A Penny for Your Thoughts (8 page)

Though it was posed as a question, I could see I had no real choice in the matter. I nodded, letting her lead me through Gwen’s office and into the Smythe Incorporated side of the building. As we walked through, I realized that it had the same hushed and concerned atmosphere as Feed the Need. We passed a small group of whispering employees who dispersed the moment they saw Judith.

“The natives are restless,” Judith said disdainfully under her breath as we walked past.

“I’m sure they’re upset about your father’s death.”

“The show must go on,” she replied curtly. “They’ve all got more than enough work to keep them busy.”

“But the shock of it all,” I said. “You’ve got to expect them to be thrown a bit.”

“What shock?” Judith snapped. “I’m his daughter, and you don’t see me whimpering about it. Daddy’s been living on borrowed time for years. My only surprise is that he lived as long as he did.”

I was so stunned by her callous attitude that I know it must’ve shown on my face. After a moment, she stopped and looked at me, swallowing hard.

“You probably think I’m a heartless monster,” she said quietly. “I’m not. I just won’t let this get to me. He was a good man, and he had a good life. But now he’s dead. That’s it. Finito. Over and out.”

“But you must be in pain from this. The loss of such a good man—”

“Oh, I am. I loved my father, Ms. Webber. Make no mistake about that. I’ll miss him. But I can’t change what happened. My guess is that either his heart finally gave out or his blood sugar just went crazy. Either way, we can’t bring him back. So we move on.”

“At least you can take comfort in the fact that he was a Christian,” I said, but I was surprised when she waved my comment away with the flip of her wrist.

“That’s my family’s thing, not mine,” she said, walking again toward the door. “I don’t believe in heaven. Don’t believe in God.”

“Not even now, in the face of your father’s death?”

“We live, we die. End of story, far as I’m concerned.”

My heart lurched for her, and I wanted to stop everything and try to convince her how wrong she was. How could anyone not know God was real? How could anyone get through life without the daily presence of the Holy Spirit?

“God
is
real, Judith,” I said. “I know that as surely as I know I’m standing here, in front of you. The miracles He’s worked in my own life—”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” she said. “Save your sermons for someone else.”

We reached the doorway, and she held it open for me, dismissing me not only from the building but from our conversation as well.

“Well…” I said, grasping for something to keep us talking. “I’m sure I’ll see you later, at the house.”

“Whatever,” she replied, and then she turned and walked away, the door slowly swinging to a close behind her.

Six

Dumb, dumb, dumb,
I thought as I pressed the button for the basement. Not Judith, but
me
. I was just
dumb
.

How many times in life did I have to be reminded that you don’t bring people to God by arguing or pleading with them? It takes love and support, living the right kind of life, meeting them where their needs are. The elevator door shut and I was alone, staring at my reflection as I headed down.

Judith didn’t come across as needy, I knew, but that tough exterior certainly masked a hurting soul—and my desperate preaching had probably done nothing more than push her further away from a decision for Christ. I would have to back off and change my approach. Surely, I didn’t need to be beating her over the head with a truth she wasn’t able to see!

Putting Judith out of my mind for the time being, I reached the basement, retrieved my car, and headed out into Philadelphia traffic. I went back over my conversations with Tom and then with Duane Perskie, thinking about what we knew of Wendell’s death so far—not much, but enough to draw a few conclusions.

Wendell Smythe was a diabetic who had been murdered with an overdose of insulin. That meant someone had snuck into his office through the back way, given him a lethal injection, watched him die, and then almost been caught by me in the restroom before making a getaway.

Not that unusual of a scenario for murder, of course, but this one had a catch: There had been no struggle. This murder had been committed cleanly and quietly, with only a dead body and an upturned trash can to show for it. Even the secretary, Gwen
Harding—who claimed she was at her desk, on the phone nearly the whole time—said she had heard no unusual sounds whatsoever coming from Wendell’s office. Assuming she was telling the truth, I thought that whoever killed Wendell must have been someone he had known and trusted, someone who could pop in through the back way and give him an insulin shot without causing any sort of disturbance.

My thoughts, of course, went to coworkers, family members, and household employees. If anyone that Wendell Smythe knew and trusted could’ve waltzed in there, offered to give him his insulin shot, and then waltzed back out, then all it would’ve taken was an extra-big dose of insulin, and he was history. Wendell was used to getting his shots from other people; he could’ve easily been tricked into sitting still for this one.

The next step, then, was for me to try to find out who in Wendell’s world usually gave him his shots. If he had a needle phobia and hated giving the shots to himself, then he had probably trained quite a few people to do it for him so that he would never be caught in a bind. I wondered who was on that list and what would be the quickest way to find out their names.

In a moment of inspiration, I pulled out my notes and dialed the home number of Wendell’s secretary, Gwen Harding. We had “bonded” a bit this morning, having gone through this crisis together, and my hope was that I could finesse a conversation with her to get the information I sought. Unfortunately, a man answered the phone, and when I asked to speak with Gwen, he told me she was indisposed.

“Who is it?” I heard her ask softly in the background, and I realized that she was probably overcome with emotion and exhaustion.

The morning had been extremely difficult for her. I gave my name, and after a moment’s hesitation, she came onto the line.

“Callie?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled. “What’s going on?”

“I got your number from the office,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind. How are you holding up, Gwen? Are you doing okay?”

“How sweet of you to ask,” she said. “I was just lying down.” She went on to tell me that her husband had come home from work to be with her, and that her doctor had prescribed a sedative.

