I read the file slowly, thinking about my theory that the killer was someone Wendell trusted, someone who regularly administered insulin to him. My list of suspects was a good one, with a few exceptions. I knew for a fact that the person I had heard in the bathroom off of Wendell’s office couldn’t possibly have been Alan Bennet or Gwen Harding because they were with me at the time. Of course, one of them could’ve been working with someone else; at this point, I wasn’t eliminating anyone as a suspect.
I closed the file, deciding to read the rest of it later. For now, I would go onto the internet and see how Feed the Need checked out as a charitable organization to the outside world.
I worked for a while, scanning through Guidestar, digging up financial statistics, calculating the reported ratio of administrative dollars versus program funding. I checked out a copy of their 990 form, pulling out some helpful information.
Overall, I decided that things seemed fairly normal for a hunger relief organization, though I e-mailed one of the more complicated sets of financial data to Harriet back at the office. She would go over the numbers with a fine-tooth comb, I knew, and tell me if anything at all seemed amiss.
At noon, I sent off one last quick e-mail; then I shut down my computer, grabbed the sack lunch Angelina had prepared for me that morning, and set off looking for the lunch room.
I found it on the other side of the building, a large, sunlit area tucked away behind a conference room. There were about six or seven tables surrounded by chairs, a small kitchen area with sink, fridge, and microwave, and a row of soda and candy machines against the wall. All in all, it was a pleasant place to have lunch.
Most of the tables were full, but I found one with only two women sitting and quietly chatting.
“Is this seat taken?” I asked, feeling suddenly like I was back in the eighth grade, and all eyes were on me.
“Oh, please, join us,” one of the women answered, pushing the chair out with her foot. I sat, putting my lunch sack on the table in front of me.
The women introduced themselves as Beth and Tina, saying that they knew who I was, but not my name.
“You’re the woman from that charity, right?” Beth asked.
“The J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation. Yes. You can call me Callie.”
“Callie, you discovered Mr. Smythe’s body, didn’t you?” Tina whispered, and then I could see her jump as Beth must’ve kicked her under the table.
“It’s okay,” I said, pulling a sandwich out of my bag. It looked like tuna on whole wheat with lettuce. “I didn’t know Mr. Smythe personally, so it wasn’t quite as awful for me as it would’ve been for one of you.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
They had a few questions about the whole incident, and I spoke freely, trying to give the impression that I was just a regular gal, warm and friendly, ready to chat about anything and everything. What I got from them wasn’t much: It was a pretty good place to work, management was okay (with a few exceptions), and Wendell Smythe had been a beloved boss and friend.