A Penny for Your Thoughts (15 page)

I found Marion alone at the breakfast table. She wasn’t really eating, merely pushing around a small pile of eggs with her fork.
In the morning light, I could see the heavily etched lines in her face; her eyes were swollen, and despite the artfully applied makeup I could tell she probably hadn’t slept all night.

“You made it through the first night,” I said gently as I pulled up a chair across from her. “It can only get better from here.”

“Oh, I hope so,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.

“I remember the first night after Bryan died,” I said. “I woke up screaming. I couldn’t stop. They finally had to bring in a doctor to sedate me.”

“I know how you felt.”

“But the next night I didn’t scream, I only cried. The night after that, I cried again. But each night it got a little better and a little better, and eventually I was able to go to sleep at night without praying I would die before morning.”

Marion pushed her plate away and rested her head in her arms.

“I didn’t know it would be so hard.”

“No one ever does.”

“I mean, we weren’t spring chickens, you know. Wendell’s health was very bad, Callie. Between the diabetes and the dialysis, I’d been preparing myself for his death for some time.”

“Oh, you can prepare for death, Marion. You just can’t prepare for your life after his death.”

One tear slipped down her cheek, and she dabbed at it gently with her napkin.

“You’re very wise for one so young,” she said.

“It’s taken a lot of heartache to get me this way,” I answered. “I’d rather have been spared the pain and remained naive.”

Angelina entered, bringing Marion a fresh cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” she said warmly. “Would you like some breakfast? Eggs? Waffles?”

I looked over at Marion’s plate, which by now looked rather unappetizing. My usual breakfast of poached eggs and toast didn’t seem appealing at all.

“Maybe just a muffin or a bagel, something like that?” I answered.

“Of course. Right away.”

She took Marion’s plate and left the room.

“How did your husband die, Callie?” Marion asked once we were alone. “Tom only said that it was an accident.”

I took a deep breath, wondering how long it had been since I shared this particular story with anyone. I didn’t like talking about myself or my problems—especially not the saga of my late husband’s death.

“We were on vacation,” I said reluctantly. “A boating accident.”

“Oh, my.”

“Bryan was water-skiing. I was his spotter, and—”

“His what?”

“His spotter. I watched him from the boat while his brother was driving.”

“I see.” She listened earnestly, her eyes glued to my face, almost as if she hoped to find comfort in my sad story.

“Anyway,” I continued, “Bryan was a good skier. But it was getting near the end of the day and he was tired. He gave me a wave and let go of the rope. We were turning the boat around to swing back and pick him up out of the water when another boat came around the bend—one of those big, expensive cigarette boats. The guy driving it was drunk, going much too fast, not even watching where he was going. Before we could do anything about it, he drove that boat right into Bryan. Killed him instantly.”

“Oh, my.”

“By the time we reached Bryan, he was—” I stopped. The sight of my husband, floating dead in our wake, was an image I would live with the rest of my life. “He never had a chance.”

“You poor dear.”

“In any event,” I said, shaking my head, shaking the picture from my mind, “I survived. As you will survive.”

“I suppose we have no choice, do we?”

Angelina entered with a warm blueberry muffin and a glass of milk, which she placed in front of me. I ate slowly, remembering the pain of those first days of mourning. I wondered why the Lord saw fit to put me in a situation now where I was having to revisit so many of those feelings.

“I have a question for you,” I said finally, changing the subject. “I’ve been wondering about Alan Bennet. Has he worked at Smythe for very long?”

“About a year and a half. Judith has been pleased with his work.”

I know,
I thought.
I saw how pleased she was with him last night
.

“Is he married?” I asked.

Marion shot me a wry glance.

“Handsome fellow, isn’t he?” she said. I colored, knowing that she thought I was interested in him personally.

“Just curious.”

“He’s single,” she replied. “Though there never seems to be a shortage of beauties in his orbit.”

“I can imagine.”

Alan was single. Judith was single. So why were they keeping their affair a secret, having a midnight rendezvous in a barn? I tucked that question away, determined to find the answer later.

“Last night, Marion, you were about to tell me something important about Feed the Need. About the company? You said Wendell had concerns?”

Marion glanced around then lowered her voice.

“I don’t know much,” she said. “But I do know Wendell was very upset about certain financial matters there. If you’re looking for his killer, you might turn your attention in that direction.”

I sat back in my chair and looked at her, wondering if she was insinuating something about her own son. He was, after all, the head of Feed the Need.

“You started to say something about the money I came here to deliver,” I said softly. “The loan from the J.O.S.H.U.A. fund?”

Marion nodded.

“I know that loan was extremely important to Wendell, that the J.O.S.H.U.A. money was his last desperate hope to put things right.”

I was about to question her further when we heard the sound of childish laughter coming down the hall. Marion’s face suddenly lit up, and she turned in her seat just as a young boy bounded into the room, followed by Sidra. As he came in, I was struck not just by his enthusiasm, but also by his sheer physical beauty. About 11 or 12 years old, he was a gorgeous child, with what was obviously his mother’s dark eyes and hair and perfect olive skin.

“Carlos!” Marion cried happily as the child came to her and gave her a hug.

“Gosh, where is everybody?” he said, dropping a big backpack and sleeping roll on the floor. “I gotta show you what I got.”

