A Penny for Your Thoughts (23 page)

“Do you really bring in enough money to these countries to make a difference, though?” I asked. “It seems to me that the suffering is just so tremendous.”

“We can’t look at it that way. For every water pump we install in a village in Africa, for every well we dig in Korea, for every health worker we place in Mexico—we’ve made a difference. We’ve changed someone’s life for the better.”

“I suppose it all helps the giver, too. Gives them a feeling of altruism, of making a difference themselves.”

To my surprise, Frank grunted and turned his head.

“Oh, you hush,” Gwen said to him. “Yes, Callie, it does help the giver. We live in such a wealthy country; we should all be sharing that wealth.”

“Frank?” I said. “You have an opinion here?”

He grinned and shook his head.

“I respect what they’re doing there,” he said. “I just don’t agree with the means.”

“How so?”

“It’s an ongoing debate in our house,” Gwen explained. “Frank has a problem with the whole starving-child angle.”

“It’s exploitation, it is,” he said. “You show me a picture of an emaciated child and tell me my $20 a month or whatever will change her life. Of course I’m going to send you money.”

“Doesn’t the money go to help the child?”

Gwen hesitated and then spoke, lowering her voice.

“For the most part, the money is pooled. One person’s donation won’t go very far, but the combination of lots of donations can help pay for schools, food, health care, and so on.”

“Yeah,” Frank said, also lowering his voice, “but with some of those hunger relief organizations, the things your money’s paying for aren’t even in the same village as the child you’re sponsoring—sometimes not even in the same country! I give my $20 to help little Jose in El Salvador, and unbeknownst to me, it’s used to pay for an irrigation system in Mozambique!”

“But people are still being helped,” Gwen said. “Regardless of where the money is ultimately being used.”

“Exploitation,” he insisted, shaking his head. “I’m getting these cute little photos and sweet letters and patting myself on the back for making a difference in the life of this child. In reality, this child’s life hasn’t changed at all. Maybe an extra sack of rice at Christmas time. Other than that, he’s still living in squalor, and my monthly donations haven’t helped him one bit. And it’s not just Feed the Need. Almost all the hunger relief organizations work that way.”

“Charity is charity,” Gwen countered in what I could tell was their well-worn debate. “Your money still goes to help the needy one way or another. And at least with Feed the Need, the majority of the money goes into the program and not to support some exorbitant CEO’s salary.”

“Yeah, the money is spent wisely. But they’re still using the innocent little faces of children to get that money out of my pocket. I have a problem with that.”

The three of us were silent for a moment. I could see both sides of the argument equally. Though in my heart I agreed with Gwen, as a nonprofit professional I had to side with Frank. One of the basic tenets of good stewardship is that “all statements made by the organization in its fund raising appeals about the use of the gift must be honored by the organization.” In other words, the money you raise should always go to the exact cause you stated that it would go for in your money-raising efforts. Anything else was fraudulent.

“What you really should have a problem with,” Gwen said softly to her husband, “is the American people. As a whole, they don’t respond to intellectual information. Tell them some remote village somewhere needs a well or an irrigation system, and forget it. But show them a hungry child, and they’re there. They give their money based purely on emotion.”

“Yeah,” Frank agreed. “You know what they say in this business, Callie? They say, ‘You wanna build a well? You won’t
collect a dime until you’ve given that well an adorable face with pouting lips and big sad eyes.’”

Twenty-Four

I was heading outside for some fresh air when I happened to glance at Marion. Our eyes met through the crowd, and she waved me over, so I abandoned my plans for a moment and went to join her.

When I got there, I was surprised to see her standing with her pastor, Ian Quinn.

“Pastor,” I said, my surprise evident. He nodded at me.

“Ian was just asking about you,” Marion continued. “He didn’t realize you were with the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation.”

“You should’ve told me you worked for Tom this afternoon, child,” he said, taking my hand. “I might not’ve kicked you out quite so abruptly.”

“You’re familiar with Tom and the foundation?” I asked.

“You have no idea!” he cried, beaming. “Let me tell you what you people have done for us. And call me Ian, please.”

Glad to see that the pastor and I had connected, Marion excused herself and then turned to face another grouping of people.

“I’d love to hear about it,” I said, “but if I don’t get some fresh air very soon, I’m afraid I’ll pass out.”

“It is a bit crowded in here,” he replied, taking my arm. “What do you say we go for a walk outside?”

The warm air soothed me like a balm. I breathed it in slowly, feeling my heart return to a steady, even rhythm. So far, I had been holding up very well, but I didn’t want to push it too far. I took Ian’s arm, and we walked through the parking lot and out onto the sidewalk beyond. It was a clear night, full of stars. Light from bright street lamps spilled down onto the strip of closed shops surrounding us.

“Is it safe here at night?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” said Ian. “I think we can walk to the end of the streetlights and back.”

That we did, strolling the blocks with ease. Ian told me all about his soup kitchen, about the money from Tom that got it all started. I listened with interest because this had taken place several years before I came to work for Tom.

“Of course, he didn’t head an official foundation back then,” Ian said. “He was just a wealthy man with a yen for giving to needy causes. Wendell put the two of us together, and even though Tom didn’t know me from Adam, once he took a look at my business plan for the soup kitchen, he pulled out his wallet and wrote me a check for $5000.”

