“Director of Research?” Judith asked. “What exactly does that mean?”
I put down my fork, glancing at Marion.
“I verify the integrity of charitable organizations,” I said, “to see if they’re spending their money wisely and if their programs really do what they say they will do. Basically, I make sure they’re everything they claim to be.”
Judith looked at me, truly interested now.
“And if they are?”
“Then we give them a grant.”
“And if they’re not?”
I shrugged.
“Depends. Most of the time we just reject their grant proposal. In a few odd cases, we’ve actually helped bring out fraud or criminal charges.”
“What were you doing here?” she asked. “Did Feed the Need apply for a grant?”
I hesitated.
“Different situation,” I replied finally. “Seems your father had an ‘in’ with our president, Tom. The usual rules didn’t apply.”
“What are the ‘usual’ rules?” Marion asked. “I mean, how do you judge a nonprofit organization? How do you ‘verify its integrity,’ as you put it? I assume it has to do with how the money is spent—administrative and fundraising dollars versus program dollars and all that.”
“That’s only part of the picture,” I said, “though overhead versus outlay is the first thing we look at. All nonprofits file a Form 990, information that they are mandated by the IRS to provide to the public.”
“That’s good,” said Marion.
“It is. That way, I can know, going in, the sort of percentages we’re talking about.”
“What’s a good percentage to look for?” Judith asked. “I mean, if a nonprofit spends 50 percent of its income on expenses, is that bad?”
“Fifty percent should certainly raise some red flags,” I replied. “But it really depends on the organization and how it classifies its expenses. Newer companies are going to have higher start-up costs. And certain types of nonprofits have more administrative expenses than others.”
“So how do you know whether a nonprofit is really legit or not?” Judith asked. “I mean, I’m sure there are companies that play with the figures to make them look better than they are.”
“We use a lot of different criteria,” I replied. “There are voluntary watchdog groups, for example. Nonprofits can sign up and hold themselves accountable to these stricter guidelines. That’s always a good sign.”
“Feed the Need belongs to more than one, I’m proud to say,” interjected Marion. I nodded, remembering that several accountability groups were listed in the fine print on Feed the Need’s brochure.
“What else?” Judith asked.
I hesitated, taking a bite of the shrimp cocktail that Angelina had just placed in front of me. The shrimp was perfect, the sauce a tangy complement to the seafood.
“It’s kind of hard to say,” I answered after swallowing. “If the foundation is considering a sizeable donation, we try to get a look at the books and redo the calculations ourselves.”
“So basically it’s a matter of mathematics?”
I speared another shrimp, hesitating.
“No,” I said. “The math is just the first step. Once things check out on paper…”
I stopped, stalling with another bite of shrimp, wondering how much to say.
“Go on,” urged Marion. “Once things check out on paper…”
“I don’t usually talk about this,” I said finally.
“Oh, come on,” Judith urged. “It’s very interesting.”
I looked from one to the other and finally smiled, wondering if these two rich women could even comprehend my criteria.
“Once the math checks out, more often than not it’s simply a ‘mentality’, if you will. A way of thinking, of doing business.”
Marion and Judith both studied me, their shrimp cocktails ignored.
“I usually start by reading their mission statement, then I look to see if they really seem to be living by it. I mean, I hate to call it intuitive, but in a way, it is.”
“You’ve been doing this a long time,” Marion replied. “I would imagine your instincts are fairly good.”
“It’s not just that,” I said. “Really, anyone could do the same.”
“You’ve lost me,” said Judith.
“It’s the salaries,” I said. “The benefits. The decor, even.”
“The decor?”
“For instance, is the office fancier than it needs to be? Are the salaries too far above the norm? When the executives travel, are they staying in Holiday Inns or Ritz Carltons? When an employee needs to go to a training session, is she going to one in the next state—or one in Hawaii?”
“What’s wrong with staying at a Ritz Carlton?” Marion asked. “Those are lovely hotels.”
