I put his papers aside and took a look at Gwen Harding. Her work history was just as she described it, though I did a double take when I came to her salary classification. With her long tenure and regular, steady pay increases, she was making nearly as much as the executives. Rarely did secretaries earn what they deserved, but I would say this was an exception. I thought about Gwen and those gorgeous pearl earrings she wore, and I realized that she very likely had bought them for herself.
Alan Bennet, on the other hand, was definitely not making enough money to be going around in Armani suits and $200 ties. His salary was perfectly respectable, but it certainly wasn’t on a par with his spending. I saw that he had only been at Smythe for about a year and a half, and that good semi-annual reviews from his boss, Judith, had led to two six-percent pay increases.
A copy of his resume was there, and I took a moment to study it. Prior to working for Smythe Incorporated, he had been with three other clothing manufacturers. Under Education, he had listed a B.S. in Accounting from a small private college in the Midwest that I had never heard of.
According to my discussion with Gwen, Alan had basically been running Feed the Need’s finances for the last four or five months or so while the regular accountant was out on extended maternity leave. Even though I knew it wasn’t him I had chased from the bathroom two days before, I still felt that he was worth a little more research.
I tucked all of the papers away in my briefcase, then closed it up and turned to my computer, typing out a quick e-mail to my office, giving them the information I had and asking them to look into Alan’s history a little more closely.
The police department was only a few blocks away, so I took advantage of the gorgeous weather outside and walked. The men I sought were in a cavernous downtown building, at the end of a long hall. A handwritten sign taped to the door said “Keegan and Sollie.” I knocked, thinking the two names sounded more like a dog and pony show than a pair of police detectives.
“Come,” a voice barked from inside. I swung open the door to find a tiny office with two desks crammed in a space barely big enough for one. Behind the first desk sat Detective Keegan, tufts of reddish hair still poking out over each ear. He gave me a broad smile, unexpected after his gruff greeting, not to mention his attitude at our previous meeting the day before.
“You made good time,” he said warmly, rising halfway and then sitting again.
“Hi, Detective,” I said, shaking his hand. “Nice to see you.”
He gestured toward a chair and I took it, turning my knees to the side so I could fit.
“Kind of a tight squeeze in here,” he said, smiling. “Not that I have a problem with it. But some folks complain.”
“I’m fine,” I replied.
“Sollie just went out for a soda. He’ll be back in a few. Can we get you anything? Coffee?”
I shook my head, wondering at the change in his attitude. Tom had obviously worked some magic here. I had no doubt that some higher-up had told Detective Keegan to be on his best behavior with me; I couldn’t have asked for a warmer reception.
Keegan grabbed a file from the piles on his desk and skimmed through it for a moment before looking at me.
“Okay,” he said, lowering his voice, “we got some of the lab results here, though not everything.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know who you know, Ms. Webber, but I’ve been given explicit instructions to be as forthcoming as I can within the bounds of the law.”
“I know.”
“That’s why I’m gonna leave this file right here and go get myself something to drink. Understand?”
“I understand.”
Then he stood and walked out, leaving me to flip the file around and gather what information I could.
I skimmed the updated coroner’s report, noting that the lack of a struggle had been confirmed. The needle had gone straight in and come straight out; there were no other significant bruises or trauma. The injection site had been the back of his left arm. Wendell’s fingernails had been clean and revealed no skin scrapings. Under “Other Findings” there was a long list of abnormalities, including “fistula in upper right arm,” “severe ischemia of the toes and feet,” and “nephritis.” Though I felt certain these were diabetes-related conditions, I pulled a pen and notepad from my purse and wrote it all down.
Fibers collected in the office and bathroom were numerous, though mostly unidentified. There was one hair found on Wendell’s arm under his shirt, near the injection site, described as “Blond, chemically compromised.” I thought immediately of Alan Bennet, who seemed just vain enough to have his hair colored, just blond enough to hint at foil highlights.
There wasn’t much more information than that, so I glanced toward the door and began flipping back through the other things in the file. I stopped near the back at a long list of suspects. Many of the names had alibis penciled in next to them.
I looked for the names I was interested in, jotting them all down as quickly as possible:
Wife—shopping at Desmond’s dept. store. Confirmed by salesclerk and cook.
Son—working alone in office. Unconfirmed.
Daughter—working alone in office. Unconfirmed.
Secretary—working alone in office, on phone. Confirmed by telephone records—see list and confirm at other end.
Bennet—running errands, then back in office. Errands unconfirmed. Return to office at approx. 11:15 conf. by receptionist.
Cook—shopping with Mrs. Smythe.
Maid—shopping at grocery store, confirmed by checker.
Daughter-in-law—Bible study at St. James Church. Unconfirmed—pastor out of town. Try again.”
There were plenty of other names on their list, too, but I concentrated for the time being on the ones that matched my own list of suspects. I wrote everything down without thinking much about what I was writing, knowing there would be time to sort through it all later. I was on the last one when I heard loud voices in the hall, and I knew that was my cue to put the file back.