He bent down to dig in the backpack, and Marion glanced at me with a wink.

“Carlos, you haven’t met our guest. This is Callie Webber, she’s—”

“Hi,” he said, flashing me a friendly grin, cutting her off. “Here it is!”

From the bag, he pulled a small trophy, a wood-based golden statue of a young man holding up a soccer ball.

“Second place,” he said. “Isn’t it cool?”

“Your mom must be so proud,” Marion said, glancing at Sidra and taking the trophy from Carlos. She studied it carefully.

“You get to keep the team’s trophy?” I asked.

“Nah,” he answered enthusiastically. “The team got a giant one, to go in the case in the front hall at school. The players each got these little ones.”

He chattered on, and I realized suddenly that he hadn’t yet heard the news that his grandfather was dead. I could see a somber look come back into Marion’s eyes, and I knew she, too, was hesitant to destroy the happiness of this ebullient child.

“Is that a soccer star I hear in there?” Derek called excitedly from the hallway, and then he was in the room with Carlos in his arms. I took a final bite of my muffin, then pushed away from the table.

“We’ll talk later,” I whispered to Marion, touching her hand as I stood to go. She nodded, distracted by the loving scene between father and son. Sidra had taken a step back and was waiting somberly in the corner.

“It was so cool, Dad,” Carlos was saying as I left. “The bus broke down, and we got to stay an extra day! The driver was really mad ’cause somebody from the other team put water in our gas tank and—”

“Carlos, we have something to tell you,” Derek interrupted. “Let’s go in the living room where we can sit down and talk about it.”

“Why?” Carlos said. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, son,” Derek answered. “It’s about your grandfather.”

Fifteen

I headed upstairs, picked up my keys and my briefcase, and then came back down and went outside, away from the emotional scene that was taking place with Carlos. I went out through the kitchen and walked along the rear of the house, beside the pool. I passed the greenhouse and had just reached my car when I overheard two angry voices speaking in a foreign language. It sounded as if the voices were coming from the back side of the garage. I put my briefcase in my car and then quietly shut the door and followed the sounds.

My intention was to eavesdrop and try to make out what they were saying, but I was spotted before I could get close enough to listen. Just as I rounded the corner, Nick came striding out from behind the garage, gesticulating wildly in the air.

He stopped short when he saw me, his face turning red.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“Who is it?” a female said from behind him. Angelina stepped out and looked at me. “Is anyone with you, Callie?”

I shook my head, wondering what could possibly be going on.

“What is it?” I asked. The two of them looked at each other, then motioned for me to follow them. Apprehensively, I walked around behind the greenhouse, past a row of trashcans, to the back side of the cabana.

“Nick saw it when he was putting out the garbage,” Angelina said, gesturing toward the trash cans nearby. “He wants to alert the family, but I say this is not the right time. They are in the house now, telling Carlos that his grandfather is dead. I do not think they need to know about this right now, too.”

We stopped walking when we reached the cabana, and I stared, stunned, at what I saw. The back side had four windows across the wide expanse of the building. There was nothing remarkable about the architecture or the landscaping, nothing remarkable about the building at all, except for one thing: The sills of each of the four windows was now coated and dripping in a dark, red liquid that looked very much like blood.

I gasped, taking a step closer.

“It is not real blood,” Nick said. “Just food coloring in Karo syrup. Derek had it tested the last time.”

“The
last
time?”

“Yeah. A few weeks ago, they found this stuff all over the side of Sidra’s car.”

“I don’t understand,” I whispered, shaking my head, thinking of the knife in the photo last night and now this. I felt a wave of
nausea rising from the pit of my stomach. If Sidra really had done this herself, then she truly was one messed-up girl.

“It is kind of hard to explain,” Angelina said softly. “Things like this—they have been going on for months. Stupid vandalism, usually targeted at Sidra.”

“Like what?” I asked, pretending I hadn’t already heard part of this story before from Sidra herself.

“Dead roses at her door. Fake blood on her car. Torn up clothes. Angry notes.”

“Do you have any idea who’s doing it?”

I walked over to the window sill and leaned forward, smelling the oozing substance that dripped from the wood. Nick was right; it smelled like syrup.

“No,” Angelina said, shaking her head. “Sidra thinks maybe Derek is doing it. Derek swears Sidra is doing it.”

“Who do
you
think is doing it?” I asked, looking at them both. But neither would reply. Nick only shrugged while Angelina stared at the ground.

I turned and leaned closer to the window, looking through the half-drawn shade at Sidra’s room inside. It was perfectly neat, the bed made, the lights off. Right now, Sidra and Carlos were obviously still in the main house with Marion and Derek. Looking into the cabana, I shivered, thinking that if it wasn’t Sidra herself, then whoever had done this must’ve come in the night while she was inside this very room, sleeping.

“Sidra’s in danger,” I said simply. “Call it ‘vandalism’ or whatever you want; this kind of wacky behavior can only escalate from here.”

“And we should tell her about this, right? Tell all of them?” Nick asked. Angelina rolled her eyes, but also looked to me for the decision.

“Wait until you can get Derek or Sidra alone,” I said. “They both have to know. But you’re right. Carlos really doesn’t need this right now.”