“I just took one a few minutes ago,” she said, and I could hear the slight slur in her voice. “I’m going to take a little rest now.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said. “Before you go, I wonder if you could tell me something.”

“What, dear?”

“Would you be able to provide a list of names of the people who regularly gave Wendell Smythe his insulin injections?”

“Again?” she moaned. “I just told this to the police.”

I took that as a positive sign—the police and I were on the same track.

“What I told them,” Gwen continued, “was Wendell’s family, the household staff, me, and Alan Bennet. That’s it. Why does everyone need to know, anyway?”

“No telling,” I said, thinking, technically, that wasn’t a lie; I did know, I just wasn’t telling. “Are you sure that’s everyone?”

“Positive,” said Gwen. “We were all trained at the house, at the same time. We all learned together.”

“And all of you gave Wendell his shots?”

“From time to time. At the office, it was usually me. At home, it was usually Sidra.”

“Sidra?”

“His daughter-in-law. She’s a nurse.”

“How about Alan Bennet? Why him? I mean, isn’t he a vice president or something?”

“He’s also a close friend of the family. And he and Wendell traveled a lot together on business. Alan always did it when they traveled.”

“How about any other nurses? I understand Wendell had a bunch of medical problems. Was there no regular nurse on staff?”

“Again, Sidra handled his dialysis and everything. Wendell did have some night aides a few months back, but none lately.”

“I see.”

I could hear the slur in her voice growing more pronounced and, feeling guilty, I let her go, telling her I hoped she felt better once she got some rest.

I put away the phone, thinking of Gwen’s list. If I was going to continue with my current theory, then there was a good chance the killer was either a member of the family, a member of the household staff, Alan, or Gwen.

I thought about the Smythe family, knowing that Tom would have a fit if he knew I was looking in their direction first. He was close to them and probably would feel the killer couldn’t possibly be any of them. But I didn’t know the family at all, which was to my advantage at this point. A good detective never assumes anything—and in a case like this one, the family is the most logical place to start, statistically speaking. Marion’s grief at her husband’s passing had seemed genuine, but even that wasn’t always a clear sign of innocence. As I headed to the house I resolved to keep an open mind, hoping I would have a chance to meet and get to know the entire family a little better.

When I was nearly there, I stopped at a large strip mall to pick up some toiletries and makeup, a bathing suit, and a few office supplies. I didn’t feel like spending time trying on any clothes and just grabbed some things that looked like they would fit, hoping for the best.

By the time I reached the house, it was early afternoon, and the place was quiet. Realizing I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, I stashed the bags in my room and set off for the kitchen, hoping to catch a quiet interview with the maid, Angelina, and maybe find something to eat at the same time.

I was in luck. I peered around the corner of the kitchen to see Angelina sitting at the kitchen table, snapping some beans. The chauffeur was standing behind her, now dressed in a white cook’s
jacket, kneading some dough on the counter, then pausing to stir a pot on the stove. They were speaking softly as they worked, delicious smells filling the room.

Angelina stood when she saw me, her features offering a guarded smile.

“Mrs. Webber,” she said. “Can I get something for you? A cup of coffee, perhaps?”

“Sit, please,” I said, heading toward the table. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I was just hoping I could maybe make myself a little sandwich or something. I never had lunch.”

“Perhaps a bowl of soup?” the man suggested. “I just made a pot of cream of potato with scallions and peppers.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

Angelina gestured toward the man behind her, introducing him as her brother Nick, the cook.

“You will excuse me if I don’t shake hands,” he said, waving to show me that his palms were covered with flour.

“The cook?” I asked. “I thought you were the chauffeur.”

“The chauffeur?” he replied sharply. “I am the
chef!
I just drove Mrs. Smythe into the city this morning as a favor.”

“I see.”

Our eyes met, his almost challenging me. Obviously, this was a man who took great pride in his work. I realized I had insulted him.

“My mistake,” I said apologetically. “No offense intended.” After a moment, he spoke again, his tone warming.

“It is quite alright. Have a seat. Angelina, get the lady a bowl.”

She fluttered around, gathering bowl, spoon, gourmet crackers, and a glass of lemonade. I made a great show of tasting the soup and pronouncing it heavenly—which it was. Nick beamed proudly.

“So where is everyone?” I asked, taking another sip. “Is Mrs. Smythe okay?”

“She had a light meal in her room,” Angelina answered, resuming her place at the table, “and now I believe she is taking a nap.”

“Soup, hors d’oeuvres, dinner,” Nick said, counting off on his fingers. “Good thing you did that big grocery shopping trip this morning, Angelina. Who knew we would need all of this food?”

I continued to eat as Angelina explained that Marion’s son, Derek, was in the den, returning phone calls from friends, family, acquaintances, and reporters.

“The phone has been going crazy,” she said. “I did not know what to tell people. I hardly understand what has happened myself.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, “for all of you.” Angelina nodded, closing her eyes.

“Mrs. Smythe will be accepting visitors around six,” Nick said. “Things should be quiet around here until then.”

He continued to cook, and Angelina snapped her beans. As I ate, I began to watch Nick’s movements with interest; there was something oddly soothing about his hands working the dough, rolling it out onto the floured counter, cutting it into perfect rings, which he then pressed into the little cups of a muffin pan.

“Pecan tarts,” he said when he finally noticed my interest. I nodded, wondering how long he had been a chef. He moved in a professional, efficient manner throughout the kitchen just like the chefs in cooking shows on TV.

“Have you been cooking for the Smythes for a long time?” I asked.

“I met the Smythes about ten years ago when they came into my uncle’s
ristorante
in Florence.”