“Callie, can I help you with something?” I heard Winnie call after me.
Suddenly, before I could reply, there were shouts and screams and the sight of at least 20 police officers descending on the partygoers on the patio. I heard the words “freeze” and “raid” and “you have the right to remain silent.” Once I finally turned around and looked at the scene, all I could do was pray that Clement was safe, that the cops had apprehended the men in the garage before anyone could do anything stupid.
I waited at the back of the yard until I saw the captain come to the kitchen door and give the “all clear” signal to the cops outside. Breathing a great big sigh of relief, I headed toward the house, allowing myself to be herded into the corner of the patio where they were sorting everyone out. Counting heads, I realized they had managed to nab almost every single person who was on the list of those who had either stolen food or accepted food they knew was stolen. The cops didn’t single me out but merely pointed me in the direction of the innocent parties, the few standing near the garden shed who hadn’t the slightest idea what was going on.
Eventually, Clement was sent out from the house to join us. I gave him a big hug, certainly much bigger than our seemingly casual acquaintance would allow. Obviously shaken, he hugged me back even tighter.
When the police told us we were free to leave, I stuck with Clement, offering to take him home. In somewhat of a daze, he accepted that offer. Sitting in the passenger seat of my rental car, he stared blankly ahead as I drove toward his house and gently tried to explain all that he had just seen.
By the time we reached his house, he was still quite shaken. He invited me inside and I accepted, eager to see him safely delivered into the arms of his wife.
She wasn’t home, however, so I insisted that he call one of his children, perhaps Trey, since I knew he lived right down the street and could be here in a matter of minutes. While we waited, I heated some water on the stove for tea and essentially made myself at home in the kitchen. The house was small but tidy, and everything was easy to find in the neatly organized cabinets. As the water began to bubble on the stove, Clement took a seat at the table, silent, his expression blank. As I was setting his tea in front of him, Trey burst through the door, concern evident on his face.
“Pop?”
Short but muscular, with his father’s coffee-colored skin and deep brown eyes, Trey was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, both of which were covered with spatters of blue.
“We were painting the baby’s room,” he added, sounding breathless, looking from me to his father. “What’s going on?”
Clement didn’t answer, so I introduced myself and tried to explain the situation as best I could. The place where Clement worked, I said, had been busted for fraud and theft. Clement was in the clear, but he had been fairly traumatized by the whole event.
“And who are you, exactly?” Trey asked, looking at me as if this were all my fault. In a way, it was.
“My name is Callie Webber,” I said, carrying over two more cups of tea and taking a seat at the table. “I’m a private investigator.”
Clement turned toward me, his face suddenly registering disbelief rather than shock.
“You’re a what?” he asked.
“A private investigator.”
“Since when?”
“Since I was old enough to get certified in the state of Virginia,” I said. “I’m also a lawyer. I work for the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation out of Washington, DC.”
Clement shook his head, as if to shake off the confusion. Before he could launch into more questions, I continued.
“I live in Maryland now,” I explained, “and I just came to California to investigate Dinner Time on behalf of my employer. Dinner Time had requested a grant, and it’s my job to verify eligibility.”
“You don’t even live here?” Clement asked me, still incredulous. “You mean you’ve been pretending all week?”
“I’m sorry, Clement,” I said. “Sometimes that’s the only way I can really see what’s going on.”
Trey slid into the seat across from me, ignoring the tea I had put there for him.
“So what happened today?” he asked. “I’m still confused.”
“In the course of the investigation of Dinner Time, I uncovered fraud, theft, tax evasion, distribution of stolen property, you name it. I took that information to the police, only to learn that they already knew about it and that they were very close to making some arrests. We worked together on a sting operation, and today we caught most of the guilty parties red-handed.”
“I can’t believe they were stealing food,” Clement said, shaking his head sadly.
“I always told you there was something slick about that Skipper person,” Trey said to his father. “‘Skipper and Winnie,’ good grief. Sounds like a pair of Barbie dolls.”
“Will Dinner Time have to close down?” Clement asked.
“Probably,” I answered. “Even if someone were to try to keep the place up and running, I doubt it would be able to stay open for very long. Between the bad publicity and the incarcerated principals, I think it’ll soon fold. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” Clement said. “I’m sorry I was so blind, so stupid.”
Trey put a reassuring hand on his father’s arm.
“C’mon, Pop,” he said. “You couldn’t know. You were just doing your job.”
“Oh, yeah, my job,” Clement said. “Guess I’m out of a job now.”
“We’ll find you something,” Trey said. “Maybe Tanisha can get you on over at the grocery store.”
“I liked working at a nonprofit,” Clement said, shaking his head. “I liked feeling that my efforts were making just a little difference in the world.”
I reached into my pocket, grasping the familiar square of paper there. I pulled it out and set it on the table in front of me, still folded in half.
“I’d like to talk to you about that,” I said. “And I’m glad Trey is here, because this would involve him too.”
Both men looked at me, their faces somber.
