A Penny for Your Thoughts (32 page)

“Oh!”
she yelped when she saw us. She was at the far end, a bottle of Windex in her hand, cleaning the glass case that held Wendell’s antique clothing collection. “You two scared me!”

“Sorry about that,” I said, taking a step back. “We’ll come back later.”

“No, it is okay,” Angelina said, folding the cleaning rag over her arm. “I am finished here.”

She started to exit, then turned to speak.

“The museum people will be here next week to get the rest of the collection,” she said to Carlos, an odd expression on her face. “I just wanted it to look nice. For your grandfather’s sake.”

“Thanks, Angelina,” he said. “I won’t touch the glass.”

She left, pulling the door shut behind her. I headed for a chair so that Carlos and I could sit and talk, but he ran to the other end of the room, stopping just short of the glass case.

“Have you seen Grandpa’s collection?” he asked me enthusiastically. “It’s
so
cool.”

I was surprised that an 11-year-old boy would find any interest in antique clothing, but I didn’t say as much.

“You see this one here?” he asked, pointing to an old-looking white shirt. It had ruffles at the collar and wrists, and the neck was tied with a yellowed drawstring. “Grandpa bought that shirt for $10,000.”

“That’s a lot of money for an old shirt,” I said, smiling.

“No, get this,” he continued. “When he bought it, he thought it might have belonged to Thomas Jefferson, that it might even be the shirt in that painting. Then they did some tests and research and things, and now they’re almost sure it did. That makes it worth ten times as much!”

Carlos pointed toward the portrait on the wall, a print of the famous portrait of Jefferson by Françoise Dumond. Unlike the more formal portraits of the era, this painting showed Jefferson deep in thought, leaning over a desk as he put pen to paper, composing the Declaration of Independence. I knew the original painting hung at the Smithsonian, but this copy wasn’t bad. And, indeed, the shirt he wore in the painting looked identical to the one in the case.

“Wow,” I said, meaning it. From $10,000 to a $100,000 was quite a return on an investment.

“But now,” Carlos said, lowering his voice. “This is a secret. You see that dark spot on the sleeve?”

“Yes?”

“If it’s what we think it is, that makes the shirt worth even ten times
more.”

I did a quick calculation, my eyebrows raising.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Ink,” Carlos whispered. “They think that’s a spot of ink from when he wrote the Declaration of Independence.”

“Wow.”

“That’s why we want to get it into the museum right away. We want everyone to be able to see it. Right now, only a few people know, but soon it’ll probably be in the newspaper and everything.”

I looked at Carlos, whose rapt attention was given over to the collection in front of him. He was such a beautiful child.

“We need to talk, Carlos,” I said. He tore himself away from the collection and let me pull him back to the chairs across the room. We sat across from each other, and then I eyed the boy in front of me sternly.

“Now Carlos,” I said. “You think this spy stuff is all a bunch of fun and games. But we’re not kidding around here. This is serious, serious business.”

I scolded him for a while, trying to impress upon him the fact that his grandfather had been murdered, and that the murderer had not yet been caught. He nodded, but I could almost see the wheels turning in his mind.

“This isn’t the movies, Carlos,” I said. “The hero doesn’t always come out okay at the end. And the more you pass me secret notes and whisper about spying and poke me under the table, the more danger you put yourself
and
me into. Do you understand?”

He nodded, looking down at the floor, properly chastised. I was just glad he would be going back to school the next day. If Harriet and I found the proof we needed in the morning, I might be able to get the ball rolling with the police, and they could wrap up the matter before Carlos arrived at home at the end of the day.

“Sorry, Callie,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. He looked suddenly tired, and I knew that he had been operating all day on even less sleep than I had.

“I think it’s time we both went to bed, don’t you?” I said.

“It’s only eight!” he cried, glancing at the large grandfather clock against the wall.

“But you, my dear, were up all night on spy duty,” I said, rising from the chair and walking with him to the door. “Even James Bond needs a good night’s sleep after something like that.”

Thirty-Six

It was 8:30 by the time I slipped under the covers, dressed in a loose cotton nightshirt, my teeth brushed, my alarm clock set. I was exhausted, ready to fall into a deep sleep.

Yet sleep didn’t come. I kept thinking about Tom, about him being at the funeral, about him specifically not coming over to speak with me. Why hadn’t he? I had always told myself we had never met because we were so busy, because we were never in the same place at the same time. But this time there was no excuse. Why had he avoided me? Was it because he was there with another woman? If so, why should that matter?

After tossing and turning for half an hour, I finally got up and got my cell phone. If he was home, he would still be up, probably hacking away at his computer. I climbed back under the covers and dialed, half hoping he wouldn’t pick up the phone.

“Hello?” he said, his voice as warm and smooth as always. I tried to bring up the image I had created of his face, but it wouldn’t come. Instead, all I saw were the backs of dark-suited people, sitting in a row at a funeral.

“Hey,” I said, my voice soft.

“Callie!” he replied, pleasure tingeing his voice. “I was hoping this would be you. You’ve been on my mind all evening. I wondered how things are coming along with the investigation and if there’s anything I can do to help.”

