A Penny for Your Thoughts (3 page)

We concluded our call, and I slipped the phone back into its holder. Once I got to the apartment, I would call Lindsey, the teenager who always kept my dog, and tell her she would need to keep her just a little bit longer. Then I would go through the packet of information about the agency in Philly and call it a night.

I leaned back and looked out at the sky, which was a dark purple now, the gray clouds silhouetted against the horizon. I felt at peace, satisfied with a job well done, eager to finish this one minor errand tomorrow so I could begin my little vacation.

It’s a good thing I didn’t know then how the following events would unfold, that my little trip the next day was going turn into
something altogether different than either Tom or I could ever have predicted. In my years as a private investigator, I’d seen a few dead bodies, sure.

But I certainly didn’t expect to run into one on this particular errand.

Two

According to the sign, Feed the Need was on the sixth floor. I pressed the button and then waited, checking my reflection in the silver elevator door.

I adjusted the stiff, tweedy fabric of my skirt, thinking that this was not one of my favorite suits but that it would do for this quick errand. I had hopes of getting in and out within an hour, something that probably wasn’t possible. Once I had handed over the donation and the initial excitement had passed, the recipients almost always insisted on giving me a tour of their facilities, introducing me to some of their workers and taking me out to lunch or dinner. Usually, I didn’t mind. Today, however, I just wanted to get out of there and go home. I wondered if they would think me rude if I begged off with a “prior commitment.” Closing my eyes, I could just picture that prior commitment—all seven excitable, furry pounds of her, waiting for her long-absent mother to hurry home and give her a treat of beef jerky.

I got off of the elevator on the sixth floor and found myself facing an elaborate silk flower arrangement on an antique table. Subtly lighted on the wall above the flowers was a large brass plaque, directing me to turn left for Smythe Incorporated or right for Feed the Need. I turned right and walked through a glass door into a small but elegant reception area. The petite young woman at the desk was on the phone, but she caught my eye, gesturing to let
me know she would be with me in a moment. As I waited, I looked around the small room and finally sat on a beautifully upholstered couch, picking up a brochure from the coffee table.

Smythe Incorporated and Feed the Need,
the brochure said on the cover.
Two businesses, one leader, one heart
.

I was glad to read the brochure, relieved to find even a little bit of information about the place to which I was about to hand over a quarter of a million dollars. I hated this, showing up somewhere knowing nothing about a company. But it was, after all, Tom’s money. If he said Feed the Need was legit, who was I to question that?

The woman was on the phone long enough for me to read the entire brochure. It was well written and professionally presented, and from it I learned that Tom’s friend, Wendell Smythe, headed a clothing manufacturing business called Smythe Incorporated. Headquartered here in Philadelphia, Smythe’s holdings included one domestic plant and sixteen foreign ones, and their clothes were distributed nationwide under several labels, a few that I recognized. The brochure went on to talk about the nonprofit part of the business:
It was on a visit to one of his clothing plants in Southeast Asia that Wendell Smythe first began to recognize the problem of world hunger,
the brochure said. Apparently, that led him to start a sister company called Feed the Need, whose sole purpose was to supply food, farming equipment, education, health care, and clean water to hungry children and their families throughout the world.

I wasn’t unfamiliar with hunger relief organizations; I had done research on Save the Children and the Christian Children’s Fund in the past. But Feed the Need was much newer and smaller than those organizations. According to the brochure, Feed the Need sponsored 75,000 children in 23 different countries and had an annual budget of around 30 million dollars.

Sponsorships of needy children provide the funds to change their lives,
the brochure proclaimed above a line of black-and-white photographs of beautiful, exotic-looking children with dirt-smeared faces and big sad eyes.

It was slick, I would give them that. But I questioned the wisdom of operating a nonprofit business in such close proximity—both literally and figuratively—with a for-profit business. Even this brochure, touting both ventures at once, seemed nervy and inappropriate to me. Lines blur. Lines that should divide the two types of endeavors like night and day.

I tucked the brochure into my briefcase, standing as the receptionist hung up the phone.

“Sorry about that,” the woman said. “May I help you?”

She looked to be about 19 or 20, attractive except for the wispy, too-long bangs that covered half of her eyes—fashionable, perhaps, but irritating nonetheless.

“Yes,” I replied, handing her a business card. “Callie Webber, here to see Wendell Smythe?”

“Of course,” she answered, taking the card. “I’ll walk you back.”

She came around the desk, revealing a slim-cut skirt and stylish, chunky-heeled shoes. She held the door for me as I stepped through into the offices of Feed the Need.

I looked around as we walked, surprised at the size of the place. It was huge, with a decor that seemed more appropriate for an upscale law firm than a charity. Still, the workers were quite busy, and there were a lot of them—milling around the cubicles, talking on the phones, typing into computers.

The receptionist explained the layout of the office space to me as we walked through. Apparently, the clothing business filled one side of the floor and the hunger relief business the other, hence the left-or-right choice in the hall by the elevator.

“And since Mr. Smythe is the president of both divisions,” she said, reaching for a door on the left, near the back end of the giant room, “his office is right here in the middle.”

She held open the door for me, then gave a little wave and left. I found myself stepping into yet another reception area; straight across from me was an identical door that was probably the entrance from the for-profit division on the other side.

The walls were lined with file cabinets, and at the massive oak desk in the center of the room sat an older woman, on the phone, with a tasteful brass plaque on her desk identifying her as Gwen Harding. She was neatly attired in a beige suit, and her only adornment was a pair of exquisite pearl earrings. She glanced up as I walked in, her manner radiating—above all else—efficiency.