“In the course of my investigation,” I continued, “I had to check into everybody’s background. Including yours, Clement. Your life story paints a picture of a good man, a steady reliable worker who knows the value of a dollar.”
“That’s my dad,” Trey said suspiciously. “But what are you getting at?”
“Well, I’ve watched you this week reading to the children down at the food bank, Clement. I’ve heard you talk about the benefits of reading, of being read to. I want you to think about starting a charity of your own. Something that lets you go around and give away books and have regular reading times with homeless children.”
“Like a bookmobile?” Clement asked.
“Perhaps,” I said. “Or maybe you could get some space in the recreation center or a homeless shelter or another food bank. Somewhere that you could set up a little reading corner filled with books and bean-bag chairs and stuffed animals. It’s not hard to get people to donate children’s books to a charity. You could provide reading times, give the books to the children who seem to want them, encourage their parents to read with them…”
I let my voice trail off, seeing that a spark was lighting up behind Clement’s eyes.
“What do I have to do with this?” Trey asked.
“Your father told me that you’re an accountant,” I said. “Maybe you can help him get started and then keep the books for him.”
“Well, yeah, I could do that.”
“And I understand your sister is a graphic artist? Maybe she could put together some brochures and promotional materials. You’d be surprised how many resources are available, usually right at your own fingertips.”
I looked at Trey and then at Clement, surprised to see the fire quickly fading from the older man’s eyes.
“As good as our intentions may be,” he said, shaking his head, “There’s one thing standing in the way. I can’t afford it.”
I s
miled, fingering the square of paper in front of me.
“Well, then let me take it a step further,” I said. “My job allows me a certain amount of leeway with small monetary grants. What would you think if I gave you a check to get started? You could get yourself incorporated as a nonprofit, file for federal tax exemption, and cover your basic start-up costs. Once you’ve got that tax exemption, I would encourage you to fill out a grant application from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation for a much larger amount of money. We believe strongly in what you could accomplish, Clement, and we would like to have some small part in furthering your efforts.”
I sat back, thinking that in the two and a half years I had worked for the foundation, this was the first time I had to talk someone into taking our money!
“Still, I don’t see how it would work,” Trey said. “He’d need at least a thousand dollars just to get set up.”
“How does five thousand sound?” I asked, unfolding the check and handing it to them. It was already made out to Clement Jackson, who picked it up and studied it as if it were a ticket to somewhere important. “And, like I said, once you’ve got that tax exemption and your policies and procedures in place, you can apply to us for more. I have a feeling we’ll be very generous as long as you can show you’ve got a good business plan.”
The two men looked at each other and grinned, and not for the first time I wished my boss, Tom, the philanthropist behind all J.O.S.H.U.A. grants, could be here to witness their joy. Tom was half a world away right now, and though later I would recount this entire scene for him over the phone, it still made me sad that he wasn’t here experiencing it for himself.
Then again, he never was. Tom always donated anonymously through the foundation and then enjoyed the moment of presentation vicariously through me. I was happy to recreate every word, every detail, but I had never understood why he chose to remain so removed from the whole process.
Of course, he and I talked frequently during every investigation, and in fact it was the time we spent on the phone that had allowed us to become friends and then eventually something much more than friends. Four months ago, after several years of a phone-only relationship, Tom and I had finally been able to meet face-to-face.
At the time, he had been out of the country for his work, but he had surprised me by flying back to the States and showing up at my home. We had spent exactly 12 hours together—12 amazing hours that I had relived again and again in my memories ever since—and then he had to leave, returning to Singapore and the urgent business that awaited him.
Now, four months later, Tom was still in Singapore, though his business there was quickly drawing to a close and soon he would be coming home for good. His home was in California and mine was in Maryland, but our plan was to meet somewhere between the two in exactly seven days at some quiet place where we would finally, finally be able to spend some real quality time together—time getting to know each other even better, time exploring the possibilities of a relationship that had gone from friendship to something much more in the space of one 12-hour visit. I was already counting the minutes until we could be together again, knowing that once he returned, a new chapter in my life would begin in earnest. Tom was handling the logistics of our reunion, and my primary concern was to wrap up my next investigation by the following Sunday, because I didn’t want work or anything else to detract from the time we were going to spend together.
Clement spoke, snapping me out of my thoughts and back to the moment at hand.
“I’ve been praying for something like this for quite a while,” he was saying, looking at his son, and I realized there were tears in his eyes. “For so long,” he repeated, blinking. “I didn’t think the Lord was hearing me. But He was. Because He sent me an angel.”
I held up one hand to stop him, emotion surging in my heart as well.
“Now, don’t—”
“I’m not kidding, girl. You are an angel. A very generous angel.”
“So you’ll take the money and start your own charity?” I asked.
“Oh, thank You, Lord,” he said, grinning up toward the ceiling. Then he looked back at me. “Yes, Callie. Yes. Most definitely yes.”