I was inserting my notepad into my purse when the door opened and two men came in, each carrying a can of soda. Keegan was first, followed by the tall black man I had seen him with in Gwen’s office the day before. I stood so that they could get past me to their desks, then we all sat down again at once.
“This is Detective Sollie,” Keegan said, waving toward his partner. The man nodded at me coldly.
“Ma’am,” he said.
“Sollie,” I said, giving him my most charming smile. “That’s an interesting name.”
“Slang for ‘Solomon,’” he answered gruffly.
“Solomon because he’s so, so wise,” Keegan teased. That seemed to break the man’s reticence. He balled up a piece of trash and tossed it at Keegan’s head.
“Mrs. Webber, you said on the phone that you had some information for us.”
“Yes,” I replied, nodding. “I don’t know how pertinent it might be, but I doubt it’s something you’ve turned up so far.”
“Go on.”
I hesitated, hating to give out any information at all. But the police wanted this relationship to be “mutually cooperative.” The least I could do was throw them a bone.
“Judith Smythe and Alan Bennet are involved in a clandestine affair.”
Sollie grunted. Keegan didn’t react at all.
“Judith, the daughter, and Bennet, the employee?” Sollie asked, consulting his notes. “How do you know this? Somebody told you?”
“I, ah, happened upon them by accident. They don’t know that I know.”
“What do you mean by clandestine?” asked Keegan. “Neither one of ’em’s married, far as I know.”
“All the more reason that their secretiveness is so odd. I saw them meeting late at night in an old barn on the back of the Smythe property. And, believe me, they may have been in a barn, but they weren’t out there discussing tractors or hay.”
“I see,” Sollie said, forming a ten
t with his fingers. “Anything else you’d like to tell us?”
I thought about the vandalism incidents involving Sidra, of Marion’s pleas not to involve the authorities. More importantly, I thought about the $250,000 that I had been told was for buying a building—but apparently was not. For now, I decided, I would keep these bits of information to myself.
“No, nothing else to report,” I replied.
“Then thank you for coming in,” Sollie said politely. “Do give us a call the next time you have any information.”
I thanked them both and then stood to leave.
“Don’t give the girl a hard time,” Keegan said, throwing the ball of trash back at Sollie. “She’s just doing her job.”
I glanced back at Sollie, who finally allowed himself a small smile.
“Just so long as her job doesn’t interfere with my job,” he said.
I met his gaze for a long moment.
“I’m very good at what I do,” I told him earnestly. “I’ll make it a point not to interfere with your job.”
Twenty
I walked back to the car, deep in thought. I was glad for the police list of alibis; it saved me a lot of time and trouble. Though I would verify each of the alibis myself, at least this list provided a good starting point.
I passed several department stores as I walked, the windows decorated colorfully for autumn, most of the clothes the colors of the changing leaves. I thought about the small stack of clothes back at the house—the things Judith had loaned me as well as the few things I had picked up for myself—and I wondered if there was anything suitable for a funeral in any of that. Passing a lovely dark gray suit in a store window, I hesitated, wondering how much it cost and if they would have it in my size. I turned back to take a better look.
From the corner of my eye, I could see that someone else also stopped about 30 feet behind me and was looking into a window there. My heart skipped a beat. Was someone following me?
Heart pounding, I started walking again, then stopped abruptly at the next window. I glanced back to see the person behind me also stop. A man—I couldn’t discern more than that without being conspicuous.
I wasn’t sure what to do.
If the person meant me harm, then I needed to lose him. But if this was just someone keeping tabs on me, then I would do better to let him trail along for now and only lose him when I got to something important. Either way, I needed to get a good look at him to figure out who I was dealing with.
I headed off again, this time at a more leisurely pace. At the next corner, I saw my opportunity: I turned right, then quickly darted into the first door on my right. It opened into a long, narrow, musty-smelling jewelry store with faded velvet material draped in the window displays.
Fortunately, the only salesperson in attendance was with a customer at the far end of the counter. I stayed near the door, facing a glass case filled with wristwatches, watching the window.
Sure enough, after a moment, my pursuer rounded the corner and then stopped. He was in his mid-20s with an angry face and short brown hair. He had a slight widow’s peak at the top of his forehead, and his inch-long bangs stuck straight up from there like a little flag. He was dressed in a gray sweatshirt and jeans, his physique showing the bulging arms and shoulders of a serious weight lifter. He certainly looked threatening. He stood there in front of the window for nearly a full minute, hands on his hips, scanning the street in front of him. When I saw that he was about to look inside the store, I crouched down beneath the glass case and counted to 20 before peeking to see that he was gone.
“May I help you?” I heard from the salesman behind me, and I jumped, startled at his close proximity.
“No, thank you,” I mumbled, and then I walked out of the door and trotted across the street to peek around the far corner.
There he was. I could see him standing a few yards away, talking into a cell phone. I couldn’t hear everything he said, but I did catch bits of “lost her” and “nothing I could do.” For a moment, I toyed with the idea of confronting him once he got off the phone. Surely, out in the open like this, he couldn’t harm me. In the end, however, I thought it might be wiser to turn the tables and follow him to see where he might go.
