A Penny for Your Thoughts (16 page)

I sat in my car for a long time, thinking about the fake blood on the windowsills. It had been a terrifying sight, more frightening still because it was so odd. Food coloring in Karo syrup, painted on the windows like blood? Why would someone want to do that? I was still in my car when I saw Derek and Sidra emerge from the house with Nick. He led them around to the back of the cabana, and a moment later I could hear Sidra’s muffled scream. I assumed Angelina and Marion were distracting Carlos in the house.

I started my car and pulled out, turning right from the driveway and then right again on the first road. It ran alongside the Smythes’ estate, and I followed it almost to the end where a low wire fence marked the back boundary of the Smythes’ property. I parked my car and got out, examining the shoulder of the road for tire marks where Alan Bennet might have parked his car among the trees the night before. There weren’t any telltale tracks, but as I headed for the barn I could see where he had crossed over the fence. There was a patch of tall grass bent down from footsteps, a bend in the wire where almost any full-sized adult could have easily climbed over. I did so now, making my way across the grassy field to the barn.

I opened the door to the barn and stepped inside, propping open the door to let in the sunlight. It was a dark building, two stories tall, with an empty loft spanning half of the upper level. Along the wall to my left was a huge green John Deere tractor. On my right was an old couch with the same blanket I had seen spread across it the night before now neatly folded at the end.

It was just a creaky old barn, filled with the smells of dirt and mold and damp hay. Though I didn’t exactly know what I was looking for, I stepped further inside and began poking around among the tool boxes and lawn clippers, hoping that something might turn up. In the back of my mind, I was wondering if a little mischief had been the ultimate purpose of Judith’s meeting with Alan out here the night before. It was just a hunch, but as I poked around, I hoped to find a bucket with traces of the fake blood or perhaps whatever had been used to wipe the blood on the
windowsills. But my search turned up nothing, and finally I gave up.

I exited the barn, sliding the board into place along the front of it. I realized that I had made an error in judgment last night by going to bed when I did. I should’ve gone into the main house, gotten out of my wet bathing suit and into some warm, dry clothing, and then come back out here to wait them out, to see what was on the agenda besides their little bout of hanky-panky. Now all I could do was wonder if their meeting here had been connected with the fake blood on Sidra’s windows.

From where I stood, I could see Nick in the distance, alone now, hosing down the back of the cabana, the red liquid pouring from the windowsills, diluted by the hose water until it ran clear. About halfway between us I noticed a tree house built high into a large oak tree. I decided that if it was sturdy, it might be a perfect spot for surveillance. Tonight, I knew, I would come back there and man my post, watching to see if any new mischief was afoot.

Without question, I wouldn’t be caught sleeping on the job again.

Sixteen

Traffic into the city was light, so despite all the delays back at the house, I still managed to arrive ten minutes early for my meeting with Duane Perskie, the local PI supervising my case. I took the exit for Independence Mall, then found a parking place nearby, right on the street—a miracle in Philadelphia, to say the least.

We were supposed to meet at the Liberty Bell at ten o’clock; Duane had said he had a 10:30 meeting nearby. I glanced at my watch, slipped some change into the parking meter, and decided I
would just have time for a quick stroll around my favorite part of town before meeting up with him.

As I headed toward Independence Square, I thought of how much I loved everything about the historic district. Visiting the sights of Philadelphia always made me swell with a sort of patriotic pride—even more so, in a way, than the monuments and landmarks of Washington, DC. Though DC was certainly impressive and awe inspiring, I always found that whenever I passed the Library of Congress or the White House or the Senate buildings, I saw the hundreds of people in them working hard to keep the wheels of our nation’s capital turning. Philadelphia, on the other hand, was like a moment frozen in time, a turning back of the clock, a preservation of some of the greatest events in our nation’s history. I loved touring the Graff House, where Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, and Independence Hall, where the Declaration and the Constitution were signed. I didn’t have time to go there now, so I contented myself with walking along the blocks of the square, pausing to enjoy the gorgeous sun and perfect blue sky above me.

I made my way back to the Liberty Bell a few minutes before ten and found a spot on a nearby bench. Despite the beautiful weather, the area wasn’t very crowded. There was just a smattering of tourists and the occasional businessperson out for a stroll. I tilted my face toward the sunshine and scanned the group of people that surrounded the bell until I saw the man I was looking for.

“Duane!” I called, giving him a wave.

He responded instantly, walking toward me, a large Styrofoam cup in each hand.

“Hey, Callie,” he said in his distinctive Midwestern twang. “Thanks for meeting me down here. You really saved me some time.”

He offered me one of the cups, which turned out to be coffee. I accepted gratefully, drinking it black.

“So how’s it going?” he asked. “Have you made much headway?”

“I’ve got a theory,” I replied. “And a few suspects to go with it.”

I told him about the insulin and the lack of a struggle, about my guess that the fatal injection had been given by someone Wendell Smythe knew and trusted.

“I’ve been talking with the coroner,” Duane said, reaching into his inside pocket to produce a rolled-up manila file folder, which he handed to me. “Cause of death was definitely overdose of insulin by injection. The injection site was neat and clean. According to him, the man would’ve gone into a hypoglycemic attack almost immediately after that, which would’ve made him weak, dizzy and confused.”

“Why was he on the floor?”

“The coroner thinks he was trying to go for help, stood up, and passed out. Apparently, just three cc’s of regular insulin can take a diabetic’s blood sugar level down into the 20s. All alone like that, he didn’t have a chance. Probably died while he was passed out, somewhere between 10 to 30 minutes after his insulin shot.”

