A Penny for Your Thoughts (17 page)

By the time I got off the elevator, I felt reasonably calm and in control. As I stepped through the doors of Feed the Need, I couldn’t believe that only yesterday I had come here expecting to deliver a check and then leave unencumbered. What a difference a day makes!

I approached the receptionist, but before I said a word, she was on her feet, coming around the desk.

“Mrs. Smythe called,” she said, motioning for me to follow her. “She said to give you full use of any and all office equipment. Computer, fax, phones, whatever. I’m Kristy, by the way. With a K.”

“Kristy, hi,” I answered, following as she headed into the main area of the office. Marion and I had decided that we would say I was here using their facility for foundation business, that it was the least they could do considering the police wouldn’t let me leave town. Hopefully, that way people wouldn’t be on their guard around me, and I would be able to dig around a little and see if I could learn anything.

Kristy led me to a nice cubicle in the far corner. It had an L-shaped desk with a computer and phone, but otherwise it was empty.

“How’s this area?” she asked. “I wish I could give you a private office, but they’re all full.”

“A cubicle will be fine,” I answered, glad that a private office wasn’t available. This way I’d be visible and thus much more able to assimilate into the office quickly—not to mention that this would be a better spot for eavesdropping. It had long been my observation that office cubicles tend to lead people into a false sense of privacy—much like e-mail, cell phones, and other deceptive accoutrements of modern office life.

I settled into the desk and opened up the file Duane Perskie had given me. It was a little after 11
A.M.
My intention was to work busily for an hour or so, letting the office staff see me and pass the word around about who I was and what I was doing there. Then I would amble into the office break room and hopefully share my lunch hour with a few chatty secretaries.

I read the file slowly, thinking about my theory that the killer was someone Wendell trusted, someone who regularly administered insulin to him. My list of suspects was a good one, with a few exceptions. I knew for a fact that the person I had heard in the bathroom off of Wendell’s office couldn’t possibly have been Alan Bennet or Gwen Harding because they were with me at the time. Of course, one of them could’ve been working with someone else; at this point, I wasn’t eliminating anyone as a suspect.

I closed the file, deciding to read the rest of it later. For now, I would go onto the internet and see how Feed the Need checked out as a charitable organization to the outside world.

I worked for a while, scanning through Guidestar, digging up financial statistics, calculating the reported ratio of administrative dollars versus program funding. I checked out a copy of their 990 form, pulling out some helpful information.

Overall, I decided that things seemed fairly normal for a hunger relief organization, though I e-mailed one of the more complicated sets of financial data to Harriet back at the office. She would go over the numbers with a fine-tooth comb, I knew, and tell me if anything at all seemed amiss.

At noon, I sent off one last quick e-mail; then I shut down my computer, grabbed the sack lunch Angelina had prepared for me that morning, and set off looking for the lunch room.

I found it on the other side of the building, a large, sunlit area tucked away behind a conference room. There were about six or seven tables surrounded by chairs, a small kitchen area with sink, fridge, and microwave, and a row of soda and candy machines against the wall. All in all, it was a pleasant place to have lunch.

Most of the tables were full, but I found one with only two women sitting and quietly chatting.

“Is this seat taken?” I asked, feeling suddenly like I was back in the eighth grade, and all eyes were on me.

“Oh, please, join us,” one of the women answered, pushing the chair out with her foot. I sat, putting my lunch sack on the table in front of me.

The women introduced themselves as Beth and Tina, saying that they knew who I was, but not my name.

“You’re the woman from that charity, right?” Beth asked.

“The J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation. Yes. You can call me Callie.”

“Callie, you discovered Mr. Smythe’s body, didn’t you?” Tina whispered, and then I could see her jump as Beth must’ve kicked her under the table.

“It’s okay,” I said, pulling a sandwich out of my bag. It looked like tuna on whole wheat with lettuce. “I didn’t know Mr. Smythe personally, so it wasn’t quite as awful for me as it would’ve been for one of you.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

They had a few questions about the whole incident, and I spoke freely, trying to give the impression that I was just a regular gal, warm and friendly, ready to chat about anything and everything. What I got from them wasn’t much: It was a pretty good place to work, management was okay (with a few exceptions), and Wendell Smythe had been a beloved boss and friend.

“I hope they let us all off work for his funeral,” Tina said, “because I know everyone’s going to want to go and pay their last respects.”

“So were a lot of people close to Mr. Smythe?” I asked.

“We all respected him, if that’s what you mean.”

“I mean, whom did he confide in? Who were his closest associates?”

Beth shrugged, and for a moment I was afraid I had crossed the line with my questions. But they didn’t seem suspicious, only thoughtful.

“Besides his wife and kids, you mean?”

“Yes.”

The two women looked at each other.

“His secretary, Gwen,” Beth answered, and Tina nodded in agreement. “She’s been with him for, like, a hundred years.”

After lunch, I stepped into Gwen’s office. A brief flash of
déjà vu
brought me back to the day before when I first came into this room, seeing her behind the desk in her beige suit and pearl earrings, talking on the phone. Now the desk was empty, the office oddly silent.

I decided Gwen must’ve taken the day off—not that I could blame her. Yesterday had been incredibly traumatic for her; seeing her dead boss was more than the woman had been able to handle.

I thought I might take another peek around Wendell’s office, but a quick turn of the knob told me that this time it was locked. I jiggled the handle to no avail, but then suddenly the door swung open from the inside, and I found myself face-to-face with Gwen. She looked much different than she had the day before. Now, instead of a suit, she had on jeans and a light yellow sweatshirt. Her hair was a mess, and her face was pale without makeup.

“Callie!” she said, startled. “Goodness. I didn’t know who that was, trying to get in. What are you doing here?”

