A Penny for Your Thoughts (13 page)

“I’ve had a few thoughts,” Marion answered sadly, going on to discuss some tentative ideas for the funeral. I glanced at my watch, wondering if it would be impolite to excuse myself now that the discussion had turned in this direction. I certainly didn’t need to be involved with any of this, and I felt myself growing uncomfortable. Bryan’s funeral had been three long years before, but Wendell’s death was stirring up some very unsettling memories.

“Anyway,” Marion said suddenly, “we can discuss these matters later. For now, I wonder, Callie, if you would join me in my study. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

I glanced at Judith, but she seemed absorbed in buttering a steaming roll she had dug from the bread bowl.

“You guys go ahead,” she said, gesturing toward her plate. “I’m going to finish up here, and then I have a ton of paperwork to do.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Marion and I rose from the table, and she walked over and planted a kiss on her daughter’s head.

“Your father would be glad to know you’ve stepped in and taken control of things today. He always said that no matter what problems are besetting a company, anything can be surmounted as long as a strong, united front is presented to the employees and to the public.”

“I agree 100 percent. Things are in good hands, Mom.”

“I know, my dear, I know.”

With that, Marion walked from the room, shoulders high, leading the way to her study.

Eleven

“My husband was murdered,” Marion said softly after we were seated in her drawing room, the door closed. “The children don’t know yet. I’m not sure how to tell them, or when. But I know that you know, because I’ve spoken with Tom.”

I sat back and exhaled slowly, impressed with Marion’s Oscar-winning performance at the dinner table.
You know what a disaster his health was,
she had said to her daughter Judith,
especially here at the end
.

“They’re going to find out, Marion. The story will probably be featured on tonight’s news.”

“I know,” she answered, shaking her head sadly, “but poor Derek is struggling so with his own problems. And Judith has the responsibility of the company on her shoulders…” Her voice trailed off. “I want to protect them for as long as I can.”

I nodded, thinking that no matter how old a woman’s children grew, to her, they would always be her babies.

Marion stood and walked to the window, which was dark against the night sky. Absently, she traced a pattern in the
condensation of the glass, and I could tell that she was taking a moment to form her words.

“According to Tom, the one blessing in this whole thing is that you’re here. He says that you’re the type of person who can find out anything about anyone.”

“Oh?”

“He told me he asked you to solve this murder.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, knowing that I should just let her talk. She obviously had something important to say.

“I don’t mind telling you I was against the idea at first,” Marion continued, still facing the window. “The whole notion of someone nosing around in our affairs, poking through things—I didn’t like it.”

She turned to face me.

“But then Tom pointed out that the police will be doing that anyway. Better to have someone with our own interests at heart, someone whom we can trust to keep things in absolute confidence.”

“Of course.”

“I guess what I’m trying to say is, I
do
want you to investigate, Callie, to find Wendell’s killer. I want this over and done with—the killer caught, my poor husband’s memory laid to rest—as soon as possible.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said, thinking that, unbeknownst to her, I had already put in a full afternoon and evening of investigating.

“Though I’d rather not upset the family, as I’m sure you understand. We can keep this between us, can’t we?”

I nodded solemnly.

“No one besides you needs to know, for now at least.”

“Good.”

She came and sat across from me. I studied her for a moment, knowing full well that there was more on her mind than she had said.

“What is it you’re not telling me, Marion?” I finally asked. She colored, then looked down.

“Am I so transparent?”

“Obviously, there’s something else you need to say. Do you think you have an idea of who may have killed your husband?”

She shook her head.

“Oh, no, dear, nothing like that. It’s just that…well, that there were some things going on here, at the end. Wendell was concerned. For the business.”

“The business?”

“Feed the Need, specifically,” she said, lowering her voice. “I’m so very afraid. The money you came here to deliver, it wasn’t—”

Her voice stopped as she looked up. I turned to follow her glance and saw Derek standing in the doorway.

“Derek!” she said loudly. “You startled me.”

“Sorry, Mother,” he replied, stepping into the room. “I just wanted to come and apologize for ducking out of dinner like that. It was rude of me.”

I hesitated, finally standing.

“I’m the one who was rude,” I said. “Open mouth, insert foot. I shouldn’t have asked so many questions.”

“No, no,” he answered. “I’m afraid my wife and I are separated, and it’s gotten rather messy. She just, she doesn’t…” his voice trailed off as he brushed a hand back through his hair. “The whole thing is sort of bizarre. Then we had a big fight today, which has only made a bad situation worse.”

“I understand you have a son. I saw some pictures of him in the cabana.”

He looked at me and smiled a sweet smile that cut through the pain and exhaustion on his face.

“Carlos,” he said, beaming. “Great kid. He’s at a soccer tournament. They were supposed to get back tonight, but they had trouble with the bus. So now—”

“Trouble with the bus?” Marion asked. “Was it an accident? Is Carlos okay?”

Derek held out a hand to stop her from talking.

“Calm down, Mother,” he said. “It was a mechanical problem. Water in the gas line or something. Anyway, they’re spending the night at a Ramada Inn in Lancaster. They should be back in the morning in time for school.”

