A Penny for Your Thoughts (34 page)

“You want we should call the police for you?” one of the men asked. I shook my head, knowing that the police were already looking for me.

“Just tell me if there’s another way to get out of here besides the main road,” I said, my voice sounding much stronger now than I felt. I knew my only choice was to pick up Harriet and get this mystery solved before I was as dead as Wendell Smythe.

The police would hear my story soon enough.

Thirty-Eight

Harriet was waiting when I arrived at the train station, a big tote bag clutched in each hand. As I pulled closer, I could see her face go from excited to appalled. She looked my vehicle up and down, her eyes wide.

“What in the world happened to you?” she exclaimed. “I guess Philly traffic is even worse than DC, huh?”

I got out and hugged her and then told her to lower her voice and get in the car as quickly as possible. She did as I asked, tossing her tote bags into the backseat before sitting down and slamming the door.

“Don’t ask any questions just yet,” I said. I put on my blinker, trying to pull back out into the line of traffic. “Please use your phone and find me the nearest car rental place.”

“Were you in an accident?”

“Sort of.”

“I’ve got a cousin here in town,” she said. “Maybe we could run out there, and you could borrow her car. I was hoping to squeeze in a visit anyway.”

“Harriet,” I said evenly, “thanks for the offer. But I’d be more comfortable with a rental.”

We found a nearby car rental agency, and I left Harriet waiting in my car while I went inside and asked for the biggest, safest, sturdiest vehicle that they had. They offered me a Lincoln or a minivan. I was about to decline both when the young man behind the counter volunteered that the Lincoln had a really strong V8 engine.

“Zero to 60 in about five seconds,” he said, grinning, but when his boss flashed him a glare, he added, “Least that’s what they say in the commercials.”

I took him up on it, handing over my credit card and waiting impatiently as he did the paperwork. I had lost my pursuer in the red truck, and I had no intention of being found again. Once they got me all set up with my rental, the man recommended a body shop right up the block for my Saturn. I told them I’d rather just park it for the time being, so they let me have a slot on the end.

By the time Harriet and I got into our new Lincoln, she was bubbling over with questions, her face the picture of concern. I tried to convince her that everything was fine, or at least okay, but I knew she could tell from my trembling hands that it was not.

We headed into the city in our new rental, the interior as plush and comfortable as any I’d ever ridden in. I always had an odd affection for rental cars, for the pleasure of trying out different types of vehicles on a temporary basis. But I rarely went with the luxury class, opting instead for the more economical midsize. This was different, however.

This was war.

Glancing frequently in my rearview mirror, I tried to relax as we drove, finally giving Harriet a toned-down, modified version of what had happened. She seemed nervous after that, glancing behind us often, asking me twice to describe the truck that my attacker had driven. I realized too late that I should’ve just made
up some story of a fender bender instead—Harriet was not the type who enjoyed or even endured danger or intrigue. The fact that the police wanted me for questioning would’ve only made her more upset, so I omitted that fact altogether.

Fortunately, we made it all the way downtown to the hotel without incident and without catching sight of the truck. I found the hotel’s parking garage and claimed a spot on the first floor; then we loaded up all of our things and headed across the street to the hotel.

The place was huge, with a lobby spanning at least five floors in height. After we secured our meeting room with the sales office, I headed there while Harriet made a stop in the rest room.

“I would’ve gone at the train station,” she said as she paused in the doorway, “but that place smelled worse than a hog’s pen in Indian summer.”

I laughed out loud, wondering how I had gotten through the week without her. Though Harriet was older than me by a good 20 years, she was a slightly eccentric, totally youthful ray of sunshine—her hair a vivid red pile of curls on top of her head, her glasses sparkling at each corner with rhinestones. And though she tried to wear nice clothes, she always seemed to be falling apart with shoes that didn’t quite match her purse, lipstick smeared on her teeth, and hemlines that were perpetually crooked.

I found our meeting place at the end of a long hall, a pleasant boardroom-style setup with a huge conference table and seating for about ten people. I pushed the chairs around a bit so that Harriet and I would have access to the electrical outlets; then I plugged in my own laptop and pulled out the box of records I had received from Marion—the ones she had discovered in Wendell’s safe. The hotel had left a stack of notepads and sharpened pencils in the center of the table, and I helped myself to two of each, laying them in our working space.

“Here’s your food setup,” the hotel caterer said as she wheeled a cart into the room. On it was a coffee pot and a small stack of
cups and plates alongside an artfully arranged pile of fresh fruit and pastries—the mandatory minimum catering service offered with the room.

“Looks wonderful,” I said as she slid the cart against the wall. I had forgotten all about stopping for breakfast, and I felt a surge of appetite and a serious need for coffee. As soon as the woman left, I took a small plate and loaded it with fresh strawberries and watermelon before fixing myself a cup of the coffee, black and strong.

“Nice room,” Harriet said when she finally came through the door. “But this table’s big enough for line dancing!”

I smiled and pointed her toward the food and coffee. She got herself all set, then joined me at the table.

“Before we start,” Harriet said, removing her glasses to study me carefully, “I wanna know how you’re doin’. You really don’t look so good.”

I quickly swallowed a bite of a strawberry.

