A Penny for Your Thoughts (11 page)

Knowing I was out of time, I headed back to the living room and slipped the comb, the toy dinosaur, and the pack of letters into the bag. Then I carefully folded down the top, picked up the bag, and headed out of the door, passing Sidra as we met near the pool.

“You got the knife?” she asked, looking oddly at the bag I carried.

“I took the picture, too,” I said. “You never know.”

“Okay.”

She headed on, her mind obviously occupied with other things.

“Is your son alright?” I asked, calling after her.

“He’s fine. The bus broke down in Lancaster,” she said. “They won’t be home till tomorrow.”

“Do you need someone to go and get him tonight?” I asked. “If you gave me directions, I wouldn’t mind making the drive—”

“Thank you,” she said, “but no. This’ll give him one more day before he has to face the news of his grandfather. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

She continued walking, letting herself into the cabana. I turned and headed for the house, slipping into the back door and up the stairs before anyone saw me and asked me what I was carrying.

Up in my room, I searched for a hiding place for the bag. I set it on the bed, then slowly walked around the room, thinking, peeking in drawers, feeling under furniture. Nothing really struck me as a good hiding place in either the bedroom or the bathroom until my eyes came to rest on the radiator covers along the wall, under the window.

The covers were made of beautifully stained wood, fronted by an elegant sort of bronze mesh. I had seen these types of covers before, though not as fancy, and I knew they fit down over the radiators like boxes. I grabbed one on each side, and it came up easily. Underneath was an old-fashioned radiator—with plenty of room between it and the wall for my stash. Carefully, I slipped the bag in place, then slid the cover back down over the whole thing. As I looked from each angle, I could see that I had chosen a perfect hiding spot. As long as the temperature outside stayed relatively warm and the radiator never actually kicked on, it would be okay.

I hurriedly put on some makeup and changed into my new dark slacks and top, which fortunately fit just fine. I fixed my hair, pulling a few twigs and leaves from it as I went, then glanced at my watch. I probably only had a few minutes or so before the guests downstairs would begin to leave.

I could hear the low murmur of voices as I reached the bottom of the stairs. From the doorway of the living room I could see Marion dressed elegantly in black, holding court from her perch on the couch, a white handkerchief clutched tightly in her hand. There were about ten people there, their voices hushed and respectful. I joined the small crowd, mingling around, listening as they all spoke of Wendell Smythe in glowing terms, expressing their shock at his sudden death. Marion saw me and proceeded to introduce me as a friend of the family. I was glad; I would’ve hated being known either as a visiting philanthropist or, worse, as the woman who discovered Wendell’s body.

Alan Bennet was there, hovering solicitously around Marion, looking as handsome and perfectly put-together as he had that morning at the office. He seemed to know everyone there, and I realized that he acted almost like a member of the family himself, keeping a comforting hand on Marion’s shoulder, accepting people’s condolences on behalf of the widow. Considering that Derek and Judith were conspicuously absent, I supposed Alan’s presence was helpful. At one point, I overheard him chatting with
the family’s minister, Reverend Quinn, giving suggestions for the eulogy.

That, in turn, made me think of my husband Bryan’s eulogy, and I wondered suddenly how I was going to get through the events of the next few days. I hadn’t been around death since Bryan died. I wasn’t sure I could do this without somehow falling apart. It was already hard, I realized, just standing here among these somber, dark-suited guests in the comfort of the Smythes’ home. How would I ever survive at a funeral home, much less a cemetery?

“Hello again.”

Startled, I turned to see Alan Bennet at my elbow, a friendly glint in his eye.
He certainly knows how to work a room,
I thought. I seemed to be the only person left he hadn’t yet had a conversation with.

“Callie, right?”

“Yes,” I said, shaking his hand. “Quite a day this turned out to be, huh?”

“You said it. I still can’t believe what has happened. What a shock to us all.”

He spoke softly, his tone and manner implying familiarity. Looking at his handsome face, I thought,
Oh yes, I can definitely see how this man works his magic
. He was stunningly handsome, though I sensed a certain emptiness behind the charming facade.

“So where are Marion’s children?” I asked, knowing that Derek must be back from the park by now.

“Haven’t seen Derek,” Alan said. “Judith’s still at the office. She asked me to come tonight and look after things since she couldn’t be here until later.”

“Her father just died today,” I said, remembering my conversation with her at the office. “How on earth can she still be working?”

“She’s the boss,” he said simply. “Lots of loose ends to tie up if she wants to be free for the next few days.”

I mulled that over, thinking I wouldn’t be surprised if Judith begrudged her father the time she would have to take off from work for his funeral. To me, she’d seemed just that callous.

“This morning we were talking about the traveling you do for work,” I said, changing the subject. “I would imagine a clothing manufacturer must have to go all over the world.”

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “Wendell and I have logged so many frequent flyer miles, I think we set some kind of record. Though once he went on dialysis, he had to cut down a bit, of course. It was a lot of trouble.”

“I would imagine it would be kind of difficult,” I said. “Going into foreign countries with all of his medical problems.”

“The hardest part—even a bigger pain than the dialysis—was that horrible nephrotic syndrome diet he was on,” Alan said. “He had to monitor every single bite and every ounce of fluid that went into his body. Just awful.”

“How about his diabetes?” I asked. “Was it under control?”

“Well, no, but that was all part of it, the reason for the kidney failure and everything.”

“He used insulin?”

“Oh, yeah. Hated testing his blood, hated giving himself the shots. You’d think you’d get used to something like that, but he never did.”

“I don’t think I could ever give myself a shot,” I said, shuddering. “I’d probably have to have other people do it for me.”

We were on dangerous ground here, but if Alan had reason to change the course of this conversation, he didn’t show it.

