A Penny for Your Thoughts (12 page)

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said vaguely, “I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”

As he left the room I felt my face flush. Hadn’t I learned anything from my stint up in the tree? This was a man in pain, a man who didn’t deserve to be prodded and pushed. And yet Sidra seemed to be in genuine pain as well. Whether she was delusional or not, she deserved to be protected—from herself or someone else.

“Sidra’s in danger,” I said softly, ignoring the salad in front of me. “If things are escalating, then it’s time to bring in the police.”

“The police are the last thing we need,” Marion said, her face pale. “Goodness, Callie, I appreciate your concern, but I’m afraid this is a family matter.”

I pressed on.

“Why not call the police?” I asked. “Are you afraid of what they might discover?”

“I’m afraid they’ll take her away!” Marion exclaimed. “I’m afraid they’ll commit Sidra to some sort of institution. Better she remain here, among family, and get the help she needs. We’re handling this problem, Callie. She’s under the care of a psychiatrist. Beyond that, I’m afraid you’ll have to accept that this is family business.”

The room was silent, echoing with Marion’s outburst. I thought about Sidra, about the medicines I had seen in her bathroom. Certainly, she was being treated for something. But whether she was delusional or just depressed, I wasn’t sure.

“I’m sorry,” Marion said after a long moment. “You may think us heartless, but we’re not. I couldn’t love Sidra more if she were my own flesh and blood. But I’m afraid we’ve had to take a hard line on this. She’s always had problems. It’s just lately they seem to have manifested themselves in this way.”

“If you really think she’s crazy,” I challenged, “then why let her keep Carlos out there with her? And why let her care for your husband and his dialysis?”

“I didn’t say she was psychotic,” Marion snapped. “She just has some emotional issues.”

I let the matter drop, knowing I would reserve judgment for the time being. Marion and I ate our salads in silence, and after a few minutes we were joined by Judith, who strode purposefully into the room.

“Evening, Mother, Ms. Webber,” she said, nodding in turn toward each of us. She came to the table and took the chair Derek had just vacated and dug immediately into his salad.

“Judith!” Marion exclaimed. “Where have you been? There were people here. I needed you.”

“I know, Mom. I’m sorry. I was tied up at work.”

“How could you work with all that’s happened today?”

“Well, I figured I’d probably have to take the rest of the week off. If I’m going to do that, I had things to take care of first. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t sound at all sorry, merely irritated. I looked at her, amazed that a brother and sister could be so different. Where Derek was sweet and vague and sort of gentle, Judith was brusque and direct and almost masculine.

“You could’ve called,” Marion said, putting an end to the matter. “I was worried.”

“Sor-ry,” Judith replied sarcastically, and I couldn’t help but think she sounded for a moment more like a 12-year-old kid than a grown woman.

The three of us ate silently, tension hovering around the table like a fog. I finally spoke, my voice sounding loud in the quiet.

“I didn’t think to ask you earlier, Judith, about your position at the company?”

“I’m CEO of Smythe Incorporated. The for-profit division.”

“I thought your father ran things.”

“Daddy was the president. The big decisions, the overall vision. I implement the day-to-day. Just like Derek does for Feed the Need on the nonprofit side.”

“I see,” I said, feeling a surge of frustration over my lack of knowledge. Usually, by the time I approached a company with a donation, I knew them inside and out. But this assignment had been so hurried, so different from my usual procedure. I had only the vaguest idea of how the Smythe enterprises operated, and most of that information I had gleaned from the brochure I had read in the reception room that morning.

“How about you, Callie?” Judith asked. “What do you do exactly?”

I eyed her cautiously for a moment. There was something odd about her demeanor, and I wondered if she had checked me out after finding me in her father’s office that afternoon and knew exactly what I did.

“I work for the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation,” I said. “I’m the Director of Research.”

“I told you, dear,” Marion added. “She works for Tom.”

“Director of Research?” Judith asked. “What exactly does that mean?”

I put down my fork, glancing at Marion.

