby car rental agency, and I left Harriet waiting in my car while I went inside and asked for the biggest, safest, sturdiest vehicle that they had. They offered me a Lincoln or a minivan. I was about to decline both when the young man behind the counter volunteered that the Lincoln had a really strong V8 engine.

  “Zero to 60 in about five seconds,” he said, grinning, but when his boss flashed him a glare, he added, “Least that’s what they say in the commercials.”

  I took him up on it, handing over my credit card and waiting impatiently as he did the paperwork. I had lost my pursuer in the red truck, and I had no intention of being found again. Once they got me all set up with my rental, the man recommended a body shop right up the block for my Saturn. I told them I’d rather just park it for the time being, so they let me have a slot on the end.

  By the time Harriet and I got into our new Lincoln, she was bubbling over with questions, her face the picture of concern. I tried to convince her that everything was fine, or at least okay, but I knew she could tell from my trembling hands that it was not.

  We headed into the city in our new rental, the interior as plush and comfortable as any I’d ever ridden in. I always had an odd affection for rental cars, for the pleasure of trying out different types of vehicles on a temporary basis. But I rarely went with the luxury class, opting instead for the more economical midsize. This was different, however.

  This was war.

  Glancing frequently in my rearview mirror, I tried to relax as we drove, finally giving Harriet a toned-down, modified version of what had happened. She seemed nervous after that, glancing behind us often, asking me twice to describe the truck that my attacker had driven. I realized too late that I should’ve just made up some story of a fender bender instead—Harriet was not the type who enjoyed or even endured danger or intrigue. The fact that the police wanted me for questioning would’ve only made her more upset, so I omitted that fact altogether.

  Fortunately, we made it all the way downtown to the hotel without incident and without catching sight of the truck. I found the hotel’s parking garage and claimed a spot on the first floor; then we loaded up all of our things and headed across the street to the hotel.

  The place was huge, with a lobby spanning at least five floors in height. After we secured our meeting room with the sales office, I headed there while Harriet made a stop in the rest room.

  “I would’ve gone at the train station,” she said as she paused in the doorway, “but that place smelled worse than a hog’s pen in Indian summer.”

  I laughed out loud, wondering how I had gotten through the week without her. Though Harriet was older than me by a good 20 years, she was a slightly eccentric, totally youthful ray of sunshine—her hair a vivid red pile of curls on top of her head, her glasses sparkling at each corner with rhinestones. And though she tried to wear nice clothes, she always seemed to be falling apart with shoes that didn’t quite match her purse, lipstick smeared on her teeth, and hemlines that were perpetually crooked.

  I found our meeting place at the end of a long hall, a pleasant boardroom-style setup with a huge conference table and seating for about ten people. I pushed the chairs around a bit so that Harriet and I would have access to the electrical outlets; then I plugged in my own laptop and pulled out the box of records I had received from Marion—the ones she had discovered in Wendell’s safe. The hotel had left a stack of notepads and sharpened pencils in the center of the table, and I helped myself to two of each, laying them in our working space.

  “Here’s your food setup,” the hotel caterer said as she wheeled a cart into the room. On it was a coffee pot and a small stack of cups and plates alongside an artfully arranged pile of fresh fruit and pastries—the mandatory minimum catering service offered with the room.

  “Looks wonderful,” I said as she slid the cart against the wall. I had forgotten all about stopping for breakfast, and I felt a surge of appetite and a serious need for coffee. As soon as the woman left, I took a small plate and loaded it with fresh strawberries and watermelon before fixing myself a cup of the coffee, black and strong.

  “Nice room,” Harriet said when she finally came through the door. “But this table’s big enough for line dancing!”

  I smiled and pointed her toward the food and coffee. She got herself all set, then joined me at the table.

  “Before we start,” Harriet said, removing her glasses to study me carefully, “I wanna know how you’re doin’. You really don’t look so good.”

  I quickly swallowed a bite of a strawberry.

  “I’m recovering,” I said. “At least we’re here now—we’re safe.”

  “I’m not just talking about the incident this morning. I’ve been worried about you all week.”

  Glancing into her concerned face, I felt a surge of tears threatening behind my eyes. I looked away, rearranging the fruit on my plate.

  “It’s been a hard week for me,” I said finally, softly. “The widow, Mrs. Smythe? She loved her husband very much. From what I can tell, they had one of those marriages…”

  I let my voice trail off as I struggled for the right words.

  “One of those amazing marriages, like you and your husband had?” Harriet finished for me. I nodded.

  “But I’ve cried a little and worked some things through,” I continued, “and now I think I’m going to be fine. No, I know I’m going to be fine.”

  “If you need to talk,” Harriet said, “I’m ready to listen.”

  I smiled at her.

  “Don’t need to talk, actually,” I said. “But I could use a prayer.”

  She nodded knowingly, and then we held hands and bowed our heads.

  “Lord,” she drawled, “I thank You for my dear friend, Callie Webber, the finest woman I have ever known. I just pray that You will come down and wrap Your lovin’ arms around her and protect her from hurt and from harm. Bless us here today as we attempt to finish this job so Callie can come back home where she belongs. Help us to keep our eyes on You, God, and give me traveling mercies as I head back out this afternoon.”

  After her amen, I felt her squeeze my hands tightly before letting go. I said my own silent prayer of thanks for the blessing of a true friend. Then we turned toward the tabl
e, pulled out Harriet’s computer and her adding machine, and got down to work.

  Thirty-Nine

  “You’re telling me,” I said to Harriet, “that there’s a $250,000 discrepancy between these two sets of books?”

  We had been working for nearly three hours as we compared the records and analyzed the cash flow from each set.

  “Two hundred forty-nine thousand, seven hundred thirty-three dollars,” she said, “that shows up in the public record, but disappears in the private one.”

  “Well, I guess that’s not really a surprise,” I said, tossing a grape up into the air and catching it in my mouth. “My bet is that Wendell wanted the money from J.O.S.H.U.A. to cover this debt. He wanted to straighten out this mess before he went in for his operation.”

  Harriet agreed. She had tried crunching the numbers several different ways, but it still came out the same. In the last five months, Feed the Need had drastically cut their costs, diverting the savings into a series of unrelated accounts. The surprise here was not that the money had been stolen, but where it had gone—not into someone’s private account, as I had suspected, but into the business accounts of Smythe Incorporated. Whoever had stolen this money from Feed the Need had simply diverted it to the for-profit company. Of course, it wasn’t quite that clear-cut on paper, but Harriet had brilliantly traced it out.

  “I don’t get it,” Harriet said. “I mean, a quarter-mil isn’t exactly a lot of money to a company like Smythe. They deal in multi-millions. I can’t imagine why a measly $250,000 was worth all the trouble.”

  “Unless they’re not done yet,” I said. “What if whoever did this is still doing it, pulling out just a little at a time so they don’t get caught?”

  I stood and paced around the room, thinking of Wendell’s secretary and wondering if she had had any part in this. I doubted it. She so truly valued Feed the Need; I doubted she would’ve done anything to hurt the good works they were doing. It had to have been Judith and Alan.