A Penny for Your Thoughts (19 page)

“Oh!” she said, stepping back. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, my mind racing. “I was just wondering if you had any blank W9 forms.”

She hesitated a beat, looking at me thoughtfully with two dark brown eyes. She was an attractive woman in her early 30s wearing a tan silk pantsuit.

“Is that that new Burmese washable silk?” I asked, reaching out to finger her sleeve. “That’s
beautiful
.”

“Washable?” she answered, “Um, no. The tag says ‘dry clean only.’”

“Still,” I replied, “it’s lovely.”

“Thanks.”

Her suspicion seemed to have passed. She crossed in front of me, pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk, and rummaged around a bit.

“Don’t think I have any W9s,” she said, flipping through some tax documents. “Maybe you can get one from accounting.”

“Oh, okay.”

She closed the drawer.

“Or nowadays, you know, you can go to the IRS website and download almost any form you need.”

“Good idea,” I said, the key feeling hot in the palm of my hand. “Thanks.”

I walked out of her cubicle, praying she wouldn’t need that key any time soon. I headed for Tina, who was back at work at her desk, surrounded by her ladybug collection.

“Sorry to bother you again,” I said in a low voice, “but can you tell me, what is that woman’s name, the one in personnel?”

“Debra?”

“Debra,” I said. “Yes. Sweet lady.”

“Yeah, she is. Did you need her for something?”

I shook my head, smiling.

“No, I just couldn’t remember her name.”

I walked on back to my cubicle, picked up the phone, and rang the front desk. The receptionist answered on the first ring.

“Hey,” I said quickly. “Would you buzz Debra and ask her to come back to the conference room for a minute?”

“Sure. Who is this?”

I scratched my fingernails on the phone receiver, as if there was something wrong with my phone.

“Thanks,” I said. I hung up and walked back toward personnel, timing it so that I was just coming around the corner as Debra was heading out of her cubicle, walking with her back to me.

I slipped right into the cubicle behind her, opened the drawer, neatly dropped the key in its slot, then closed the drawer with a quiet thud. Mission accomplished, I left the cubicle and looped around toward the conference room, where Debra stood, puzzled, in the doorway. She stood there for a moment, then rolled her eyes and turned back toward her desk.

“Oh, these people,” she said, shaking her head as she walked away. “I don’t have time for all their foolishness.”

Smiling, I headed back to my desk to get a look at the files I had worked so hard to acquire, hoping that something in one of them might lead me to the murderer.

Nineteen

I flipped through Judith’s file first, not really looking for anything, just trying to get a better idea of who she was. Not surprisingly, her background was direct and impressive—a B.A. (summa cum laude) from Rutgers College, an M.B.A. from Wharton, and a stellar rise through the ranks at Smythe Incorporated.

Derek’s file was equally impressive, though more colorful. He had a degree in Divinity from Eastern Theological Seminary, a Masters of Social Work from the University of Pennsylvania, and apparently he had worked for a while as a missionary. He had spent time in Central America and had, in fact, only been working for Feed the Need for a few years.

That surprised me. Most of the missionaries I knew were fairly adventurous, the hearty type. But Derek seemed so soft, so genteel—certainly not the kind of guy who would live in a Third World country without modern amenities.

I put his papers aside and took a look at Gwen Harding. Her work history was just as she described it, though I did a double take when I came to her salary classification. With her long tenure and regular, steady pay increases, she was making nearly as much as the executives. Rarely did secretaries earn what they deserved, but I would say this was an exception. I thought about Gwen and those gorgeous pearl earrings she wore, and I realized that she very likely had bought them for herself.

Alan Bennet, on the other hand, was definitely not making enough money to be going around in Armani suits and $200 ties. His salary was perfectly respectable, but it certainly wasn’t on a par with his spending. I saw that he had only been at Smythe for about a year and a half, and that good semi-annual reviews from his boss, Judith, had led to two six-percent pay increases.

A copy of his resume was there, and I took a moment to study it. Prior to working for Smythe Incorporated, he had been with three other clothing manufacturers. Under Education, he had listed a B.S. in Accounting from a small private college in the Midwest that I had never heard of.

According to my discussion with Gwen, Alan had basically been running Feed the Need’s finances for the last four or five months or so while the regular accountant was out on extended maternity leave. Even though I knew it wasn’t him I had chased from the bathroom two days before, I still felt that he was worth a little more research.

I tucked all of the papers away in my briefcase, then closed it up and turned to my computer, typing out a quick e-mail to my office, giving them the information I had and asking them to look into Alan’s history a little more closely.

The police department was only a few blocks away, so I took advantage of the gorgeous weather outside and walked. The men I sought were in a cavernous downtown building, at the end of a long hall. A handwritten sign taped to the door said “Keegan and
Sollie.” I knocked, thinking the two names sounded more like a dog and pony show than a pair of police detectives.

“Come,” a voice barked from inside. I swung open the door to find a tiny office with two desks crammed in a space barely big enough for one. Behind the first desk sat Detective Keegan, tufts of reddish hair still poking out over each ear. He gave me a broad smile, unexpected after his gruff greeting, not to mention his attitude at our previous meeting the day before.

“You made good time,” he said warmly, rising halfway and then sitting again.