“I verify the integrity of charitable organizations,” I said, “to see if they’re spending their money wisely and if their programs really do what they say they will do. Basically, I make sure they’re everything they claim to be.”

Judith looked at me, truly interested now.

“And if they are?”

“Then we give them a grant.”

“And if they’re not?”

I shrugged.

“Depends. Most of the time we just reject their grant proposal. In a few odd cases, we’ve actually helped bring out fraud or criminal charges.”

“What were you doing here?” she asked. “Did Feed the Need apply for a grant?”

I hesitated.

“Different situation,” I replied finally. “Seems your father had an ‘in’ with our president, Tom. The usual rules didn’t apply.”

“What are the ‘usual’ rules?” Marion asked. “I mean, how do you judge a nonprofit organization? How do you ‘verify its integrity,’ as you put it? I assume it has to do with how the money is spent—administrative and fundraising dollars versus program dollars and all that.”

“That’s only part of the picture,” I said, “though overhead versus outlay is the first thing we look at. All nonprofits file a Form 990, information that they are mandated by the IRS to provide to the public.”

“That’s good,” said Marion.

“It is. That way, I can know, going in, the sort of percentages we’re talking about.”

“What’s a good percentage to look for?” Judith asked. “I mean, if a nonprofit spends 50 percent of its income on expenses, is that bad?”

“Fifty percent should certainly raise some red flags,” I replied. “But it really depends on the organization and how it classifies its expenses. Newer companies are going to have higher start-up costs. And certain types of nonprofits have more administrative expenses than others.”

“So how do you know whether a nonprofit is really legit or not?” Judith asked. “I mean, I’m sure there are companies that play with the figures to make them look better than they are.”

“We use a lot of different criteria,” I replied. “There are voluntary watchdog groups, for example. Nonprofits can sign up and hold themselves accountable to these stricter guidelines. That’s always a good sign.”

“Feed the Need belongs to more than one, I’m proud to say,” interjected Marion. I nodded, remembering that several accountability groups were listed in the fine print on Feed the Need’s brochure.

“What else?” Judith asked.

I hesitated, taking a bite of the shrimp cocktail that Angelina had just placed in front of me. The shrimp was perfect, the sauce a tangy complement to the seafood.

“It’s kind of hard to say,” I answered after swallowing. “If the foundation is considering a sizeable donation, we try to get a look at the books and redo the calculations ourselves.”

“So basically it’s a matter of mathematics?”

I speared another shrimp, hesitating.

“No,” I said. “The math is just the first step. Once things check out on paper…”

I stopped, stalling with another bite of shrimp, wondering how much to say.

“Go on,” urged Marion. “Once things check out on paper…”

“I don’t usually talk about this,” I said finally.

“Oh, come on,” Judith urged. “It’s very interesting.”

I looked from one to the other and finally smiled, wondering if these two rich women could even comprehend my criteria.

“Once the math checks out, more often than not it’s simply a ‘mentality’, if you will. A way of thinking, of doing business.”

Marion and Judith both studied me, their shrimp cocktails ignored.

“I usually start by reading their mission statement, then I look to see if they really seem to be living by it. I mean, I hate to call it intuitive, but in a way, it is.”

“You’ve been doing this a long time,” Marion replied. “I would imagine your instincts are fairly good.”

“It’s not just that,” I said. “Really, anyone could do the same.”

“You’ve lost me,” said Judith.

“It’s the salaries,” I said. “The benefits. The decor, even.”

“The decor?”

“For instance, is the office fancier than it needs to be? Are the salaries too far above the norm? When the executives travel, are they staying in Holiday Inns or Ritz Carltons? When an employee needs to go to a training session, is she going to one in the next state—or one in Hawaii?”

“What’s wrong with staying at a Ritz Carlton?” Marion asked. “Those are lovely hotels.”

“But they’re very expensive,” I replied . “Nonprofit organizations should have a pervading mentality of saving money, of cutting corners. Of using their resources for the things that are important.”

“So if you work for a nonprofit, you should suffer?” Judith asked.

