Eli and I still kept in touch, though he was now retired and living in Florida. We had always been close, but since Bryan’s death I had come to rely on him in ways that I couldn’t rely even on my own father. My dad was a sweet but plain-talking, shoot-from-the-hip kind of guy who thought the world was a black-and-white, right-and-wrong sort of place. He still harbored a complete unforgiveness for the man who had killed my husband, albeit accidentally, and his anger was nearly palpable at times—too palpable, I think, for me to be around.
Eli, on the other hand, was a more objective thinker than that, seeing many shades of gray in life, and rarely ever just black-and-white. He refused to let me wallow in my own anger and grief for very long, steadfastly insisting that I must simply turn the matter over to God and allow Him to use it as He saw fit. I tried, and it was hard, but Eli was my own personal cheerleader, watching from the sidelines, building me up, encouraging me to forgive and get on with my life. I treasured our friendship more than anything.
Unable to resist the urge, I picked up the phone and dialed his familiar number. It took nine rings before he answered, and for a moment I worried that I woke him up. His voice was distant, the line crackling.
“Eli?” I said. “It’s me, Callie.”
“Sally?”
“Callie!”
“Hold on.”
A few clanks and bangs later, Eli spoke again, the line much clearer now.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “The battery’s dying on the portable phone. Who is this?”
I smiled to myself.
“Callie.”
“Oh, goodness, Callie, why didn’t you say so? How the heck are you doing?”
I told him that I was in Pennsylvania, staying as a guest in the mansion of a recently murdered millionaire.
“And I thought my life was exciting now that we’ve signed up for tango lessons!” he exclaimed.
“I’m on a case, Eli. I need some guidance. You got a minute?”
“For you, sweetie, I’ve got all night.”
I could picture him settling in near the phone, pen and paper in hand, as I told him a bit about Wendell Smythe and the case thus far. He listened intently, asking for occasional clarification, pointing out details I might’ve missed. As usual, I felt myself growing more relaxed and confident as we spoke. To Eli’s way of thinking, there was almost no such thing as an unsolvable mystery; it was merely a matter of hard work, patience, and the occasional lucky break.
“I’m putting together a package for you first thing tomorrow,” he said. “No need for you to waste good time running around trying to collect all this stuff.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ve got the resources of a local agency this time. But thanks.”
“Whatever. Why not let’s talk about you now? You holding up okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Though it’s kind of hard, you know, being around a family where there’s just been a death.”
“I can imagine. Brings it all back to you, huh?”
“Yeah. The conversation turns to pallbearers and casket designs, and I start to hyperventilate.”
I was exaggerating, but he knew that.
“I got something for you,” he said. “Saw it just today. Hold on.”
I could hear him put the phone down, then pick it back up a moment later.
“Here we go. Had to get my Bible.”
I smiled. Eli was a devout Messianic Jew and a true scholar of both Testaments. Having him as a friend was like having my own personal biblical reference; I hadn’t found a situation yet where he couldn’t offer a pertinent verse.
“It’s in Paul’s second letter to Timothy,” he said, the sound of pages turning in the background. “Chapter 1, verse 12. Hmm, here we go, ‘I know whom I have believed, and am convinced that he is able to guard what I have entrusted to him for that day.’”
“Yeah, I know, Eli. ‘His grace is sufficient,’ and all that.”
“No, not ‘all that,’” he scolded. “Listen: He will guard what you are entrusting. Have you entrusted this situation to him?”
“I suppose. I’ve prayed about it.”
“Don’t just pray about it! Hand it over completely! Let Him guard it for you! Paul’s in prison here, Callie, knowing he’s probably about to be beheaded, yet he can say those words. Can we look at our comparatively petty lives and do any less?”
I felt properly chastised, and after a moment I let out a deep breath, nodding to myself.
“I understand,” I said softly.
“Good, because Stella’s putting on another album of tango music and I gotta go. You gonna be okay?”
“Of course.”
“Alright. Then take care. And call me if I can help you any more.”
I continued smiling long after I had hung up the phone. I couldn’t help but picture Eli and Stella doing the tango. If ever a man deserved to live out his golden years dancing with a rose between his teeth, I thought, it was Eli.
Thirteen
I dove into the black water, bracing myself for the cold. Instead, the water was wonderfully warm and welcoming, and I let myself glide down to the bottom, my muscles relaxing almost instantly. Still holding my breath, I swam to the other end of the pool, finally surfacing near the steps to fill my lungs with fresh air.
What a place! The sky was pitch-dark and the grounds were mostly silent, but I hadn’t been able to resist the urge to swim away the tensions of this day. After hanging up with Eli, I had tried to muster some enthusiasm for going through the love letters I had swiped from Sidra’s bureau, but my brain was just too tired. Knowing they would keep for the night, I decided instead to go for a swim. I had quickly changed into my new bathing suit and had stolen out here to the pool, slipping into the water without even turning on any of the lights. Luckily, the rain clouds that had seemed to be threatening earlier had passed, leaving the sky clear and full of stars above me.
