A Penny for Your Thoughts (4 page)

“Actually, it might take a little while,” I said. “Is there an empty office around here with a desk I could use?”

“Let’s see. There’s nothing very private at Feed the Need. Let’s take a look over here.”

She led me through the opposite door into the Smythe Incorporated side of the building. It was similar to Feed the Need in size and decor and just as busy. Gwen led me around, asking two people before finding a vacant office.

“This is our VP of Production’s office,” she said, turning on the light. “According to his assistant, he should be gone for a while.”

“This is fine,” I said. The room was large and sunny with a full but organized desktop. Gwen showed me how to use the phone to dial out and then excused herself, pulling the door shut behind her.

Three

As I dialed the number of my home office I glanced at my watch and realized I was probably going to catch my coworker and dear friend Harriet in the middle of her morning goodie break. Our office was located in the embassy section of Washington, DC, two doors down from a French bakery where they made heavenly pastries each morning. Harriet said sometimes the smell of the baking breads was so strong, it was like the old cartoons where a puff of smoke would float into the room and take on the form of a human hand, beckoning the smeller like a temptress. Never one for resisting good food, Harriet usually followed the smell all the way back to the bakery, where she would buy something delicious before returning to the office and settling down with her bounty.

“J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation,” I finally heard in the clipped, nasal voice of our receptionist, Margaret. “How may I direct your call?”

“Hey, Margaret, it’s Callie. Is Harriet in?”

“Just coming through the door,” she said. “Hold on.”

I waited, picturing Harriet heading to her desk to take my call, her hands loaded with treats. Though I usually worked either from my home or out on assignment, I tried to make a point of going into the office as often as I could. It was a two-hour commute each
way, but it kept me involved with the regular goings-on there that a less frequent visitor might miss.

“Hey, Callie, what’s up?”

“Hey, Harriet,” I said. “Now don’t get the phone all sticky.”

“You just hush,” she said. “It was sticky buns yesterday. Today it’s a cheese Danish.”

“Yum. I bet your arteries are so thrilled.”

“My arteries are healthier than a horse on megavitamins. What can I do for you today?”

I told her briefly what was going on, and instantly I could hear her voice switch over to business mode. Harriet may have been a real character, but she knew her stuff. As the financial director of our little foundation, she was the one to make the decision in this matter.

We chatted for a while, Harriet putting me on hold occasionally to speak with the bank. Eventually, I pulled my laptop out of my briefcase and set it up in a clear area on the desk in front of me. While Harriet worked out the finances, I fiddled around with our standard loan contract, inserting the name of the company and the principals and amending a few clauses. Together, it took us about 20 minutes to work everything out, but in the end Harriet and I were both satisfied that we had managed to set up a simple low-interest loan from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation to Feed the Need.

After that, I headed down to my car to get my little printer from the trunk. Back upstairs, I returned to the empty office I had been using, connected the cable from computer to printer, and set it to work. As the loan contract slowly printed, I sat back in the chair and looked around the office, wondering what exactly a Vice President of Production for an international clothing company did. Posted on a giant bulletin board that lined one wall were sketches of clothes, swatches of fabrics, and a world map covered with marks and scribbles. The stacks on the desk were mostly contracts and faxes. The only personal item in the entire room was
a framed 5x7 photo of a man who looked handsome but fake, like the photo that comes with the frame when you buy it.

Then, like a mirage, the fake man suddenly appeared in real life, swinging open the office door and stepping inside. He was tall and immaculately dressed, with fine blond hair and chiseled features.

He didn’t see me behind the desk at first, but as he turned, he drew up short, catching his breath.

“Hi,” I said. “Sorry to startle you. I was just borrowing this office for a minute.”

He seemed out of breath and disheveled, with something like anger or irritation on his face. I didn’t blame him. He didn’t know who I was, and I felt sure he wasn’t happy coming in to find a total stranger at someone else’s desk.

“I’m Callie Webber,” I said, coming around the desk and extending my hand. “From the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation.”

He hesitated, obviously taking in my Ferragamo shoes, my ostrich-skin briefcase, my Donna Karan suit. He, too, was well dressed in an Italian suit and what looked like a Hermes tie.

“Alan Bennet,” he answered finally, proffering a smile and shaking my hand. “VP of Production for Smythe. How do you do?”

“So this is
your
office,” I said, wondering what kind of man kept a photo of himself on display on his own desk.

“Yes,” he said. “I was just out running some errands. Bank, post office, things like that.”

I nodded, explaining that Gwen had offered me the room while he was out, but that as soon as my printer was finished I would be able to get out of his way.

“No hurry,” he insisted, gesturing for me to take a seat again behind his desk. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his door then came and sat across from me, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his cuffs, flashing me a sudden grin in a manner that suggested instant intimacy. Somewhat disquieted, I averted my
eyes. I’d been a widow for three years, and I was not at all comfortable with the rhythms of casual flirtation.

“I take it you’re here on business?” he asked, glancing toward the printer. There was something a little too aggressive about the man, and I was glad suddenly that my printer pages came out from the machine in a face-down position.

“I’m here meeting with Mr. Smythe,” I said evasively.

“For Feed the Need business or Smythe Incorporated?”

I felt strangely reluctant to answer his questions. As an experienced “snoop,” I always hated when someone tried to turn the tables on me. I ignored his question, changing the subject.

“VP of Production, huh?” I said. “I imagine you travel a lot.”

“A fair amount,” he replied. “But I don’t mind. It’s an exciting job, full of—”

We were interrupted by a knock, and then a young woman stepped into the room, looking toward Alan Bennet adoringly. I recognized her from the Feed the Need office next door.