“But they’re very expensive,” I replied. “Nonprofit organizations should have a pervading mentality of saving money, of cutting corners. Of using their resources for the things that are important.”
“So if you work for a nonprofit, you should suffer?” Judith asked.
“No,” I replied. “But in a way you should be giving more than you’re getting. Most really good nonprofits all have one thing in common: They have a sort of ‘service’ mentality. The people work there because they want to make a difference in the world, not for personal gain. They work tirelessly and selflessly, even though it usually means few perks and lower-than-average incomes.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” Judith said.
“Put it this way,” I continued. “People in the nonprofit sector work just as hard as people in the for-profit sector, but they do it with the understanding that they will never be compensated at the for-profit level. But because they derive so much personal satisfaction from the work itself, they’re usually okay with that.”
“I think I understand,” said Marion.
“I reviewed a company in California once,” I said, “a nonprofit health care organization. On paper, it looked very good. But something about the place bothered me.”
I took another bite of shrimp, thinking about all of the nonprofits I had examined, both good and bad.
“It took some digging,” I said, “but I finally found a few disgruntled former employees who were able to point me in the right direction. Turns out, the head of the organization liked to travel. Within five years he had gone to 12 international conferences in places like Zurich, Singapore, and Monte Carlo.”
“But if these conferences were necessary for doing his job—”
“They weren’t,” I replied. “They were all only marginally related to his work.”
“But legal?”
“Yes, legal. And it turned out that he brought along his wife, four children, and their nanny on each of the trips. They stayed in some of the nicest hotels in the world, dined in some of the fanciest restaurants, took in all of the sights—and the entire tab was always picked up by the agency.”
“Wow.”
“Needless to say, that man was getting more than he was giving. Classic case of financial abuse. They were denied the grant.”
“I should hope so,” Marion said.
Angelina came in and removed our shrimp dishes, replacing them with a small plate of Waldorf salad. I was glad when Judith turned the conversation to other matters, asking her mother about flowers for the funeral.
I ate as they talked, and by the time the main dish arrived I was already full and mostly just pushed the food around on my plate with my fork. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one overwhelmed by the sheer volume of food; when Angelina entered the room with a covered bowl of hot homemade breads, Marion held up one hand, delicately wiping the corner of her mouth with her napkin.
“Angelina, please,” Marion said. “We’re about to explode here. How much more food is there tonight?”
The maid smiled, setting the bowl on the sideboard.
“I told Nick you would be yelling at me soon if he did not stop,” she
said. “But you know how he is. When he is upset, he cooks. If I had not put my foot down, you would be getting three different desserts tonight, too.”
“Well, tell Nick to find some way to drown his sorrows other than spoiling us with food. We are a hunger relief organization, after all. How does he think it looks to our guest—children starving all over the world while we sit here with this feast?”
Judith caught my eye across the table and grinned sardonically. Obviously, her mother had taken my little lecture to heart.
“Yes, ma’am. I will tell him that is enough for now.”
Angelina ducked out as Marion reached out and put a hand on my arm.
“Wendell and our cook were very close, Callie. I’m sorry about this.”
“Oh, please, I—”
“I’m sure you noticed my husband was a very…ah…abundant man. Before his kidneys began to fail, his favorite part of the day was always the evening, eating these delicious meals, or sitting in the kitchen later with Nick, sharing some forbidden dessert and debating current events. That cursed diabetes! I’m afraid Wendell’s love of rich food may have proven to be the death of him after all.”
“We don’t know that for sure, Mom,” Judith corrected. “The police still haven’t released cause of death.”
I looked at my plate, surprised that they didn’t yet know the truth. Was the Philadelphia Police Department really that slow at getting the word out to the victim’s family?
“His death was imminent regardless,” Marion said miserably. “Only a matter of time. You know what a disaster his health was, especially here at the end.”