“Does Carlos know about his grandfather?” I asked.

Derek shook his head sadly.

“We decided to wait until he’s here, with us, to tell him.”

“I think that’s best,” Marion said.

“Anyway, Mother,” Derek said, turning toward her, “I’m feeling a little better now. I’m wondering if this would be a good time to discuss the funeral, to make some specific plans.”

Marion glanced at me then back at Derek.

“Of course,” she said. “Much as I hate the thought, I know this is something we need to do.”

Then she stood and took my hand, giving me a meaningful look.

“We’ll speak at breakfast?” she asked and I nodded, knowing I had been dismissed, wondering what she had to tell me that she hadn’t wanted Derek to overhear.

Twelve

No doubt about it,
I thought as I sat in my room. I had come to realize there were certain supplies I would need in order to do this job, not the least of which was a fingerprinting kit. The paper bag with the knife and photo was still stashed under the radiator cover, and I left it there as I reached for my phone and dialed the Perskie Detective Agency. Duane was gone for the day, of course, but I left a message in his voice mail, asking if he might be able to supply me with a fingerprinting kit or at least tell me where I could get one.

Once I hung up the phone, I sat back and thought again how odd it felt to be working on a criminal investigation with someone other than my dear friend and mentor Eli Gold.

Eli had been an old police force buddy of my father’s, and when I was a teenager looking for a job more challenging than selling shoes at the local mall, he had suggested I come to work for him. He needed a part-time secretary for his new private investigation firm, and my after-school-and-on-weekend hours seemed to fill the bill. Little had I known when I started the job that it would shape my life and indeed my entire future. As Eli began teaching me the tricks of his trade, I grew to think of him like an old kung fu master or something, filled with an incredible store of knowledge, doling it out carefully as I learned each new lesson. Even my mother, who had objected to the job at first for fear it would be too dangerous for me, slowly came around as she began to see how much I loved it. Over time, Eli began to say that I had a unique gift for the work itself. When I turned 18, he hired another secretary and made me his assistant, and I knew he had hopes that I would take over his business once he retired. My father, on the other hand, wanted me to follow in his footsteps and head to police academy after college. But I had surprised everyone by opting for law school instead, touching off an endless but good-natured debate between them about cops versus private investigators and “who needs more lawyers anyway?”

Eli and I still kept in touch, though he was now retired and living in Florida. We had always been close, but since Bryan’s death I had come to rely on him in ways that I couldn’t rely even on my own father. My dad was a sweet but plain-talking, shoot-from-the-hip kind of guy who thought the world was a black-and-white, right-and-wrong sort of place. He still harbored a complete unforgiveness for the man who had killed my husband, albeit accidentally, and his anger was nearly palpable at times—too palpable, I think, for me to be around.

Eli, on the other hand, was a more objective thinker than that, seeing many shades of gray in life, and rarely ever just black-and-white. He refused to let me wallow in my own anger and grief for very long, steadfastly insisting that I must simply turn the matter over to God and allow Him to use it as He saw fit. I tried, and it was hard, but Eli was my own personal cheerleader, watching from the sidelines, building me up, encouraging me to forgive and get on with my life. I treasured our friendship more than anything.

Unable to resist the urge, I picked up the phone and dialed his familiar number. It took nine rings before he answered, and for a moment I worried that I woke him up. His voice was distant, the line crackling.

“Eli?” I said. “It’s me, Callie.”

“Sally?”

“Callie!”

“Hold on.”

A few clanks and bangs later, Eli spoke again, the line much clearer now.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “The battery’s dying on the portable phone. Who is this?”

I smiled to myself.

“Callie.”

“Oh, goodness, Callie, why didn’t you say so? How the heck are you doing?”

I told him that I was in Pennsylvania, staying as a guest in the mansion of a recently murdered millionaire.

“And I thought my life was exciting now that we’ve signed up for tango lessons!” he exclaimed.

“I’m on a case, Eli. I need some guidance. You got a minute?”

“For you, sweetie, I’ve got all night.”

I could picture him settling in near the phone, pen and paper in hand, as I told him a bit about Wendell Smythe and the case thus far. He listened intently, asking for occasional clarification, pointing out details I might’ve missed. As usual, I felt myself growing more relaxed and confident as we spoke. To Eli’s way of thinking, there was almost no such thing as an unsolvable mystery;
it was merely a matter of hard work, patience, and the occasional lucky break.

“I’m putting together a package for you first thing tomorrow,” he said. “No need for you to waste good time running around trying to collect all this stuff.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ve got the resources of a local agency this time. But thanks.”

“Whatever. Why not let’s talk about you now? You holding up okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Though it’s kind of hard, you know, being around a family where there’s just been a death.”

“I can imagine. Brings it all back to you, huh?”

“Yeah. The conversation turns to pallbearers and casket designs, and I start to hyperventilate.”

I was exaggerating, but he knew that.

“I got something for you,” he said. “Saw it just today. Hold on.”

I could hear him put the phone down, then pick it back up a moment later.