“I see.”

“I believe you discovered the body soon after that.”

“Yes,” I answered, remembering the odd pallor of Mr. Smythe’s face and the startling feeling of a wrist that held no pulse. “And the stuff around him on the floor?”

“All diabetes-related. He had a little kit he used to test his blood sugar.”

“Prints?”

“They got a partial off the syringe. Not very clear, but they’re working on it at the lab. They also got a hair, which they’re testing for a DNA match. Speaking of prints, here’s the fingerprinting kit you asked for.”

From another pocket, he produced a small box, which I accepted gratefully and tucked away in my briefcase. I opened the report he had given me, scanning it as he continued.

“The final blood sugar reading in the tester machine’s memory said 44, which is extremely low. The coroner thinks Smythe was given the insulin injection, got to feeling woozy, tested his blood sugar and saw that it was only 44, tried to go for help, fell down, passed out, and died.”

“So who did it?”

“From that back door, through the bathroom, it could’ve been anybody. Secretary says no one except you went in or out through her door all morning.”

“No one?”

“Mr. Smythe had a lot of work to do and didn’t want to be disturbed. He left strict orders that he was to be interrupted only for the lady from the foundation with the money. That was you.”

“Yes.”

“Anyway,” he said, “I guess that’s all I have to tell you.”

I closed the file. I would go over it more carefully later when I was alone.

“Right now,” he said, “they’re looking to the beneficiaries, family, business associates, you know the drill. ‘The usual suspects,’ as they say.”

“Has the will been read?”

“Standard stuff,” he said, nodding his head. “Most of Smythe’s fortune was divided evenly between his wife and kids. A few bequests to charities and things. No big surprises.”

“What’s your impression, Duane? Who are they really looking at?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Their search field is still fairly wide,” he said. “But I think you’re on the right track where you are now. If you’ve got eight or nine close relatives and employees who you know for a fact regularly gave the man his insulin, then I would stick with them. Look for motives, check out their alibis—process of elimination. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if the killer is on your short list.”

I thanked Duane for his help, tucking the file beside the kit in my briefcase.

“No problem,” he said. “Happy to help. Though from here on in, you’ll be dealing directly with the police. I’m sorry to say you won’t need to see me much unless there’s a problem.”

We stood and shook hands, then he took our empty coffee cups and tossed them into a nearby trash can.

“I’m familiar with the police detectives handling this case,” he said. “Good guys, both of them. Very competent. They’re happy to cooperate—as long as it’s mutual. They’d like you to stop by and see them this afternoon.”

I smiled, thinking of the reluctant Detective Keegan. Rarely was an arrangement like that ever truly mutual.

“Sounds good,” I said.

“Anyway, I guess that’s it for now. May I walk you to your car?”

I nodded, gesturing towards Sixth Street.

“Tom probably told you that he and I go way back,” he said amiably as we headed off. “We were in college together.”

“Here at Penn?” I asked. Tom’s alma mater was one of the few facts I knew about him.

“Yes,” Duane said. “Though I’ve got to tell you, you’re a lot different from the gals Tom went for back then.”

I felt my steps falter for a moment.

“I don’t understand,” I said, regaining my footing, keeping my voice light. “What do you mean, ‘went for’?”

“I mean, you know, Tom always dated real flashy types. You’re very beautiful, of course, but in a subtle way. More classy.”

“Duane…”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not making a pass at you. Tom already told me that you’re all his. Strictly hands-off for me.”

I stopped walking and turned to face him.

“He said
what?”

“That you were hands-off. ‘Just give her the facts,’ he told me. ‘No dates, no flirting, no trying to run the ball to the end zone.’ So don’t worry. I got the point.”

I felt a red flush creep into my cheeks.

“I’m not ‘all his,’” I said, confusion pounding in my brain. “It’s none of Tom’s business who makes a pass at me. My relationship with him is purely a business one.”

“That’s not the impression I got,” he said, grinning. “But if you say so.”

“I say so.”

I opened my car door, climbed in, and shut the door. I had just put the key in the ignition when I heard Duane tapping on my window. I started the car and rolled it down.

“So how about it?” he asked, still grinning. “Since you’re fair game after all, would you like to go out while you’re in town, maybe have some dinner?”

“No,” I said sharply, then, hearing my tone of voice, repeated it again, more kindly. “No. But…thanks for asking.”

I put the car in gear and drove off, leaving him looking after me, confused. Though I wasn’t sure why, my hands were shaking by the time I finally reached the Smythe building and turned into the parking lot.
Tom was just being protective,
I thought as I slid my car into a narrow space and pulled to a stop.
Like a big brother
.

Or was he?

I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes for a moment, thinking back on all the long nights Tom and I spent talking on the phone, on all the exciting events we had shared, albeit via long distance. We were so close in so many ways—and yet, in many other ways, we barely knew each other.

Now he was insinuating to his friend that I somehow was “taken”? That I in some way belonged to him? It was too much to think about.

Tucking my keys in my purse, I decided I would put Detective Perskie’s words behind me for the time being and concentrate on the task at hand. There was too much going on already. I would have to sort out my relationship with Tom later.

I got out of the car and headed for the garage elevator, stepped inside, and pressed the button for the sixth floor. The doors slid
closed in front of me, and I studied my distorted reflection in the metal, wondering if I would ever know how Tom really felt about me. After all, when it came down to it, there was just one issue here: How could a man lay claim to a woman he’d never met face-to-face?

Seventeen