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 cha
uffeur.”
“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.”
“Florence, Italy?”
“Yes. That is where I grew up. The Smythes took one bite of my pan-seared lamb steak on linguini with garlic and a light pesto sauce and then offered me this job, on the spot.”
“Goodness.”
I listened as he described the meal that had so impressed them, thinking that some people might find his arrogance a little off-putting. I found it sort of charming, particularly because I was in the middle of a bowl of the most delicious soup I’d ever tasted. Like any great artist, he perhaps had the right to be a bit egocentric.
“I had always thought about coming to America,” he continued. “And to get a chance like that, to have the freedom to cook what I wanted, to have as my audience people with educated palates—I did not hesitate. I said yes, packed my bags, and flew to America within the week. Of course, at the time I had no idea that my employers would become like family as well. I love it here. I never looked back.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “I take it the Smythes get along well? One big happy family?”
Nick and Angelina shared a glance, and I realized suddenly that my seemingly innocent question had somehow touched a nerve. I let the question hang there, eager to see who would answer it, and how.
“They…have their problems,” Angelina said finally. “But then, who does not?”
I nodded, thinking that she had skillfully deflected the question. So things weren’t all hunky-dory on the home front. That didn’t bode well for any of them, particularly since the head of the household had now been murdered.
“Marion and Wendell? How was their marriage?”
“Like a rock,” Nick said defensively, giving Angelina an angry glance. “You never met two people so totally in love.”
“I see. What’s the problem, then? Parent-child issues?”
They both seemed uncomfortable, and I didn’t blame them. Here I was, a complete stranger, grilling them about their beloved employers.
“Their son and his wife are separated,” Angelina said finally. “It makes things a bit tense sometimes, especially because she still lives here.”
“She lives here even though they’re separated?”
“She and her son moved into the cabana a few weeks ago,” Nick said, his voice tight.
“Sidra is Wendell’s dialysis technician,” Angelina added. “So even though she’s living in the cabana now, she is still in the house a lot.”
“Dialysis in the house? I thought that type of thing was done at a dialysis center.”
“Not if you are rich,” Angelina whispered. “Mr. Smythe has a whole dialysis room upstairs. The chair, the machine, the supplies. It is really something.”
I nodded, wondering if the supplies upstairs included syringes and extra insulin.
“So why are Derek and Sidra sep—”
“This is really not any of our business,” Nick interrupted, and I could tell the subject was closed. I decided to take things in a different direction.
“So how about you, Angelina?” I asked lightly. “How did you end up here, working for the Smythes?”
“When I finished scuole media—high school, I guess you would call it—Nick convinced Mama to let me come to America, to live and work with him.”
“She is a good girl,” Nick said paternally. “Works hard for the Smythes, and they appreciate her.”
“Do you like it here as much as Nick does?” I asked.
“The Smythes have been very good to me,” she replied evasively. I wondered about the two of them, brother and sister, living in the Smythes’ house, the servant class in residence. Angelina was an attractive girl, but something in her seemed unsettled, as if her life here was as ill-fitting as her uniform. I thought perhaps I should speak with her later when her big brother wasn’t there watching over her shoulder. For now, I would wrap up this conversation before either of them realized that I was more than just a nosy houseguest.
“I think I’ll wander around a bit,” I said when I was finished eating, carrying my dishes to the sink. “Everything is so lovely here.”
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Angelina said. “You must see Mr. Smythe’s rose garden, he was always very proud of it. The white roses are probably finished blooming for the season, but the pinks and especially the yellows are still coming out…”
Her voice faltered, and her eyes grew red and brimmed with tears. Without speaking, Nick turned and placed a calming hand on her shoulder. She leaned her head against his arm and closed her eyes, seeming to draw strength from his very presence.
“The pool is nice, too,” Nick said to me even as he continued to comfort Angelina. “It is heated, so it will be warm enough for you to take a dip if you’re so inclined.”
I nodded, offering again my condolences for the death of a man who obviously meant a great deal to both of them.
“We will miss him,” Nick answered sadly. “He was a great man. A great friend.”
Angelina dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, nodding.
“A kinder soul I never knew,” she said, blowing her nose. “Like a second father to me.”
Finally, Nick removed his hand from her shoulder, leaving a faint white handprint against the dark cotton fabric.
Seven
Leaving Nick and Angelina in the kitchen, I wandered through the first floor of the house, peeking into rooms that were open. Passing by the door of the den, I heard a man’s voice inside. I realized it must be Derek, the Smythes’ son, talking on the phone. The house was large, but not so big that I wasn’t able to get a handle on the layout of the rooms. Another day, perhaps when everyone was off at the funeral, I would attempt to explore t
he upstairs as well as the small wing off of the kitchen where I assumed Nick and Angelina lived.
For now, I headed silently across the dining room to the study I had glimpsed earlier, pushing the door open to find a dark paneled room lined with books and filled with exquisite leather furniture. I stepped inside, shut the door behind me, then turned on the light.
This was Wendell’s office, certainly. A beautiful desk filled one end of the room, the chair behind it a duplicate of the chair he had in his office at work. I looked around, observing the neat stacks of papers on the desktop and the dormant computer on the side arm. Unlike the office at work, there had been no police activity here, no dusting of fingerprints or confiscating of papers. I sat at the desk and quietly flipped through everything on it and in it, but nothing jumped out at me as being important. With a tiny jolt of adrenaline, I flicked on the computer, a little afraid that it might make too much noise starting up, particularly with Derek in the room next door. But it whirred to life quietly, and once it was up and running, I took the liberty of taking a stroll through the hard drive—looking for what, exactly, I wasn’t sure. I opened files, read letters, scanned data. But nothing jumped out at me as being of any particular interest.
I shut down the computer and walked over to the bookshelves. The books there formed an eclectic collection, and I could tell they were well used and not just for show. Many of the bindings were cracked, and a few books held little slips of paper sticking out of the top, marking some unknown place. I felt a twinge of sadness as I thought about that. The man who had read these books, who had found some passages worthy of marking, was now dead and gone. Bookmarks or not, he wouldn’t be back to take another look.
On a coffee table next to a wingback chair, I saw the most important book of all, and I paused to pick it up and flip through it. It was Wendell’s Bible, more dog-eared and page-worn than any of the other books in the room. I loved seeing a Bible that looked like this, for it was obvious that its owner had dedicated himself to studying it and delving into its truths. There were verses highlighted in neon yellow, notes scribbled in the margins, question marks next to confusing passages. I felt comfort just looking through it, but also a sadness that this man hadn’t been able to pass along the richness of his Christian faith to his own daughter, Judith. Finally, I put the Bible back where I had found it and moved on.
A Penny for Your Thoughts Page 6