A Quarter for a Kiss

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “I’m so sorry, Stella,” I said, giving her a hug after the cops were gone. “It looks like they got into everything.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she replied. “Compared to what’s happened with Eli, it’s nothing. It’s less than nothing.”

  She saw Jodi hanging back behind me and gasped.

  “My baby!” Stella cried, reaching for her daughter and pulling her into a tight embrace.

  I stepped away from them for a few minutes while they shared tears and words of love. I could hear things like “missed you so bad” and “gone too long,” and I was glad to see that the two of them seemed to be very close despite the daughter’s eight-month absence. Stella would need Jodi now more than ever.

  Finally, I suggested that perhaps I could stay at the hospital while Jodi drove her mother home to change clothes and to assess the damage to her home. They agreed, and Stella cleared me with the security guy before walking with me to the nurses’ station.

  “Yes?” the nurse asked, looking up at us.

  “Kathy, I’m going to run home for a bit. This is Callie Webber. She’ll be here if Eli wakes up.”

  “I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “Only immediate family can go in.”

  “My dear,” Stella said defiantly, standing up straight. “Callie is immediate family.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the nurse amended, checking her watch. “I didn’t realize. That will be fine. Next visit is from six to six-oh-five.”

  I walked Stella and Jodi to the elevator, thanking Stella for her little fib.

  “That was no fib,” she replied softly, tapping her chest. “In Eli’s heart, Callie, you are his family.”

  Four

  Eli didn’t look like himself. The five minutes I was allowed next to his bed were half wasted on simply gazing at all they had done to him, trying to find the man I knew under the equipment.

  His skin was pale, his bald head splotchy in the fluorescent light. I finally found his hand among the tubes and squeezed it, though of course he didn’t squeeze back. Then I knelt there on the floor next to the bed, still holding his hand, and prayed that God would please, just please spare this one soul from heaven a while longer.

  “I need him more than You do, Father,” I whispered. “Please don’t take him away now.”

  The nurse made me leave at 6:05 on the dot, and as we walked out, I asked her when she thought he might regain consciousness.

  “Oh, honey,” she said, one hand on my arm. “Let’s just get him through the next twenty-four hours. Then we’ll worry about that.”

  Her words were sobering. As I sat in the waiting room staring into space, I thought about the life of Eli Gold. He had grown up in New Jersey, the only son of doting parents. His father was an attorney, though Eli passed on college in favor of joining the Navy. Military testing landed him in the Navy’s radio training program, where he worked in signals intelligence.

  Parts of Eli’s life story were a bit fuzzy to me now, but I knew he had left the Navy at the end of his two years and then lived for a time in the Florida Keys. Eventually, he had settled in Virginia, gone to the police academy, and become a cop. He and my dad were partners for ten years, until Eli grew tired of the bureaucracy and decided to quit the force and open his own detective agency.

  The Gold Agency was a mere five years old when Eli heard I was looking for a part-time job. He offered me a position after school and on weekends, typing and filing for him. I was 16 at the time, too young to legally work in a detective agency in the state of Virginia, so he employed me under the facetious title of “personal social secretary.”

  Luckily for me, Eli had several very fascinating, very complicated cases going on that summer, and my duties began to expand as I helped him handle all of the paperwork that went with them.

  I recalled the time he puzzled over a cheating spouse case. The wife was absolutely certain her husband was fooling around with someone. Eli had followed the husband for several weeks with no results before turning to the man’s paper trail, desperate to find some kind of proof that the guy was cheating. Despite his searching, everything seemed squeaky clean—that is, until the day I noticed a discrepancy between his household financial records and his tax return. A number of his credit card bills showed a $50 charge to a place called “Helping Hands.” And though in his household records he had earmarked those charges as charitable deductions, he hadn’t taken the deduction from the corresponding tax return, even though he had itemized every other item in that category.

  I pointed that out to Eli, who followed up on the lead and found out that the husband was driving once a month to Tennessee, where he would spend the afternoon at the Helping Hands Massage Parlor in the company of a certain red-haired “masseuse” named Brandy Flambeaux. The man had falsified his records to hide his indiscretion from his wife, but he hadn’t dared to commit fraud on his tax return.

  “You have the gift!” Eli proclaimed to me a few days later as we celebrated his hefty paycheck over Chinese takeout.

  After that, he began to involve me more in his cases, and it really did seem as if I had a knack for detecting. It wasn’t long before Eli was using me as his sounding board, asking me to play devil’s advocate as he worked out different facets of his cases aloud. The fact that the work I did for him was mostly confidential taught me to keep my mouth shut and my eyes open. For the next few years, Eli seized every opportunity to give me on-the-job training on all he knew about detecting.

  By the time I turned 18, the Gold Agency was thriving. Eli hired a real secretary and officially made me his assistant. I worked with him all through college, and though I knew he hoped I would stay with him once I graduated, I decided to go to law school instead. I loved detecting, but I was also fascinated with the law, and I wanted a career that didn’t include hanging upside down from a fire escape to get good photographs of errant spouses. Eli’s graduation gift for me was one-third ownership in the agency, but I tearfully turned it down and told him to give me a “retirement” watch instead.