I held my tongue, thinking of the unseen intruder I had chased down the stairwell. Whether Wendell’s death was merely a matter of time or not, I thought, someone had helped speed things along just a bit.
“I suppose we should ask Nick to be a pallbearer,” Judith went on matter-of-factly. “Have you thought of the others?”
I was struck by the casualness of her tone, as if she were choosing the right scarf for her blouse rather than choosing the men who would carry her dead father to his grave.
“I’ve had a few thoughts,” Marion answered sadly, going on to discuss some tentative ideas for the funeral. I glanced at my watch, wondering if it would be impolite to excuse myself now that the discussion had turned in this direction. I certainly didn’t need to be involved with any of this, and I felt myself growing uncomfortable. Bryan’s funeral had been three long years before, but Wendell’s death was stirring up some very unsettling memories.
“Anyway,” Marion said suddenly, “we can discuss these matters later. For now, I wonder, Callie, if you would join me in my study. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”
I glanced at Judith, but she seemed absorbed in buttering a steaming roll she had dug from the bread bowl.
“You guys go ahead,” she said, gesturing toward her plate. “I’m going to finish up here, and then I have a ton of paperwork to do.”
“Thank you, dear.”
Marion and I rose from the table, and she walked over and planted a kiss on her daughter’s head.
“Your father would be glad to know you’ve stepped in and taken control of things today. He always said that no matter what problems are besetting a company, anything can be surmounted as long as a strong, united front is presented to the employees and to the public.”
“I agree 100 percent. Things are in good hands, Mom.”
“I know, my dear, I know.”
With that, Marion walked from the room, shoulders high, leading the way to her study.
Eleven
“My husband was murdered,” Marion said softly after we were seated in her drawing room, the door closed. “The children don’t know yet. I’m not sure how to tell them, or when. But I know that you know, because I’ve spoken with Tom.”
I sat back and exhaled slowly, impressed with Marion’s Oscar-winning performance at the dinner table. You know what a disaster his health was, she had said to her daughter Judith, especially here at the end.
“They’re going to find out, Marion. The story will probably be featured on tonight’s news.”
“I know,” she answered, shaking her head sadly, “but poor Derek is struggling so with his own problems. And Judith has the responsibility of the company on her shoulders…” Her voice trailed off. “I want to protect them for as long as I can.”
I nodded, thinking that no matter how old a woman’s children grew, to her, they would always be her babies.
Marion stood and walked to the window, which was dark against the night sky. Absently, she traced a pattern in the condensation of the glass, and I could tell that she was taking a moment to form her words.
“According to Tom, the one blessing in this whole thing is that you’re here. He says that you’re the type of person who can find out anything about anyone.”
“Oh?”
“He told me he asked you to solve this murder.”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, knowing that I should just let her talk. She obviously had something important to say.
“I don’t mind telling you I was against the idea at first,” Marion continued, still facing the window. “The whole notion of someone nosing around in our affairs, poking through things—I didn’t like it.”
She turned to face me.
“But then Tom pointed out that the police will be doing that anyway. Better to have someone with our own interests at heart, someone whom we can trust to keep things in absolute confidence.”
“Of course.”
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, I do want you to investigate, Callie, to find Wendell’s killer. I want this over and done with—the killer caught, my poor husband’s memory laid to rest—as soon as possible.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, thinking that, unbeknownst to her, I had already put in a full afternoon and evening of investigating.
“Though I’d rather not upset the family, as I’m sure you understand. We can keep this between us, can’t we?”
I nodded solemnly.
“No one besides you needs to know, for now at least.”
“Good.”
She came and sat across from me. I studied her for a moment, knowing full well that there was more on her mind than she had said.
“What is it you’re not telling me, Marion?” I finally asked. She colored, then looked down.
“Am I so transparent?”
“Obviously, there’s something else you need to say. Do you think you have an idea of who may have killed your husband?”
She shook her head.