“No,” I replied. “But in a way you should be
giving
more than you’re
getting
. Most really good nonprofits all have one thing in common: They have a sort of ‘service’ mentality. The people work there because they want to make a difference in the world, not for personal gain. They work tirelessly and selflessly, even though it usually means few perks and lower-than-average incomes.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Judith said.

“Put it this way,” I continued. “People in the nonprofit sector work just as hard as people in the for-profit sector, but they do it with the understanding that they will never be compensated at the for-profit level. But because they derive so much personal satisfaction from the work itself, they’re usually okay with that.”

“I think I understand,” said Marion.

“I reviewed a company in California once,” I said, “a nonprofit health care organization. On paper, it looked very good. But something about the place bothered me.”

I took another bite of shrimp, thinking about all of the nonprofits I had examined, both good and bad.

“It took some digging,” I said, “but I finally found a few disgruntled former employees who were able to point me in the right direction. Turns out, the head of the organization liked to travel. Within five years he had gone to 12 international conferences in places like Zurich, Singapore, and Monte Carlo.”

“But if these conferences were necessary for doing his job—”

“They weren’t,” I replied. “They were all only marginally related to his work.”

“But legal?”

“Yes, legal. And it turned out that he brought along his wife, four children, and their nanny on each of the trips. They stayed in some of the nicest hotels in the world, dined in some of the fanciest restaurants, took in all of the sights—and the entire tab was always picked up by the agency.”

“Wow.”

“Needless to say, that man was getting more than he was giving. Classic case of financial abuse. They were denied the grant.”

“I should hope so,” Marion said.

Angelina came in and removed our shrimp dishes, replacing them with a small plate of Waldorf salad. I was glad when Judith turned the conversation to other matters, asking her mother about flowers for the funeral.

I ate as they talked, and by the time the main dish arrived I was already full and mostly just pushed the food around on my plate with my fork. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one overwhelmed by the sheer volume of food; when Angelina entered the room with a covered bowl of hot homemade breads, Marion held up one hand, delicately wiping the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

“Angelina, please,” Marion said. “We’re about to explode here. How much more food is there tonight?”

The maid smiled, setting the bowl on the sideboard.

“I told Nick you would be yelling at me soon if he did not stop,” she said. “But you know how he is. When he is upset, he cooks. If I had not put my foot down, you would be getting three different desserts tonight, too.”

“Well, tell Nick to find some way to drown his sorrows other than spoiling us with food. We are a hunger relief organization, after all. How does he think it looks to our guest—children starving all over the world while we sit here with this feast?”

Judith caught my eye across the table and grinned sardonically. Obviously, her mother had taken my little lecture to heart.

“Yes, ma’am. I will tell him that is enough for now.”

Angelina ducked out as Marion reached out and put a hand on my arm.

“Wendell and our cook were very close, Callie. I’m sorry about this.”

“Oh, please, I—”

“I’m sure you noticed my husband was a very…ah…abundant man. Before his kidneys began to fail, his favorite part of the day was always the evening, eating these delicious meals, or sitting in the kitchen later with Nick, sharing some forbidden dessert and debating current events. That cursed diabetes! I’m afraid Wendell’s love of rich food may have proven to be the death of him after all.”

“We don’t know that for sure, Mom,” Judith corrected. “The police still haven’t released cause of death.”

I looked at my plate, surprised that they didn’t yet know the truth. Was the Philadelphia Police Department really that slow at getting the word out to the victim’s family?

“His death was imminent regardless,” Marion said miserably. “Only a matter of time. You know what a disaster his health was, especially here at the end.”

I held my tongue, thinking of the unseen intruder I had chased down the stairwell. Whether Wendell’s death was merely a matter of time or not, I thought, someone had helped speed things along just a bit.

“I suppose we should ask Nick to be a pallbearer,” Judith went on matter-of-factly. “Have you thought of the others?”

I was struck by the casualness of her tone, as if she were choosing the right scarf for her blouse rather than choosing the men who would carry her dead father to his grave.