“I was just looking for you,” I said quickly. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

She hesitated a moment, then finally stepped back and let me in. Once we were both inside Wendell’s office, she closed and locked the door behind us.

“I’m not really here,” she said. “At work, I mean. I took the day off, but then I was going crazy around the house. I came up the back stairs into Wendell’s office. I tried to do some filing, but it’s no use. I can’t seem to concentrate.”

She did look genuinely distraught, I decided. I made my way to the couch along the wall and sat, tucking one leg under me, knowing that this might be a good time to throw a few questions at her.

“Why don’t you tell me about your boss?” I said warmly. “It seems he was very much loved. What was it that made him so special?”

Gwen seemed eager for the conversation. She settled tiredly onto the couch, leaning back against the cushions.

“I assume you’ve known him a long time,” I added.

“I met Wendell Smythe almost 40 years ago,” she said. “He and I started working at the same company on the same day—I in the steno pool, he in the distribution department. Textiles, it was. Wendell was fresh out of college, full of energy and big plans, very popular. All of us stenographers loved it when we were assigned to him. Six months later, he had worked himself into an administrative position, and he asked me if I would like to transfer out of the steno pool to become his personal secretary.”

“Was he married then?” I asked.

“No, but I was.” She glanced at me and frowned. “I know what you’re thinking, but it was nothing like that. Wendell and I were always just friends—like brother and sister, you know. My husband was never jealous.”

“I see.”

“Of course, that was a lot of years ago. Eventually, Wendell left the textile company to begin his own business. A year later, he came back and hired me to be his office manager.”

“For Feed the Need?”

“Oh, no, that happened much later. We were just a clothing manufacturer in the early days. Very successful. Made a small fortune.”

I told Gwen that I had already read their brochure and that I had recognized some of their labels.

“We’re all over the place,” she replied, nodding. “From Wal-Mart to Saks and everywhere in between.”

“So where did the nonprofit side of the business come from?” I asked.

Gwen sat up and stretched her legs out in front of her, exhaling slowly. She told me about a buying trip Wendell had taken to Southest Asia about ten years before. On his way to a meeting, his limo had broken down in the center of Seoul, and he had to sit on the side of the road for two hours until the company could send out another car. According to Gwen, those two hours changed Wendell’s life. As he sat there amid dozens of poor starving children, he wondered how it was that he had been to that city dozens of times and never really noticed the squalor of the row houses, the protruding, malnourished bellies of the children. He decided right there to do something about it. By the time all was said and done, he had formed a sister company—a nonprofit organization—dedicated to the eradication of hunger throughout the world.

“We’ve done so much, so very much,” Gwen said, standing and pacing excitedly. “If you could hear about some of the lives we’ve touched, the children we’ve saved. Building wells, planting crops, teaching Third World communities about irrigation and sanitation—it’s just been incredible.”

“And Wendell’s son Derek is the CEO of the hunger relief fund?”

“Yes.”

“Is he a brilliant businessman like his father?”

“Like Wendell?”

Gwen hesitated, a bemused expression crossing her face. She reached the edge of Wendell’s desk and leaned against it.

“Just between you and me,” she said softly, “comparing Wendell to his son Derek would be kind of like comparing the sunshine to…to a light bulb.”

“I see.”

“Don’t get me wrong—Derek’s good at what he does, perfectly suitable for heading up Feed the Need.”

“Light bulbs do give light,” I replied, carrying along her metaphor. “But…”

“But Derek is not the visionary his dad was. What Derek has to offer is good ‘people skills,’ enthusiasm, compassion. As long as he has a competent staff working for him, which he usually does, things are fine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Derek’s not particularly strong in finance or public relations. But he’s good at spotting top talent and bringing it in. He’s got a fantastic PR person. And as soon as his chief financial officer gets back, he’ll be at a hundred percent.”

I thought about what Alan Bennet had said that first day, that he was helping out because Feed the Need’s CFO was on maternity leave. I asked Gwen about that.

“Nancy started having complications about four months ago,” Gwen said, “so I guess you could call it an extended maternity leave. The baby was just born last week. She’ll be back soon.”

“And Alan Bennet’s been handling the finances while she was gone?”

“Oh, partly,” she said. “The accounting department runs pretty smoothly anyway. Since Nancy left, it’s sort’ve been a mix of Alan and Derek and even Judith. They’ve managed to muddle through.”

“So how is Judith as CEO of Smythe?” I asked. “Another light bulb?”

Gwen smiled and shook her head.

“Well now, that’s a different situation altogether. Judith inherited her father’s brains, his moxie, and his talents. Now if she could just temper all that with a little of his kindness and compassion, she would be as crackerjack as her father.”

“She does seem a little brusque,” I said.

Gwen laughed.

“To put it mildly,” she replied. “It’s funny, but Judith was always very headstrong, very no-nonsense, even as a child. Her parents were both so sweet, so mild mannered. They never could quite figure out how to handle Judith.”

“She told me yesterday that she doesn’t even believe in God,” I said. “That must’ve been hard for such a devout man as Wendell.”

“Terribly,” Gwen said, nodding. “He carried a special burden for Judith’s salvation. They talked about it from time to time, of course, but her heart was just never ready to hear the truth.”

“How sad.”

“He never gave up hope,” she said. “Maybe now, with his death, she’ll begin to see the light.”

“Perhaps.”

Gwen stood and walked some more, pacing as she spoke.

“You know,” she said, “with Wendell gone now, I hate to admit it, but I’m not very worried for the company itself. I believe it will do fine under Judith’s direction—and Derek’s. We may stumble along the way a bit, but I think we’ll get our feet back under us soon enough.”