I smiled, knowing that sounded exactly like something Tom would do.

“Of course,” Ian continued, “I know that must sound like a piddling little sum to you, considering the amounts you people dole out these days. But it was a godsend for me, I’ll tell you. That money made the difference that got us off and running.”

“I’m so glad.”

We chatted about his soup kitchen until we reached the end of the lighted sidewalk. As if prearranged, we both stopped and turned around and headed back toward the funeral home.

“My late wife loved strolling at night,” he said wistfully, out of the blue. “Especially on an evening like this when the temperature is pleasant and the sky is so clear.”

“My late husband was the same way,” I replied. “Loved being out at night, loved looking at the stars.”

We glanced at each other and smiled, acknowledging without words that we were both members of the same club—a club that neither of us wanted to belong to.

We were silent for a moment after that, each of us lost in our thoughts. My mind drifted from memories of my own happy marriage to that of Derek and Sidra and their current marital disaster.

“So, Ian,” I said, forming my words carefully as we walked, “I assume you are aware of the odd things that have happened to Sidra lately.”

“Yes, I am.”

“What can you tell me about it? Obviously, she’s in a lot of pain.”

“It’s an awful situation.”

“How did it start?”

Ian looked at me, apparently deciding how much he should say. As the family’s pastor, he surely had some confidentiality issues. On the other hand, he knew that I was an experienced professional on an investigation. Anything he told me might help to unravel this mess.

“I’m here to find out who murdered Wendell,” I said softly. “I think this business with Derek and Sidra might be related to it.”

He nodded, finally coming to a stop at the edge of the parking lot. If he was going to tell me this tale, I assumed, he was at least going to do it where we couldn’t be overheard.

“I can tell you things that I learned from Marion because she asked me to. But anything that I may have heard from Sidra is of course confidential.”

“Of course.”

“It all started a few months ago,” he began, “following an argument between Sidra and Derek. Apparently, Derek had bought Sidra a sable coat as a gift, but when she learned what it cost, she had had a fit. Despite the fact that they could well afford
it, she accused him of having changed, of having becoming materialistic and wasteful. He was hurt by her accusations, not to mention her rejection of his gift, and they went to bed angry. The next morning when they got up, the coat had been slashed to ribbons.”

I realized that was the coat I had discovered earlier, in the box at the top of Sidra’s closet.

“That, however, was just the beginning,” continued Ian. “Derek blamed Sidra; Sidra blamed Derek. A few weeks later, Derek found his good leather briefcase, filled with important papers, submerged in a bathtub full of water. The next day, there was a bouquet of black roses waiting on the front step. The envelope was addressed to Sidra, and the card said, ‘Black is for death. I wish you were dead.’”

“Oh my goodness,” I whispered.

“Sidra was so frightened she wanted to move back to Honduras. But Derek refused to let her take Carlos with her. With Sidra’s history of mental problems, she knew he had her over a barrel and that she had no choice but to stay. She’s been suffering in silence ever since, but I know she’s got to be at the end of her rope. Out of the whole family, I think only Wendell truly believed that she wasn’t doing these things to herself.”

“And now he’s dead,” I said.

“Yes. Now he’s dead.”

We began walking again, across the parking lot toward the funeral home.

“Let me ask you a question,” I said. “What do you really know about Sidra’s mental state?”

“Sidra had…some problems, a few years back. She’s much, much better now. But for some people, I think it’s easier to blame her ‘condition’ than it is to consider that this might be something else entirely.”

“So, in your opinion, she’s not doing these horrid things herself?”

“In my opinion, no, she is not.”

“Do you fear for her safety?”

“I fear more for her marriage, not to mention her child’s sense of security. I think if someone were out to harm Sidra, they would’ve done so by now. This stuff is all so juvenile, so theatrical. I don’t see it so much as a threat to her physically as it is a threat to her emotionally.”

“But now Wendell’s been murdered!” I exclaimed. “Don’t you think it’s possible that someone has upped the ante and gone over the edge? That Sidra might be next?”

He was thoughtful for a moment, one finger pressing nervously against his chin.

“I hadn’t thought if it that way,” he said finally. “I suppose perhaps we all should take it more seriously now.”

“Even before Wendell’s murder,” I said, “I just don’t see why the Smythes wouldn’t contact the police. At the very least, you’d think they would’ve installed a better security system.”

We reached the door of the funeral home. Ian hesitated, pausing thoughtfully.

“As for Marion,” he said, “she’s so completely convinced that it’s Sidra that she won’t even consider any other possibility. She’s terribly afraid that calling the police or hiring a security company will only prove her daughter-in-law’s precarious mental state. Maybe even force them to commit her, like before.”

“Like before? Sidra was in a mental institution?”

Ian colored, looking uncomfortable, and I knew he felt that he had outstepped the bounds of confidentiality.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m just trying to get a better handle on what’s going on.”

“I think it’s all perhaps best expressed in the words of John Donne,” he said, accepting my apology with a nod. “‘As states subsist in part by keeping their weaknesses from being known, so is it the quiet of families to have their chancery and their parliament within doors, and to compose and determine all emergent differences there.’”