“I’m recovering,” I said. “At least we’re here now—we’re safe.”

“I’m not just talking about the incident this morning. I’ve been worried about you all week.”

Glancing into her concerned face, I felt a surge of tears threatening behind my eyes. I looked away, rearranging the fruit on my plate.

“It’s been a hard week for me,” I said finally, softly. “The widow, Mrs. Smythe? She loved her husband very much. From what I can tell, they had one of those marriages…”

I let my voice trail off as I struggled for the right words.

“One of those amazing marriages, like you and your husband had?” Harriet finished for me. I nodded.

“But I’ve cried a little and worked some things through,” I continued, “and now I think I’m going to be fine. No, I
know
I’m going to be fine.”

“If you need to talk,” Harriet said, “I’m ready to listen.”

I smiled at her.

“Don’t need to talk, actually,” I said. “But I could use a prayer.”

She nodded knowingly, and then we held hands and bowed our heads.

“Lord,” she drawled, “I thank You for my dear friend, Callie Webber, the finest woman I have ever known. I just pray that You will come down and wrap Your lovin’ arms around her and protect her from hurt and from harm. Bless us here today as we attempt to finish this job so Callie can come back home where she belongs. Help us to keep our eyes on You, God, and give me traveling mercies as I head back out this afternoon.”

After her amen, I felt her squeeze my hands tightly before letting go. I said my own silent prayer of thanks for the blessing of a true friend. Then we turned toward the table, pulled out Harriet’s computer and her adding machine, and got down to work.

Thirty-Nine

“You’re telling me,” I said to Harriet, “that there’s a $250,000 discrepancy between these two sets of books?”

We had been working for nearly three hours as we compared the records and analyzed the cash flow from each set.

“Two hundred forty-nine thousand, seven hundred thirty-three dollars,” she said, “that shows up in the public record, but disappears in the private one.”

“Well, I guess that’s not really a surprise,” I said, tossing a grape up into the air and catching it in my mouth. “My bet is that Wendell wanted the money from J.O.S.H.U.A. to cover this debt. He wanted to straighten out this mess before he went in for his operation.”

Harriet agreed. She had tried crunching the numbers several different ways, but it still came out the same. In the last five
months, Feed the Need had drastically cut their costs, diverting the savings into a series of unrelated accounts. The surprise here was not that the money had been stolen, but where it had gone—not into someone’s private account, as I had suspected, but into the business accounts of Smythe Incorporated. Whoever had stolen this money from Feed the Need had simply diverted it to the for-profit company. Of course, it wasn’t quite that clear-cut on paper, but Harriet had brilliantly traced it out.

“I don’t get it,” Harriet said. “I mean, a quarter-mil isn’t exactly a lot of money to a company like Smythe. They deal in multi-millions. I can’t imagine why a measly $250,000 was worth all the trouble.”

“Unless they’re not done yet,” I said. “What if whoever did this is still doing it, pulling out just a little at a time so they don’t get caught?”

I stood and paced around the room, thinking of Wendell’s secretary and wondering if she had had any part in this. I doubted it. She so truly valued Feed the Need; I doubted she would’ve done anything to hurt the good works they were doing. It had to have been Judith and Alan.

“This is so awful,” I said. “Not to mention incredibly illegal. How can we tell who authorized all of these transfers?”

Harriet shook her head, pointing to the list of transfers that was nearly a page long—the small transfers that added, in total, up to nearly $250,000.

“You want names connected with the actions?” she asked. “These days, it’s all done electronically.”

“There has to be a record somewhere. I’m going to need that in order to prove any of this.”

“My suggestion,” she said, “would be to get into the Smythe’s electronic banking setup and see if it has a history field. There’s usually a code assigned to each transaction.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

“It’s not that simple,” she said. “I can’t do that here. You need access, code numbers, the right software—”

“In other words, we need to get over to the Smythe offices and do it from there?”

“Exactly.”

I hesitated, knowing the last place I wanted to be was back on the road, much less at a familiar place where my tail could once again pick me up and make roadkill out of me. I felt sure we’d be safe in the Smythe offices, though once we left there I wouldn’t have taken money on our odds of making it back to the train station in one piece.

There was also the little matter of the cops looking for me. If the Feed the Need receptionist was on the alert to watch for me, I knew the jig would be up the minute we walked into the door. Then this day would be lost for sure, and poor Harriet would end up trapped in Philadelphia just like me.

“Harriet,” I said, standing up. “I need you to take off every single item you’re wearing that isn’t absolutely necessary.”

“What?”

“Come on,” I said. “Scarf, jewelry, blazer. Let’s go.”

She did as I asked, stripping down to nothing more than a pair of slacks and a sleeveless shirt. I gave her my navy jacket. Because it was a bit small for her, she hung it down her back and tied the sleeves around the front of her neck.

I, in turn, tied her colorful silk scarf over my hair, loaded on her clunky bracelets and necklace, and slipped my arms into the sleeves of her big purple jacket, buttoning it down the front. Then I grabbed the pile of napkins from the catering tray and began balling them up one by one and stuffing them into my clothes. When I was finished, I stepped back and modeled my new look for Harriet’s approval. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled off her rhinestone glasses and slipped them on my nose.