“Out of the question,” she said into the phone. “Mr. Smythe’s surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Perhaps a dinner session this evening?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, briefly closing her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was clipped and precise.

“But if you can’t meet with him today, it’ll be at least three or four weeks before he’s available again. Hold on, please.”

She pressed a button on the phone and then turned her attention toward me.

“Can I help you?”

“I have an appointment with Mr. Smythe,” I replied. “Callie Webber? From the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, smiling politely and gesturing toward the door behind her. “Go right in. He’s expecting you.”

I knocked lightly on Mr. Smythe’s door, then opened it to reveal a large and sunny office, the entire back wall lined floor to ceiling with windows. The view was a lovely cityscape of Philadelphia, that familiar skyline that I had grown to love during the three months that I had lived and worked in this city. At the center of the room was a huge gray marble desk, and the man behind it stood as I entered.

“Come in,” he said warmly, extending a hand as he walked around the desk. “I’m Wendell Smythe. I know without you even telling me that you must be Mrs. Webber. Call me Wendell.”

“And you call me Callie, please,” I said, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Wendell quietly shut the door behind me, then he took my arm and led me to a comfortable leather chair, offering me coffee, which I declined.

“That’s an interesting name. Callie. What’s that short for? Caledonia? Callista?”

“It’s just Callie,” I replied. “Not short for anything.”

He returned to his chair and sat down, entwining his fingers and resting his hands on the ample bulk of his stomach. He was a stout man, perhaps 50 pounds overweight, attired in navy slacks, a blue-and-beige-striped tie, and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He had a friendly face and smile. His head was about half-bald, his skin tinted a reddish-white. I could tell that at one time he must’ve been a handsome man, though the years and the pounds had blurred his features. Absurdly, I realized that he reminded me a bit of Santa Claus. Without much imagination, I could picture him in a red suit with white fur trim, giving away toys and belting out some hearty “Ho ho ho’s.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you driving all the way up here to Philadelphia today,” he said. “Tom tells me he had to twist your arm a bit to get you to do it.”

I felt my face flush, but before I could respond, he continued.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Tom and I go way back. I was giving him grief about not delivering the money himself, but he said he was sending his favorite emissary instead. Now that we’ve met, I can see why he talks about you so much.”

“Oh,” I laughed, “you flatter me.”

“I’ve been hearing things about the ‘wonderful Callie Webber’ for a few years. I’m just glad we finally had a chance to meet. You’re vitally important to our boy. I hope you know that.”

“‘Our boy’?”

“Tom, of course. He’s like a son to me, you know. And anyone who is as dedicated to his foundation as you are is A-OK in my book.”

The man had a certain energy that was infectious, and I decided right away that I liked him. He spoke in no-nonsense terms, cut straight and to the point. I decided to be blunt in return.

“I believe Tom told you this isn’t our usual procedure for giving out money,” I said, lifting my briefcase and resting it on my knees. “But it’s his money. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

“You may rest assured, my dear, that it will be repaid in full with ample interest. I only called Tom because I needed some cash
fast
. We’re not very liquid around here right now, I’m afraid. I had a feeling Tom could help us out.”

I hesitated, pulling the check from its slot in my briefcase and holding it in my hand.

“Repaid?” I said. “I was under the impression that this money was a grant.”

“No, it’s a loan. Most definitely a loan.”

“In that case,” I said, fingering the check, “I need to make a phone call first.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No, no,” I said, tucking the check away. “We’ve made loans before. But it’s done differently, from a different account. I just need to speak to our accounting people to see if I can go ahead and give you this check or if it should be handled another way, like with a wire transfer.”

“Of course.”

“And I’ll need to put together our standard loan contract. Shouldn’t take too long; I have my laptop with me. Still, if there’s an empty office I could use somewhere…”

“Certainly,” Wendell said, standing. “Come with me.”

He led me back into Gwen’s office, where she was just hanging up the phone.

“Mrs. Webber needs a telephone and a little privacy,” Wendell said. “Can you help us out?”

“Of course,” she replied.

“I’ll be in here when you’re ready,” Wendell said to me. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“Certainly.”

“Oh, and Callie?” he said, pausing in the doorway. “My wife’s coming into the city in about an hour, and she’d love to give you a tour of our facility here and then take you to brunch over at Bookbinder’s. A little thank-you for your trouble. This sounds terribly rude, but I’m just too swamped with all of this business today to join you.”

“It’s not necessary for her to take me out,” I said, thinking of the long drive home that awaited me. As much as I liked Wendell, I didn’t relish the idea of a long lunch in a fancy restaurant with his wife.

“I insist,” he said, and I knew that he meant it. Companies always did this. They always insisted, and they always thought they were doing me a favor.

“That would be lovely,” I replied finally, thinking it was easier just to give in and get it out of the way.

“Excellent. I know Marion will enjoy getting to know you. Though you have to watch out for her—she’s a bit of a matchmaker where Tom is concerned.” Wendell gave me a smile and a friendly wink and then returned to his office, pulling the door shut behind him. I felt an odd flush of some emotion I couldn’t identify. A matchmaker for Tom? What did he mean by that? Tom was my
boss
. Besides, technically, we’d never even met!

“Would you like to use my phone?” Gwen asked, looking distracted. I noticed she had an appointment book open on the desk in front of her, and that it was marked all over with notations.