  Of course, life never quite goes as we plan. My career in law went well for the first several years but then ended once my husband was killed. After Bryan’s death, I resigned from my job and basically from life, moving to Maryland’s Eastern Shore and entering a self-imposed exile from the world. It took the gentle, constant prodding of Eli to finally get me out of the house and back into the workforce again—this time in a job that combined my detecting abilities with my legal skills. I loved working as the director of research for Tom and the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation, and I had Eli to thank for talking me into taking a second chance on life. Though Eli had no business connection with Tom or the foundation, he was the mutual friend who put us together. Now, I realized, not only did I have Eli to thank for telling me about an amazing job opportunity that was a perfect match for my skills and experience, I also had him to thank for bringing me to the man who showed me I could love again.

  I glanced at the clock and wondered how much longer I would be here before Jodi came to relieve me. I didn’t mind sitting and waiting for the next hour’s visit, but I thought my energies might be better spent back at the house, trying to find the notes Eli had said only I would be able to locate—if the person or people who trashed the house hadn’t found them already.

  Why would I know where Eli kept his notes?

  I tried to think of all of our recent conversations, if he had told me anything during one of our phone calls that might have tipped me off. Sadly, I had to admit that just about the only time I talked to Eli anymore was when I needed his help on a complicated case. Why didn’t I ever call to ask about him and how he was doing? Why didn’t I ever call just to say hello?

  Taking a deep breath, I decided to put off the guilt trip until later. For now, I had to figure this out.

  Notes. Where had Eli stashed his notes? And why did he think I would know where that place would be?

  There were really only two possibilities: Either he had told me recently an
d I just wasn’t paying attention, or he was using a hiding place he had used in the past that only I would know about and would be able to figure out. Since I couldn’t recall any conversation between the two of us about notes or a case within the last few years, I decided to concentrate on the latter.

  Think, Callie.

  Remembering back to the days when we had worked together, I closed my eyes and tried to picture Eli with his notes. He always kept a running file of every case, and that file was usually on his person when the case was active. When he left the office, he carried the file in an old brown satchel.

  When he wasn’t working a case, perhaps taking a weekend off, he would leave the file at the office. Depending on the security level of the case involved, that meant either putting the file in his top desk drawer or locking it away in the office safe.

  But Eli had no office now, so there would be no desk nor any office safe. I decided to ask Stella if perhaps they had a home safe that Eli might have used, or if he still kept that old brown satchel around.

  I dug through my bag for my cell phone and dialed Stella’s home phone number. Tom answered and we spoke for a moment, each of us making sure the other was okay. Then he handed the phone to Stella, who sounded distracted. I got right to the point and asked her my questions, but unfortunately she said they had no safe, no real desk other than a small rolltop where they kept stamps and envelopes, and no satchel. I said I’d like to examine the desk, if she didn’t mind, and she told me that was no problem, that Jodi should be showing up any moment to relieve me here at the hospital.

  I hung up the phone and returned to my seat, desperately trying to think of other possibilities.

  Over the years, I recalled, there had been a few cases where security had been especially high. At those times, Eli had stored his notes in a safety deposit box at a local bank. But that was too inconvenient for ongoing cases. That was usually for situations when he had wrapped up his notes and then simply needed to store them for a time; for example, while waiting for a case to go to trial. I wondered if perhaps that might be the situation here, though I doubted he was waiting for any kind of trial since surely he would have told Stella that.

  So what did that leave? At the very least, I should call Stella back and ask her if they kept a safety deposit box at the bank. I was about to pull out my cell phone again when Jodi came strolling up the hall.

  “Hey, Callie,” she said, looking even more tired than before. “How’s he doing?”

  “About the same. How are things going there?”

  “Not good. Most of the geezers on the lawn have gone back home, but my mom’s kind of in a frenzy. Nothing’s been taken that she can tell. Now she’s even more determined for you to find those notes. She doesn’t understand what’s going on or why someone would trash the joint if they weren’t out to steal something.”

  I glanced at my watch, surprised that it was nearly time for the next hourly visit with Eli. I told Jodi I wanted to see him one more time, and then I would return to the condo. Nodding, she settled down in the waiting room, stretched out across a row of seats, and promptly fell asleep. Grateful that at least someone would be here to continue the vigil, I walked to the nurses’ desk to see if they would let me in to see him one more time.

  Five

  My second time at Eli’s bedside was somewhat easier than the first. The tubes and wires and machines weren’t quite as shocking to me, though it was still difficult to hold his hand and not feel him holding mine back. This time I leaned close to his ear and told him, firmly but nicely, that I needed for him to snap out of it.

  “Come on, Eli,” I said, squeezing his limp hand. “It’s time to tell us what's really going on.”