“Wendell was the same way,” he said, nodding. “He wanted all of us to learn how to give shots. We had to practice on oranges until we got it right.”

“Oranges?”

“Yeah, Sidra taught us—the family and staff, Gwen, and me. We sat around the table one day, injecting water into oranges. It seemed funny at the time, but then that was Wendell’s way, turning his tragedy into a big laugh.”

“I see.”

“And I didn’t mind giving the shots. Hey, if it made his life a little easier, what the heck?”

What the heck,
I thought, studying the man in front of me. He looked back at me with handsome, piercing eyes, and I knew: If it were he who had administered that final, fatal injection, he certainly was one cool character about it right now.

Ten

Alan was the last guest to remain, but he turned down Marion’s offer to join us for dinner, citing other plans. Once he was gone, Marion took my arm as we turned from the door. I didn’t think I would be very hungry after that late bowl of soup, but delicious smells from the kitchen began to whet my appetite.

“We’ll have a drink in here before dinner,” Marion said as we walked, and before I could reply we were standing in the doorway of the den, looking in at Derek, who knelt in front of the fireplace, poking at the burning logs.

He glanced our way, and I could see that he was wearing the same dark slacks and white shirt as before, his tie now loosened around his neck. Derek seemed to be in his early 40s with short grayish-blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Though I wouldn’t exactly have called him handsome, there was something fairly engaging about his face and demeanor. He stood as we approached.

Our eyes met, and though I feared some glint of recognition or even scorn, he merely smiled and extended a hand, oblivious to the fact that less than two hours before I had clung to a tree over his head and eavesdropped on his private grief. I studied his face for a moment, not surprised to see his eyes looking puffy and tired.

“Derek Smythe,” he said, giving my hand a firm shake. “How do you do?”

His mother began to explain that I was “the one from the foundation” and he immediately looked at me with a painful grimace.

“You’re the one who found him, then,” he said sympathetically. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. How traumatic for you.”

I didn’t reply that I had long ago learned to deal with dead bodies. In fact, I had seen plenty during the years I spent in investigations, encountering my first dead body at the age of 19 when I tagged along with Eli to take notes on a missing persons case. The woman, a heroin addict, had tried to fly off of her second-story balcony and ended up impaling herself on a decorative wrought iron fence post. Compared to that—as well as plenty of other grisly scenes we had worked on—today had been a walk in the park.

Marion stepped toward the fireplace, holding out her hands to warm them.

“Thank you for fixing the fire, Derek,” she said. “I know September’s a little early in the season, but I just feel so chilled this evening.”

“Fireplaces are nice,” I said noncommittally, thinking that the room
was
a bit warm. Outside, I hadn’t even needed a sweater.

“Mother’s always cold,” Derek said to me, smiling. “We put up with it.”

They exchanged banter while I studied the man in front of me, the man I had heard arguing with Sidra in this very room only a few hours before. Now he seemed calm and collected, the picture of hospitality as he went to the bar and offered me a drink from a glass pitcher of red liquid.

“Thank you, no,” I said.

“It’s not alcohol,” Marion said. “It’s juice. What’s it tonight, darling? Mango?”

“Cranberry mango,” he replied, holding a small glassful toward me. “Try it.”

I took a sip, surprised at the delicious tangy flavor. I usually hated cranberry juice.

“Mother’s into nutrition,” Derek explained. “A glass of juice before dinner is one of her prescriptions for health. Kicks up the blood sugar, you know.”

“We always have juice, except of course for Wendell,” she said. “With his diabetes, he can’t—” Marion stopped herself, suddenly realizing what she was saying.
“Couldn’t,
I mean…”

She seemed suddenly pale and tired. Looking at her, I remembered it all well: the confusion, the shock, the assumption that the man who had always been there would still be there. Even after three years I still sometimes caught myself referring to my late husband in the present tense.

Derek quickly took his mother’s arm and led her to the nearest chair.

“Why don’t you have Angelina bring dinner to your room?” he asked her softly as he sat beside her, stroking her hand. “Callie and I can make do here. And Judith should be home soon.”

“No, no, I’ll be fine. I’d rather not be alone right now, anyway.”

At that moment, Angelina appeared in the doorway, announcing that dinner was served. Marion let Derek lead her to the table, which was set for five. Derek seemed surprised; once he had seated his mother, he rang immediately for Angelina.

“Yes?” the maid asked, appearing silently in the doorway.

“Angelina, I’m afraid Sidra will be taking all of her meals in the cabana from now on. Didn’t she tell you?”

The girl shook her head, her face a blank.

“No, sir. Nobody said anything to me.”

She quickly set about removing the extra place setting as an uncomfortable silence settled around the table.

“Shall I say grace?” Derek asked, glancing at his mother. She nodded. The three of us bowed our heads as Derek said a short prayer of thanks for the food.

“I met Sidra earlier,” I said when he was finished, hoping to see what sort of reaction I could get. “She was very upset. Apparently, someone had vandalized a photograph in her apartment.”

Derek and his mother stopped eating and looked at each other.

“You’ve got to speak with Dr. Bell about Sidra’s medications,” Marion said to him. “I’m afraid things are escalating.”

“She said that someone has been doing things to her,” I continued. “That someone wants her out of here—or wants her dead.”

“She told you that?” Derek asked, a pained expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, Callie,” Marion said, shaking her head sadly. “I’m afraid Sidra’s delusional.”

“Delusional?” I asked. “She was upset, of course, but she seemed perfectly lucid to me.”

They again shared a long look and were silent as Angelina entered carrying a tray filled with small plates of salad. When she was gone, Derek stood and put his napkin beside his plate on the table.