“Hi, Detective,” I said, shaking his hand. “Nice to see you.”

He gestured toward a chair and I took it, turning my knees to the side so I could fit.

“Kind of a tight squeeze in here,” he said, smiling. “Not that I have a problem with it. But some folks complain.”

“I’m fine,” I replied.

“Sollie just went out for a soda. He’ll be back in a few. Can we get you anything? Coffee?”

I shook my head, wondering at the change in his attitude. Tom had obviously worked some magic here. I had no doubt that some higher-up had told Detective Keegan to be on his best behavior with me; I couldn’t have asked for a warmer reception.

Keegan grabbed a file from the piles on his desk and skimmed through it for a moment before looking at me.

“Okay,” he said, lowering his voice, “we got some of the lab results here, though not everything.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t know who you know, Ms. Webber, but I’ve been given explicit instructions to be as forthcoming as I can within the bounds of the law.”

“I know.”

“That’s why I’m gonna leave this file right here and go get myself something to drink. Understand?”

“I understand.”

Then he stood and walked out, leaving me to flip the file around and gather what information I could.

I skimmed the updated coroner’s report, noting that the lack of a struggle had been confirmed. The needle had gone straight in and come straight out; there were no other significant bruises or trauma. The injection site had been the back of his left arm. Wendell’s fingernails had been clean and revealed no skin scrapings. Under “Other Findings” there was a long list of abnormalities, including “fistula in upper right arm,” “severe ischemia of the toes and feet,” and “nephritis.” Though I felt certain these were diabetes-related conditions, I pulled a pen and notepad from my purse and wrote it all down.

Fibers collected in the office and bathroom were numerous, though mostly unidentified. There was one hair found on Wendell’s arm
under
his shirt, near the injection site, described as “Blond, chemically compromised.” I thought immediately of Alan Bennet, who seemed just vain enough to have his hair colored, just blond enough to hint at foil highlights.

There wasn’t much more information than that, so I glanced toward the door and began flipping back through the other things in the file. I stopped near the back at a long list of suspects. Many of the names had alibis penciled in next to them.

I looked for the names I was interested in, jotting them all down as quickly as possible:

Wife—shopping at Desmond’s dept. store. Confirmed by salesclerk and cook.

Son—working alone in office. Unconfirmed.

Daughter—working alone in office. Unconfirmed.

Secretary—working alone in office, on phone. Confirmed by telephone records—see list and confirm at other end.

Bennet—running errands, then back in office. Errands unconfirmed. Return to office at approx. 11:15 conf. by receptionist.

Cook—shopping with Mrs. Smythe.

Maid—shopping at grocery store, confirmed by checker.

Daughter-in-law—Bible study at St. James Church. Unconfirmed—pastor out of town. Try again.”

There were plenty of other names on their list, too, but I concentrated for the time being on the ones that matched my own list of suspects. I wrote everything down without thinking much about what I was writing, knowing there would be time to sort through it all later. I was on the last one when I heard loud voices in the hall, and I knew that was my cue to put the file back.

I was inserting my notepad into my purse when the door opened and two men came in, each carrying a can of soda. Keegan was first, followed by the tall black man I had seen him with in Gwen’s office the day before. I stood so that they could get past me to their desks, then we all sat down again at once.

“This is Detective Sollie,” Keegan said, waving toward his partner. The man nodded at me coldly.

“Ma’am,” he said.

“Sollie,” I said, giving him my most charming smile. “That’s an interesting name.”

“Slang for ‘Solomon,’” he answered gruffly.

“Solomon because he’s so, so wise,” Keegan teased. That seemed to break the man’s reticence. He balled up a piece of trash and tossed it at Keegan’s head.

“Mrs. Webber, you said on the phone that you had some information for us.”

“Yes,” I replied, nodding. “I don’t know how pertinent it might be, but I doubt it’s something you’ve turned up so far.”

“Go on.”

I hesitated, hating to give out any information at all. But the police wanted this relationship to be “mutually cooperative.” The least I could do was throw them a bone.

“Judith Smythe and Alan Bennet are involved in a clandestine affair.”

Sollie grunted. Keegan didn’t react at all.

“Judith, the daughter, and Bennet, the employee?” Sollie asked, consulting his notes. “How do you know this? Somebody told you?”

“I, ah, happened upon them by accident. They don’t know that I know.”

“What do you mean by clandestine?” asked Keegan. “Neither one of ’em’s married, far as I know.”

“All the more reason that their secretiveness is so odd. I saw them meeting late at night in an old barn on the back of the Smythe property. And, believe me, they may have been in a barn, but they weren’t out there discussing tractors or hay.”

“I see,” Sollie said, forming a tent with his fingers. “Anything else you’d like to tell us?”

I thought about the vandalism incidents involving Sidra, of Marion’s pleas not to involve the authorities. More importantly, I thought about the $250,000 that I had been told was for buying a building—but apparently was not. For now, I decided, I would keep these bits of information to myself.

“No, nothing else to report,” I replied.

“Then thank you for coming in,” Sollie said politely. “Do give us a call the next time you have any information.”

I thanked them both and then stood to leave.

“Don’t give the girl a hard time,” Keegan said, throwing the ball of trash back at Sollie. “She’s just doing her job.”