I closed my eyes, wishing I could see through the phone, wishing I could see right now where Tom was and what he was doing.

“Getting closer,” I said. “But that’s not why I called.”

“Oh?”

“I just had a little talk with Marion. From what I understand, you were there today. At the funeral.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then a quiet answer: “Yes.”

I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t even sure how to ask it or if my question was even appropriate for our relationship. We were boss and employee, of course, but we were also something more. I thought we were something more anyway, something noble and special, the two of us in a fight to make the world a better place through his foundation. Our foundation.

“Why didn’t you speak to me?” I asked finally. He didn’t answer right away. I could hear him exhale slowly, and I imagined him leaning forward in his chair, maybe rubbing a hand over his forehead. Finally, when he did speak, his voice was soft and intimate.

“I was going to,” he said. “I really was. I was going to surprise you and tell you it was me, and finally we were going to meet face-to-face.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

I closed my eyes, wondering why they had suddenly filled with tears. I just felt so sad. So sad and so very, very alone.

“I can’t explain it,” he added finally. “I stood there across the graveyard, and I looked at you, but you were crying. The expression on your face…I don’t know. I thought you’d rather be alone.”

“It was a hard day for me,” I said. “It was the first funeral I’ve been to since—”

“Yes, I know,” he answered. “That’s why I didn’t speak, in the end. I realized it wasn’t the time and place for us to finally meet in person.”

I thought about it, and I had to admit he was right, in a way. The longer we went without meeting, the more significance the event seemed to have taken on. When we finally did get together, it was bound to be an important time, with lots of laughing and
talking. I could see why he had hesitated at the funeral of one of his best friends, particularly with me looking so distraught.

I blinked, sending the tears coursing sideways over my face and onto the pillow under my head. Why had I been doing so much crying lately? It seemed like that’s all I had done since this case had begun.

“So what now?” I asked, the question seeming to pop out of nowhere. “For us, I mean. Will you and I ever meet, Tom?”

“Ah, Callie,” he said, his voice warm and familiar. “Of course we will. I’m looking forward to that day more than you know.”

I smiled, knowing that I also looked forward to it, much, much more than I had ever admitted to myself before.

“Trust me,” he said. “It
will
happen, eventually. When it’s right.”

“When it’s right,” I echoed.

Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with exhaustion. I told him that I was meeting Harriet early in the morning and that for now I ought to get to sleep.

“Okay, Callie,” he said, his voice growing serious again. “I really am sorry about today.”

“You are?”

“It was tough for me, with Wendell gone. I thought you and I might’ve comforted each other.”

“I’m sure you were comforted just fine by Congresswoman Brown.”

He hesitated, and I mentally kicked myself for letting that slip out.

“She offered me a ride in her helicopter, Callie. It saved me a lot of time and trouble.”

“Of course.”

“She has nothing to do with this.”

“Okay.”

“It was you, Callie. Besides the crying, there was something in your face today…I don’t know. An utter
sorrow
. I knew you were probably thinking of your late husband. I didn’t want to intrude.”

I was surprised by his comment. Tom knew about Bryan, of course, but he rarely brought him up in conversation.

“I think of Bryan all the time,” I said, trying to make my voice light. “But thinking about him doesn’t bring him back. My life has gone on.”

“So it has,” he said. “You are a very brave woman.”

“There’s nothing brave about accepting the inevitable.”
Nothing brave about crying for a man a full three years after he’s gone
.

We concluded our conversation, and just as we were about to hang up, Tom said my name once more.

“Callie,” he nearly whispered. I pressed the phone to my ear, wondering what would come next. For a brief moment, I wanted to hear him say that when this case was over, we would plan a get-together of our own, that we would arrange the perfect place and time. I hesitated, knowing that the thought of that filled me with an odd mix of excitement and fear.

“I just wanted to say,” he continued, “that in spite of everything else, you are even more beautiful in person than you are in pictures.”

He disconnected the call then, and I sat with the phone in my hand for a long time, thinking about him, thinking about what we could, someday, be to each other. Outside, I could hear the soft patter of rain against the window. Half smiling, I turned over and closed my eyes. I was asleep in an instant, and slept through the night without stirring, my dreams for once the easy, pleasant dreams of the unencumbered.

Thirty-Seven

I awoke feeling surprisingly refreshed. I still ached, of course, from my big fall the day before, but my head was clear and I no longer felt tired. Mostly, I was full of unjustified optimism, ready to head out and wrap this matter up so I could go home.

Once I was dressed and ready to leave, I grabbed my keys and my briefcase and headed down the stairs and out the back door, grateful when I didn’t run into anyone on the way. It was still early; I would stop for coffee and a bagel at the convenience store on the corner. I knew that would certainly be simpler and quicker than making conversation in the kitchen with Nick or Angelina.

It was a gorgeous morning, already warmer than the past few days. I was headed straight for my car when I noticed something odd about the pool. I hesitated, then took a step closer.

There were dozens of small sheets of paper floating in the water. Most were drifting here and there, but some of them had clumped into a wad in the deep end, around the drain, and a few had sunk to the bottom.