I tilted my head back and floated in the water, looking up at the house, which was now dark except for a few softly lit windows. What a day this had been! Though it was late, I was glad I had decided to come out here to unwind. Now I could swim some laps, then head back to my room for a good night’s sleep.
Time and worries faded from my comprehension as I swam, and I was grateful. Sometimes I could find the same mind-numbing rhythm in swimming that I always got from rowing. Now I was one with the water—stroke, stroke, breath, stroke, stroke, breath, back and forth, one end to the other, again and again. When I completed my fiftieth lap, I flipped over and slowed my pounding heart rate with a gentle backstroke, five more laps, finally coming to a stop in the shallow end.
I rested near the concrete steps, the back of my head tilting against the cold cement edge of the pool. Though I had never been one for conspicuous consumption, I did have to admit that I had often toyed with the notion of installing a pool at my house. Now as I let my body gently rock and float in the water, my toes just breaking the surface, I wondered what it would cost, exactly, and how long it would take to have one put in.
I was designing the shape and placement in my mind when I saw the final lights click off in the Smythe house, and I realized I should probably go inside. After this warm water, the air was going to feel twice as chilly. I was just bracing myself to stand up and climb out when I saw movement along the side of the house.
My heart skipped a beat as I quickly ducked back down, my chin just above the surface of the water. Looking out across the dark yard, sure enough, there was someone moving from the house diagonally across the lawn. Though I supposed it could’ve been just another late-night swimmer, something about this figure’s movements suggested actions a little more circumspect.
As the person drew nearer, I realized it was Judith, and that she had changed from her earlier business attire into a more casual outfit of black jeans and a dark shirt. I was wondering whether I should call out to her when suddenly she turned toward the back of the property and quickened her pace.
I watched her go, trying to remember what was back there. From my earlier walk, I seemed to recall some kind of outbuilding, like a shed or a small barn.
As quietly as possible, I stepped out of the pool, grabbed my towel from a nearby footstool, and wrapped it around me. Silently, I slipped on my shoes, then I quickly padded off after Judith, keeping enough distance so she wouldn’t see me, but still following closely enough behind so I wouldn’t lose sight of her in the dark. Here I am again, I thought, following one of Wendell’s children into the woods. I could only hope I wasn’t being foolish this time, too.
I followed her across the wide expanse of grass, and as we neared the far building, I could see that there was a low light coming from one of the windows. It was a barn, I could tell now, though since the Smythes had no livestock, I doubted it housed anything more than lawn-cutting equipment. As Judith reached the door, I stepped behind the shelter of a tree and watched. She tapped once, lightly, and it swung open. I could see a man step out, and I ducked my head behind the tree just as he craned his neck to look toward the house.
“Anybody see you?” he asked softly, and I recognized his voice almost instantly. I dared to take another glance to make sure, and I was right: It was Alan Bennet.
“No,” I heard Judith whisper, and then they both stepped back inside and pulled the door shut.
I hesitated, suddenly feeling the cold for the first time since slipping out of the pool. I was soaking wet, the towel around me was also soaked, and I was freezing! Still, I took a few running steps toward the barn, hoping I would be able to hear them.
What are the two of them doing out here? I wondered as I inched along the rough boards of the barn’s side. I finally found a gnarled hole that seemed to go all the way through to the inside. Pressing my ear against it, I could hear a low murmur. When I looked through the hole I realized that Judith Smythe and Alan Bennet held each other in a tight embrace, kissing. Near them was some sort of makeshift bed, and it didn’t take much imagination to figure out where things were going from here.
I stepped back from the barn wall, wondering how Alan had even gotten on the property. Peering around in the darkness, I could see that we weren’t that far from a quiet road that ran along the side of the estate. He must’ve parked there, among the trees.
Interesting, I thought to myself as I jogged back across the lawn, toward the pool. Though I would’ve liked to stick around and see if there was anything else on the agenda besides a lovers’ tryst in a barn, I didn’t exactly feel like waiting them out, damp and cold in the darkness. I gathered up my things, glad to see that my wet footprints leading from the pool had already nearly dried.
Back in my room, I was still shivering from the chill even though I had rinsed off in the shower, changed into a dry nightgown, and climbed under the covers. All the relaxation of my swim had been wiped away, my head filled with the image of their secret encounter, my mind racing with questions. Why the secrecy? Was Alan married? If so, why were they meeting in a filthy barn rather than in a nice hotel room somewhere? It wasn’t as though they couldn’t afford it!