“I’ve got the budgets for Haiti and the D.R. that you asked for,” she said, holding out a small stack of papers. He took the papers from her and asked her some questions about them, the woman smiling shyly at him as they spoke. He was stunningly handsome, I’d give him that. But with his blond hair, bulging biceps, and model-perfect jaw line, he wasn’t at all my type. I preferred the quiet, understated good looks of my late husband, Bryan. He was the kind of man you didn’t double take on the street for, but when you looked into his eyes and listened to him speak, you knew he was good-looking through and through.

“Sorry about that,” Alan said after she left. “I’ve been helping out with Feed the Need’s finance department. Their CFO’s on maternity leave.”

I was surprised, thinking again of the blurry line between these two ventures. It was bad enough that they already shared a building and a brochure. Crossing over to share fiscal responsibilities was
really
pushing it!

“Nonprofit accounting is quite different from regular accounting, isn’t it?” I asked evenly.

“Somewhat,” he replied.

Somewhat?

I thought of my own introduction to nonprofits, from a class at law school. “What you have to remember,” my instructor had said, “is that while a for-profit’s goal is to
make
money, a nonprofit’s goal is to
spend
money, seeing that when all is said and done there’s none left over except the minimum required to keep it going.” I had found it an odd mind-set to get used to, though of course nowadays I worked with nonprofits almost exclusively.

“So you said you’re from a foundation?” Alan asked.

I nodded, glancing toward my printer. Glad to see it was on the last page, I stood and let it feed directly into my hand.

“Yes, though I’m not much of a number cruncher,” I said. “I leave that to the experts. I deal more in legalities.”

“I see. Is there something I could help you with around here?”

I could tell he was dying to know exactly who I was and what I was doing. Though I doubted the J.O.S.H.U.A. loan needed to be kept secret, you never knew who was privy to what information in any given company. I had learned a long time ago to keep my mouth shut and keep myself out of it.

“No thanks,” I said simply. “I’m all done here now.”

I gathered up my papers, put away my computer, and unplugged my printer. Once I was loaded up and ready to walk out, I thanked the man again for the use of his office.

“No problem,” he said warmly. “But here, let me help you.”

Despite my protestations, he took the printer from me and then insisted on carrying it to Wendell’s office.

We headed there side by side. I glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised to see that I had been working for nearly an hour. Mrs. Smythe would be here soon, I realized, ready to give me a tour of the office and take me to brunch. Then I could head out into the Pennsylvania sunshine, maybe take one nostalgic stroll around Independence Square, and head for home. Hallelujah.

When we reached Gwen’s office, she was back on the phone. She flashed us a quick smile and waved us through to Wendell’s door. Alan knocked once and opened the door just as I had done earlier. This time, however, the office appeared to be empty.

“Wendell?” Alan called.

There was no response except for a muffled “thump” from behind a closed door to the far left. Looking mildly embarrassed, Alan turned to me, lowering his voice. “Ah,” he said, “I believe he’s indisposed for the moment. I’m sure he’ll be right out.”

“Of course.”

Apparently, Alan intended to wait there with me for Wendell to come out of what I assumed was his private rest room. I put down my briefcase and computer and reached out for the printer.

“Well, here,” I said, taking it from him. “Don’t let me hold you up.”

“Oh, okay,” he replied, having no choice then but to go. “But don’t leave without stopping in to say goodbye.”

He flashed me another luminous smile, his teeth straight and perfectly white. Once he had stepped out the door, I set the printer on the chair and let out a long, slow breath.

My hope was that Wendell and I could wrap this up in a matter of minutes. All I needed to do was go over the contract, get some signatures, and present the check. As I waited, I glanced around the room, noting the healthy ficus tree in the corner, the obligatory diplomas on the wall. To my right was a lovely portrait painting I had noticed earlier, and I walked over to it to get a better look.

The painting was exquisite, though somewhat dated. It featured a fresh-faced young woman in her early 20s, a half smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes. She sat in a wicker chair, a fuzzy kitten curled in her lap. Judging from her clothes and hairstyle, the painting must’ve been from the early 1950s.

As I was turning away from the painting, I froze, my heart suddenly in my throat. On the floor, nearly hidden behind the
massive desk, Wendell Smythe was sprawled facedown across the floor.

I ran to him, grabbing his shoulder and turning him toward me. His eyes were open, his skin the odd pallor of a dead man.

“Wendell!” I yelled, shaking his shoulders. When he didn’t respond I put my fingers on his neck and then his wrist, feeling for a pulse.

There was none.

I ran to the door and threw it open, startling Gwen, who was still on the phone.

“Quick!” I said. “Call 911! It’s an emergency!”

She stood, dropping the phone, one hand to her mouth. I dashed back into the room and over to the lifeless man. She followed me into the room and used the phone there, yelling in a frantic voice to the operator, “Hurry! Please hurry!”

I started CPR, even though I felt sure it was in vain. As I worked—15 pumps, two breaths, even and strong—I noticed that the trash can was on its side, its contents scattered on the floor beside him. Among the balled-up papers and pencil shavings were a syringe and some medical-looking implements. Glancing toward the bathroom door, I called out, but there was no reply.

I looked at Gwen as she hung up the phone. Her hands were visibly trembling, her face as pale as the pearls on her ears.

“Who else was in here besides him?” I asked her, breathing hard as I pressed rhythmically against Wendell’s chest.

“No one,” she rasped. “W-why?”

“Because someone’s in there. Is that a bathroom?”