“Oh, no, dear, nothing like that. It’s just that…well, that there were some things going on here, at the end. Wendell was concerned. For the business.”
“The business?”
“Feed the Need, specifically,” she said, lowering her voice. “I’m so very afraid. The money you came here to deliver, it wasn’t—”
Her voice stopped as she looked up. I turned to follow her glance and saw Derek standing in the doorway.
“Derek!” she said loudly. “You startled me.”
“Sorry, Mother,” he replied, stepping into the room. “I just wanted to come and apologize for ducking out of dinner like that. It was rude of me.”
I hesitated, finally standing.
“I’m the one who was rude,” I said. “Open mouth, insert foot. I shouldn’t have asked so many questions.”
“No, no,” he answered. “I’m afraid my wife and I are separated, and it’s gotten rather messy. She just, she doesn’t…” his voice trailed off as he brushed a hand back through his hair. “The whole thing is sort of bizarre. Then we had a big fight today, which has only made a bad situation worse.”
“I understand you have a son. I saw some pictures of him in the cabana.”
He looked at me and smiled a sweet smile that cut through the pain and exhaustion on his face.
“Carlos,” he said, beaming. “Great kid. He�
�s at a soccer tournament. They were supposed to get back tonight, but they had trouble with the bus. So now—”
“Trouble with the bus?” Marion asked. “Was it an accident? Is Carlos okay?”
Derek held out a hand to stop her from talking.
“Calm down, Mother,” he said. “It was a mechanical problem. Water in the gas line or something. Anyway, they’re spending the night at a Ramada Inn in Lancaster. They should be back in the morning in time for school.”
“Does Carlos know about his grandfather?” I asked.
Derek shook his head sadly.
“We decided to wait until he’s here, with us, to tell him.”
“I think that’s best,” Marion said.
“Anyway, Mother,” Derek said, turning toward her, “I’m feeling a little better now. I’m wondering if this would be a good time to discuss the funeral, to make some specific plans.”
Marion glanced at me then back at Derek.
“Of course,” she said. “Much as I hate the thought, I know this is something we need to do.”
Then she stood and took my hand, giving me a meaningful look.
“We’ll speak at breakfast?” she asked and I nodded, knowing I had been dismissed, wondering what she had to tell me that she hadn’t wanted Derek to overhear.
Twelve
No doubt about it, I thought as I sat in my room. I had come to realize there were certain supplies I would need in order to do this job, not the least of which was a fingerprinting kit. The paper bag with the knife and photo was still stashed under the radiator cover, and I left it there as I reached for my phone and dialed the Perskie Detective Agency. Duane was gone for the day, of course, but I left a message in his voice mail, asking if he might be able to supply me with a fingerprinting kit or at least tell me where I could get one.
Once I hung up the phone, I sat back and thought again how odd it felt to be working on a criminal investigation with someone other than my dear friend and mentor Eli Gold.
Eli had been an old police force buddy of my father’s, and when I was a teenager looking for a job more challenging than selling shoes at the local mall, he had suggested I come to work for him. He needed a part-time secretary for his new private investigation firm, and my after-school-and-on-weekend hours seemed to fill the bill. Little had I known when I started the job that it would shape my life and indeed my entire future. As Eli began teaching me the tricks of his trade, I grew to think of him like an old kung fu master or something, filled with an incredible store of knowledge, doling it out carefully as I learned each new lesson. Even my mother, who had objected to the job at first for fear it would be too dangerous for me, slowly came around as she began to see how much I loved it. Over time, Eli began to say that I had a unique gift for the work itself. When I turned 18, he hired another secretary and made me his assistant, and I knew he had hopes that I would take over his business once he retired. My father, on the other hand, wanted me to follow in his footsteps and head to police academy after college. But I had surprised everyone by opting for law school instead, touching off an endless but good-natured debate between them about cops versus private investigators and “who needs more lawyers anyway?”
A Penny for Your Thoughts Page 9