It didn’t take long to find out. His destination was the parking garage of the Smythe building. I watched from a safe distance as he took the stairs down to the first lower level. He headed straight for a red pickup truck, let himself in, and then just sat there.
He was waiting for me, I felt sure. My car was parked in view of his, across the row and down a ways. Though I had no intention of getting caught alone in here with him, I inched my way along the back wall toward his truck until I could just make out his license plate number. I memorized it, returning to the front of the parking garage.
I didn’t have time for this. There was still much to do today in a short amount of time. The last thing I needed was to try to wait this guy out. For all I knew, he was settled in for the night, complete with a Thermos full of coffee and Port-A-Potty jar.
Suddenly, the elevator dinged, echoing sharply in the cement garage, and the doors opened to let out a small group of businessmen. Seizing the opportunity, I crossed over and fell into step with them, walking safely to my car without incident. After I got inside, I cracked the window, then started it up, listening for the sound that was sure to follow. Within an instant, I could hear the truck start up as well. Here we go, I thought as I pulled out and headed for the exit. Just what I needed. A tail.
Reaching the exit of the garage, we headed out into the five o’clock gridlock of downtown Philadelphia. After a few blocks, I pulled out my cellular phone and dialed Harriet. I got her machine, so I left a message describing the car that was following me, complete with license plate number. I felt sure she would have no trouble taking it from there. And if something unfortunate should happen to me, at least they would know where to start looking.
After going six slow blocks with the truck two cars behind me, I felt just antsy enough to try to lose him. We were in a long line of traffic trying to funnel onto a bridge over the Schuylkill River in an area I was familiar with from my summer at the law firm there. I waited until I was even with an empty one-way street, then suddenly turned right and zipped down it the wrong way, to the sound of several different honking horns. I turned right again once I reached the next intersection.
I went about a block, then turned right again, essentially doubling back behind the truck that had been following me. There were other routes out of the city, and I considered my options as I checked my rearview mirror for signs that the guy had succeeded in following me. With no glimpse of him, I crossed over the road I had started on, then continued in a perpendicular direction for a few miles before finding another bridge over the river and out of town.
I had lost him; I was sure of it. Letting out a long, slow breath, I settled into my seat and tried to put the entire thing out of my mind. Someone was keeping tabs on me, and I wondered who it could be. Perhaps once Harriet ran the plate, I’d have a better idea.
Traffic grew heavy again once I was on the Schuylkill Expressway, and I glanced at my watch, knowing that the wake for Wendell Smythe was in two hours. It would be my first good chance to be alone in the Smythe’s home, and I planned to work my way through the bedrooms I hadn’t yet seen. I knew I would have to move quickly; I couldn’t be too late for the wake.
As I sat in stop-and-go traffic, I got out my notes from the meeting with the police and went back over the alibis of all of my suspects.
According to their notes, Derek and Judith had both been at work at the time of their father’s murder, supposedly at their desks, though no one had yet confirmed that they actually were where they said they were.
Gwen was also at work, using the phone. Though phone records did show a number of outgoing calls during the time that Wendell was killed, I didn’t think this was much of an alibi. With private access to Wendell’s office, she could’ve easily put s
omeone on hold, gone into Wendell’s office and given him the lethal injection, and then come back out again. Of course, there was still the fact that Gwen wasn’t the person I chased down the stairwell. If she was the killer, she certainly wasn’t acting alone.
Ditto for Alan Bennet, who was “running errands” at the exact time of death. I remembered how impatient and out of breath he had been when he first came into his office and found me sitting there. I wondered if somehow he and Judith had been working together to murder her father, if it was Judith I had chased down the stairs.
The maid, Angelina, had been at the grocery store; apparently, the checker remembered seeing her. Her brother, Nick, had been busy in the city, helping Marion Smythe with her shopping.
I supposed with Nick and Marion out shopping, that gave either one of them opportunity, of sorts. One or the other of them could’ve slipped away at some point, dashed over to the Smythe building, and done Wendell in. I decided to reserve judgment on Nick and perhaps look more closely at him for some sort of motive. As for Marion, my gut told me that her grief was too genuine, her sorrow too real, for hers to have been the hand that killed her husband.
That left Sidra. Supposedly, she had been attending a Bible study at the time of Wendell’s death, though that was thus far unconfirmed because the pastor wasn’t available.
I looked up the address of St. James Church, seeing on the map that it was near the Smythes’ home. Depending on how long it would take to get through all of this traffic, I decided to stop there on the way to the house, knowing that if I skipped dinner with the Smythes I would just have time to squeeze it in.
Twenty-One
The front doors of the church were locked, so I walked around the building and tried each one. The place was modest in size, though very lovely, and I wondered if there was a parsonage nearby. I was just about to walk away when I heard someone calling from the window of a building across from the church.
A Penny for Your Thoughts Page 14