A Penny for Your Thoughts Read Online Free PDF Page A

company. I had learned a long time ago to keep my mouth shut and keep myself out of it.
    “No thanks,” I said simply. “I’m all done here now.”
    I gathered up my papers, put away my computer, and unplugged my printer. Once I was loaded up and ready to walk out, I thanked the man again for the use of his office.
    “No problem,” he said warmly. “But here, let me help you.”
    Despite my protestations, he took the printer from me and then insisted on carrying it to Wendell’s office.
    We headed there side by side. I glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised to see that I had been working for nearly an hour. Mrs. Smythe would be here soon, I realized, ready to give me a tour of the office and take me to brunch. Then I could head out into the Pennsylvania sunshine, maybe take one nostalgic stroll around Independence Square, and head for home. Hallelujah.
    When we reached Gwen’s office, she was back on the phone. She flashed us a quick smile and waved us through to Wendell’s door. Alan knocked once and opened the door just as I had done earlier. This time, however, the office appeared to be empty.
    “Wendell?” Alan called.
    There was no response except for a muffled “thump” from behind a closed door to the far left. Looking mildly embarrassed, Alan turned to me, lowering his voice. “Ah,” he said, “I believe he’s indisposed for the moment. I’m sure he’ll be right out.”
    “Of course.”
    Apparently, Alan intended to wait there with me for Wendell to come out of what I assumed was his private rest room. I put down my briefcase and computer and reached out for the printer.
    “Well, here,” I said, taking it from him. “Don’t let me hold you up.”
    “Oh, okay,” he replied, having no choice then but to go. “But don’t leave without stopping in to say goodbye.”
    He flashed me another luminous smile, his teeth straight and perfectly white. Once he had stepped out the door, I set the printer on the chair and let out a long, slow breath.
    My hope was that Wendell and I could wrap this up in a matter of minutes. All I needed to do was go over the contract, get some signatures, and present the check. As I waited, I glanced around the room, noting the healthy ficus tree in the corner, the obligatory diplomas on the wall. To my right was a lovely portrait painting I had noticed earlier, and I walked over to it to get a better look.
    The painting was exquisite, though somewhat dated. It featured a fresh-faced young woman in her early 20s, a half smile on her lips and a twinkle in her eyes. She sat in a wicker chair, a fuzzy kitten curled in her lap. Judging from her clothes and hairstyle, the painting must’ve been from the early 1950s.
    As I was turning away from the painting, I froze, my heart suddenly in my throat. On the floor, nearly hidden behind themassive desk, Wendell Smythe was sprawled facedown across the floor.
    I ran to him, grabbing his shoulder and turning him toward me. His eyes were open, his skin the odd pallor of a dead man.
    “Wendell!” I yelled, shaking his shoulders. When he didn’t respond I put my fingers on his neck and then his wrist, feeling for a pulse.
    There was none.
    I ran to the door and threw it open, startling Gwen, who was still on the phone.
    “Quick!” I said. “Call 911! It’s an emergency!”
    She stood, dropping the phone, one hand to her mouth. I dashed back into the room and over to the lifeless man. She followed me into the room and used the phone there, yelling in a frantic voice to the operator, “Hurry! Please hurry!”
    I started CPR, even though I felt sure it was in vain. As I worked—15 pumps, two breaths, even and strong—I noticed that the trash can was on its side, its contents scattered on the floor beside him. Among the balled-up papers and pencil shavings were a syringe and some medical-looking implements. Glancing toward the bathroom door, I called out, but there was no reply.
    I looked at Gwen as she hung up the phone. Her