A Penny for Your Thoughts (9 page)

“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 the 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.

The far end of the room held a large locked glass case; inside were three shelves covered in black velvet. On the shelves were neatly arranged but very old pieces of clothing. It wasn’t until I had finished looking at all of them that I saw the list, typed neatly and resting on the top right corner. It was an identification key, describing each piece. As I read it I realized that this was a collection of antique clothing, with items like “Tall-crowned man’s felt hat with curled brim, circa 1770,” and “Double-breasted frock coat with lined pocket and bound edges, circa 1855.” I smiled, thinking that collecting antique clothing was a clever hobby for a man who had made his fortune in the clothing industry. I wondered what some of the pieces were worth. Judging by the lock on the side of the case and the security wiring that ran discreetly around the perimeter of the glass, I decided that this must be a fairly valuable collection.

I was just scanning the room for signs of a safe when I heard sounds coming through the wall. I listened to the muffled rise and fall of angry voices from next door, and though I couldn’t make out any of the words, I realized that Derek was no longer alone in the den.

Silently, I went to the door, turned off the light in the study, and let myself out. I hesitated in the foyer, looking toward the door of the den. It was too exposed, too out in the open, to risk standing there with my ear pressed against it. Instead, I headed out of the front door and around the outside of the building, pacing off the distance until I was just about even with the den.

I could hear the angry voices much more clearly from here, and I took a step closer to the open window, crouching down on the grass beneath it. I could now make out nearly every word that was being said, and I quickly discerned that there were just two people in there—a man and a woman.

“…considering what’s happened today,” the man was saying, “that you’d lay off. Just lay off for one day. But no. Not you. The old tricks just keep coming.”

“Look who’s talking!” the woman replied, her words tinged with a slight accent that sounded vaguely Hispanic. It wasn’t the Italian lilt of Angelina; this was a different accent, a different voice. “The master of dirty tricks. Don’t tell me it wasn’t you who put those dead roses at my door.”

“Here you go again. Sidra, do you really think anyone believes you when you make these ridiculous claims? Anyone?”

“Your father believed me.”

“My father’s dead.”

“And isn’t that just so convenient for you?” she retorted.

The man gasped.

Then there was a long, weighty silence. I held my breath, wishing I could chance a peek through the open window. I heard no movement or speech, but after a while the man spoke in a soft, controlled voice.

“I won’t even dignify that with a response.”

More silence, and then the woman spoke.

“I’m changing the locks on the cabana. Carlos is starting to have nightmares.”

“If he’s having nightmares,” the man responded furiously, “it’s because of all the crazy ideas you’re putting into his head!”

I heard a door open and then slam shut, and I quickly glanced in the window to see the back of a head of curly grayish hair. The man, Derek, was standing in the center of the room, facing the door, fists clenched at his sides.

Silently, I moved away from the window, wondering why Wendell Smythe’s death could possibly be “convenient” for his
son. I headed around back, hoping that the woman, Sidra, was going now to the cabana. As I rounded the far corner, I heard the back door open, and I hurried along the building so that I “accidentally” almost collided with her.

“Excuse me!” I said, taking a step back. She looked at me, startled, her face a study in agony. In spite of the red eyes and wet cheeks, she was strikingly lovely in an exotic sort of way. Her features reminded me of old portraits of Spanish royalty; she had dark, almond-shaped eyes, straight black hair, and a perfect olive complexion.

“Sorry,” she said with the same slight accent I had heard through the window. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Who are you?”

“I’m a houseguest here,” I said, watching as she swiped angrily at the tears on her face. “Are you okay?”

“It’s just…the death and all,” she said. “It’s been a difficult day. I’m sorry.”

With that, she continued onward in the direction she had been heading. I turned and watched as she circled around the pool toward the cabana—a large, understated building with a row of French doors facing the pool. She opened the door on the end, stepped inside, and pulled it tightly shut behind her.

I could hear a car starting in front of the main house, and I jogged along the side of the building in time to see a navy blue Jaguar pull out from the long driveway onto the road, Derek at the wheel.

Without hesitating, I pulled my keys from my pocket and climbed into my own car. I started it up and also headed down the long driveway, pulling out onto the road in the same direction he had gone.

I caught up with him a few blocks away, and I held back, letting one and then two cars slip between us. I didn’t know what I hoped to accomplish by following him, but I felt it wouldn’t be prudent to let him drive off like that, unobserved. I thought of one of Eli’s favorite sayings, that sometimes it is in anger that we
reveal our truest selves. I wondered if that would be true of Derek Smythe, if there was anything I could learn by following him now.