Pushing those thoughts aside for now, I tried to lure my mind back to the steady, soothing rhythm of my swim. Between climbing a tree this afternoon and traipsing around in the dark in a wet towel tonight, I realized that this hadn’t been one of my finer days. It’ll serve me right, I thought as I finally drifted off to sleep, if all I get from this is a terrible head cold.
Fourteen
I awoke to the sound of ringing. I reached for an alarm clock, only to realize it was my cell phone, chiming from inside my briefcase. By the time I got the case open and the phone out, I was awake enough to sound relatively coherent.
“Callie!” I heard Tom say. “I was just about to hang up.”
“Sorry about that,” I replied, sitting up on the bed and stretching my legs out in front of me. They were a little sore from my swim the night before, but not too bad.
“Just wanted to see if you were able to make any headway in your investigation yet. I know it’s only been a day, but I’m anxious to hear.”
I hesitated, thinking of what I knew thus far, the impressions I’d had of the people I’d met, the odd goings-on around the house.
My short list of suspects, at this point, extended to those people who regularly gave Wendell his shots. That meant four family members, two staff members, and two employees. Eight people in total, half of whom Tom would immediately rule out simply because they were members of his dear friend’s loving family. Despite the things I had thus far seen and heard, I didn’t think Tom would appreciate the direction my investigation had already taken.
“I’m narrowing things down,” I replied evasively. “But at this point, it’s more a matter of watching, listening, and, above all, not jumping to conclusions.”
“Of course.”
I wondered how I could pump him for information about the different members of the Smythe family. Though I didn’t want him to know that I was including family members on my list of suspects, I also needed to find out what his impressions were of Marion, Judith, Derek, and Sidra.
“The Smythes’ home is so lovely,” I said finally. “Do you get to come here often yourself?”
“From time to time,” he said. “Now that Wendell’s dead, I realize it wasn’t nearly often enough.”
Without much prodding, Tom began to reminisce a bit, telling me that he had first met Wendell and Marion when he was 18 and a freshman at the University of Pennsylvania. He described his first lonely week at college in Philadelphia, hundreds of miles from friends and family. One Sunday he and some fellow students went to a large church near the campus.
“They had a wonderful program there,” he said, “where church members would ‘adopt’ new students for a semester—taking them out for Sunday dinner, showing them around the city, sometimes inviting them over for a home-cooked meal. The Smythes adopted me. We hit it off so well that we made it a permanent arrangement. We’ve been friends ever since.”
“And their children?” I said. “Are you close to them?”
“I always liked Derek,” he replied. “Decent fellow, kind of shy and quiet back then. I never really got to know his wife, Sidra.”
“How about Judith?” I asked, and to my surprise Tom laughed.
“Back then, Judith terrified me,” he said. “Because we weren’t that far apart in age, Marion got it in her head to fix the two of us up on a date.”
“Oh?”
“Judith was very direct, very aggressive. We went dancing, and I think she even led on the dance floor. When it was time to order dinner, she did it for both of us. I felt as if, given the chance, she could grind me into the ground with her two-inch heels.”
I chuckled, trying to picture the laid-back Tom on a date with the older, more overbearing Judith.
“Our disappointment in each other was mutual, I think. We ended the date as friends, though we never exactly palled around.”
“She’s an attractive woman,” I said. “She never married?”
“Nope,” Tom answered with a laugh. “I guess she could never find anyone willing to love her, honor her, and obey her.”
I found Marion alone at the breakfast table. She wasn’t really eating, merely pushing around a small pile of eggs with her fork. In the morning light, I could see the heavily etched lines in her face; her eyes were swollen, and despite the artfully applied makeup I could tell she probably hadn’t slept all night.
“You made it through the first night,” I said gently as I pulled up a chair across from her. “It can only get better from here.”
“Oh, I hope so,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.
“I remember the first night after Bryan died,” I said. “I woke up screaming. I couldn’t stop. They finally had to bring in a doctor to sedate me.”
“I know how you felt.”
“But the next night I didn’t scream, I only cried. The night after that, I cried again. But each night it got a li
ttle better and a little better, and eventually I was able to go to sleep at night without praying I would die before morning.”
Marion pushed her plate away and rested her head in her arms.
“I didn’t know it would be so hard.”
“No one ever does.”
“I mean, we weren’t spring chickens, you know. Wendell’s health was very bad, Callie. Between the diabetes and the dialysis, I’d been preparing myself for his death for some time.”
“Oh, you can prepare for death, Marion. You just can’t prepare for your life after his death.”
One tear slipped down her cheek, and she dabbed at it gently with her napkin.
“You’re very wise for one so young,” she said.
“It’s taken a lot of heartache to get me this way,” I answered. “I’d rather have been spared the pain and remained naive.”
Angelina entered, bringing Marion a fresh cup of coffee.
“Good morning,” she said warmly. “Would you like some breakfast? Eggs? Waffles?”
A Penny for Your Thoughts Page 10