  A few minutes later, in the car on the way to Stella’s, I thought about the final words Eli had said on the street after he was shot and before he lost consciousness. According to Stella, he rambled on about Tom and me and someone named Nadine. Certainly, Eli and I had never discussed anyone by that name. I knew I would remember if we had.

  Back at the condo, Stella had changed into her version of “regular” clothes—a bright floral shirt and lime green slacks. The fact that nothing had been stolen from her home seemed to have rattled her completely, especially since she had several valuable pieces of jewelry that could have easily been removed from the jewelry box atop the dresser but hadn’t been. As Tom walked through the house with the insurance adjuster, Stella grabbed my arm and held on tightly, jabbering almost nonstop in a nervous patter.

  “Why does someone break into a home if not to steal?” she kept asking, almost pleading with me for an answer. Unfortunately, at this point, I didn’t really know. I would have thought it was simple, random vandalism if not for the fact that Eli had also been shot.

  “We need to focus here, Stella,” I said, leading her to the couch and sitting down beside her. “If Eli thinks I can find his notes, then that has to be my number one priority.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “I’m thinking he may have stored them in a safety deposit box. That’s one of the things he used to do with sensitive material, and something he would’ve expected me to remember. As far as you know, does he have one?”

  “We share a box,” she said, “but there’s not much in there. A few documents, some jewelry. That’s about it.”

  “When was the last time you looked in it?”

  She thought about that.

  “A few weeks ago,” she answered finally. “A CD matured, and I needed the certificate.”

  “Where do you keep the key?”

  “I think it’s still in my purse.”

  “Does Eli have his own key?”

  “No,” she replied. “Why would he need one? We share.”

  I shrugged, thinking it was possible that Eli had put his notes in the box for safekeeping without Stella’s knowledge.

  “Do you think you could run by the bank when it opens and take another look?” I asked. “See if there’s anything in the box you don’t recognize?”

  “I guess I could,” she said, on the verge of tears, “but I need to get back to the hospital. What if Eli wakes up and I’m not there?”

  Tom had overheard this last exchange and stuck his head around the corner to speak to us.

  “Stella, as soon as we’re finished here, I’ll drive you over to the bank and then straight from there to the hospital. We’ll get you back there as quickly as we can.”

  “Okay,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

  “Before you go,” I said, “why don’t I make us a quick breakfast? Eggs and toast? Oatmeal?”

  Tom declined, saying he’d eaten while I was at the hospital. Stella also said no, that she wasn’t hungry. I reminded her that she needed to keep up her strength for Eli’s sake, so she agreed to have a small bowl of cereal.

  There was a knock on the door, and I opened it, expecting to see the cleaning service. Instead, it was a man in his mid-forties, dressed casually in shorts and a T-shirt. Stella seemed happy to see him, so I left the two of them to talk while I went into the kitchen in search of cereal. Most of it had been poured out onto the kitchen floor by the vandals, but I found a few inches left in the bottom of a box of Raisin Bran. Careful not to cut myself on the broken glass on the counter, I found two intact bowls and spoons, washed them thoroughly, and cleared a space for us at the table.

  Stella joined me there a few minutes later and sat down to eat. Between bites she told me about the man who had been at the door, the son of a neighbor. He had just heard about the vandalism and had come to offer us the use of his father’s condo until the mess here had been cleaned up.

  “Norman fell and broke his hip last week, so his place will be empty for a while,” Stella said. “Jim told me where he hides the spare key and said for us to feel free to use his dad’s home as much as we need to.”

  “That was nice of him,” I said, pouring some cereal for myself. It wasn’t what I usually chose for breakfast, but at this point
I was so hungry I was happy for anything. The night without sleep followed by a morning without food was combining to give me a killer headache.

  “His unit is in the next building over,” Stella continued, gesturing to her left. “Number seventy-six. It’s a three-bedroom, so there should be room for all of us, if need be.”

  “Good.”

  I chewed absently, listening as she described the location of the flowerpot under which we could find the spare key. It struck me that I hadn’t even asked how the vandals had broken in here last night, and I wondered if Stella kept out a spare key as well. I asked her.

  “My kids each have a key to the condo,” she said. “But, no, I’ve never put one outside like some folks do. Never saw the need.”

  “What about the people who broke in and did all of this? How did they get in?”

  Tom and the insurance adjuster entered the room at that moment.

  “They busted through the back bedroom window,” the insurance adjuster said, his voice nasal and high. “According to the police, they used towels to muffle the sound and protect themselves from any shards of glass. The report said there were a few fibers along the sill, so at least they left some evidence.”

  “Towels,” I repeated. “That means they came prepared.”

  “Oh, yes,” the man said. “From what I’ve seen, this person—or people—weren’t here merely to vandalize. Seems to me they were professionals searching for something specific. They certainly knew every conceivable place to look. The damage here is quite extensive.”

  He joined us at the table and finished filling out the paperwork on his clipboard, assuring Stella that she would get a check to cover the damage within ten days.

  “Do you need an emergency check now,” he asked, “to cover the cleanup and get you a place to stay in the meantime?”