Two
After directing Trey and Clement to some resources that might be helpful in their new venture, I bid them farewell and then spent several hours down at the police station, giving my full statement about the arrests and the events that had led up to them. Once I was finished, I found a Saturday night service in a church near my hotel and was able to slip into the back just a few minutes late. I would have preferred to go to church in the morning, but I was at the mercy of an early flight and the fact that I needed to get all the way across the country and on to my next destination before nightfall.
Fortunately, the service ended up being a rousing one with an amazing choir and an old-fashioned, Bible-thumping, foot-stomping sermon. My church at home was much more sedate and cerebral, and though that was usually my preference, sometimes it felt good to get out and enjoy other styles of worship. Later, I was still humming one of the more spirited songs as I drifted off to sleep at my hotel.
I was at the airport bright and early the following morning, ready to move on to my next assignment. It was going to be a long day. Even with a 7:00 departure, I wouldn’t reach Asheville, North Carolina, until nearly 5:00 in the evening, and from there I still had to rent a car and drive another hour and a half into the Blue Ridge Mountains. I was grateful for that interval, though, because I would need it to prepare myself for the challenging emotional voyage that lay ahead. Hopefully, by the time I reached the small mountain community of Greenbriar, North Carolina, I would feel ready to be there.
After checking my suitcases, I found the gate for my flight and chose an empty seat near a window, looking absently at the airplanes parked just outside. From where I sat, I could see airport personnel loading luggage from a metal cart into what looked like a 727. Lulled by their repetitive movements, I thought about the trip ahead and my own personal connection to the people involved.
This journey was not going to be a typical venture by any means. On paper, of course, it looked simple enough. Much like what I had discussed today with Clement, this was a situation where the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation had provided start-up money for a new nonprofit several years ago, and now that they were fully up and running, I was going back to approve a much larger grant. Of course, it was all relative: Unlike Clement and his $5000 check, this agency had started with a grant of $200,000, and now they were in line to get $1,000,000. That initial $200,000 check had been one of the first grants I had ever given out as an employee of the foundation. It wasn’t the money that had me concerned now, however. It was the people involved: The agency was run by none other than my former in-laws, Dean and Natalie Webber.
The parents of my late husband, Bryan.
Not that I wasn’t eager to visit them. The Webbers were delightful people, not stereotypical in-laws at all. I had known them since I was a teenager, had liked them from the moment we met, and a part of me was so excited about this trip that my heart quickened at the thought of it. On the other hand, I hadn’t seen them in two years. Though the Webbers and I had kept in touch, it was much easier to maintain the relationship via e-mail and Christmas cards than it was standing there, face-to-face, and acknowledging that the very person who linked us together was no longer with us at all.
To make matters more complicated, this would be the first time since Bryan died that I was going back to our vacation house, the little mountain cabin where we always stayed whenever we went to Greenbriar to visit his family. Bryan and I had lived and worked in Virginia, and when he died in a boating accident four years before, I had sold our home there and moved away to Maryland’s Eastern Shore. But I had never let go of the cabin in the North Carolina mountains; instead, I had simply turned it over to a local management company and let them handle it for me as a vacation rental. The income from the rental more than covered the upkeep and small mortgage, and
I think in the back of my mind my hope was that one day I could start going there again myself occasionally to spend time with old friends and family in my beloved mountains. I felt I might be ready to return now, but the situation still brought with it a bit of apprehension. What if I were overestimating how far I had come in my own grieving process? At least I wouldn’t be alone in all of this; my friend and coworker Harriet would be joining me to do the financial side of the investigation.
And I was eager for the investigative part of this visit, because I felt certain that the Webbers’ charity would check out beautifully. I always enjoyed giving away the biggest grants, the ones for a million dollars, but that it might go to people I loved made it even more thrilling. I couldn’t wait to see what they had accomplished since we gave them the original grant. What had started as a simple memorial fund in honor of their son had since evolved into the well-known and well-respected nonprofit agency, Migrant Outreach Resource Enterprises, or MORE, a charity that served the needs of the migrant fruit pickers who flooded their region every year at harvesttime.
As far as my own feelings were concerned, perhaps the best thing I had going for me at this point was the fact that my boss, Tom, was so supportive of this trip—both the professional aspect and the personal. Long before Tom and I were anything more than simply boss and employee, he was aware of my connection here and my in-laws’ desire to start a nonprofit in Bryan’s honor. When Tom heard that their little memorial fund had grown to nearly $25,000 on its own, he was the one who told me to encourage the Webbers to get a state license, file for nonprofit status, and then apply to us for some serious start-up money. They had done just that, and the original trip two years ago when I had come here, examined their plans, and given them the J.O.S.H.U.A. grant was a bittersweet time of memories and tears. This visit, by contrast, would hopefully be much more upbeat and extensive. I was going to Greenbriar for a full investigation of MORE. This new grant would allow them to expand their nonprofit and take it to an even higher level. And since it was a follow-up grant to an earlier approval, I would be able to conduct the investigation with the knowledge and cooperation of everyone involved. That was going to be a welcome relief to my usual methods of discreet inquiry, and a marked contrast to the week I had just spent undercover.
A Dime a Dozen Page 2
