Don't Take Any Wooden Nickels Read online

  DON’T TAKE

  ANY WOODEN

  NICKELS

  MINDY STARNS

  CLARK

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible: New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by the International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. The “NIV” and “New International Version” trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by International Bible Society.

  Cover by Dugan Design Group, Bloomington, Minnesota

  Cover illustration © Gregor Buir / Fotolia; Cover photo © iStockphoto / filo

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  DON’T TAKE ANY WOODEN NICKELS

  Copyright © 2003 by Mindy Starns Clark

  Published 2011 by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  ISBN 978-0-7369-2957-8

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the edition as follows:

  Clark, Mindy Starns.

  Don’t take any wooden nickels / Mindy Starns Clark.

  p. cm. — (The million dollar mysteries; 2)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-0993-8 (pbk.)

  1. Chesapeake Bay Region (Md. and Va.)—Fiction. 2. Women philanthropists—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3603.L366 D66 2003

  813'.54—dc21

  2002010021

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 / LB-KB / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my daughter Emily…Thank you for being exactly who you are: sweet, talented, funny, giving, beautiful, and filled with a godly spirit that thrills my heart. I love you!

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Many, many special thanks:

  To my husband, John Clark, J.D., C.P.A., for your invaluable assistance with legal and financial questions, for incredible writing and editing help, and for all of the things you do that free me to close the door to the office and simply write. As always, without you, this book would not exist!

  To Kay Justus, for more than twenty years of friendship and encouragement, countless plotting ideas and suggestions, and never-ending enthusiasm.

  To my editor, Kim Moore of Harvest House Publishers, for making the entire editing and publishing process such a joy.

  To Ken Weber, for designing my website, and to Shari Weber, for your wonderful research assistance.

  To my father, Robert M. Starns, M.D., for brilliant medical information.

  To readers Jackie Starns, Sheila Davison, Mary Davison, Theresa Verna, and Kim Furando.

  To all of those who filled in the gaps of my knowledge: Hitomi Kimura, Ikuko Nagano, David and Jennifer Clark, Ann and Don Blais, David Starns, Lauren Clark, Jonathan King, Sue and Bob Butler, David Granquist, Sgt. Bruce R. Talbot, Public Affairs Officer Niki Edwards, and so many others I could fill this book with your names. Thank you!

  To my fellow authors Debra White Smith, Patricia Sprinkle, and Elena Santangelo, for advice and support.

  To Jim and June Ann Murphy, for your hospitality and assistance in the crucial eleventh hour.

  To my COS Bible Study group, for biblical wisdom, fellowship, and fervent prayers when my deadlines are looming.

  God bless you all!

  Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth…But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

  MATTHEW 6:19-21

  One

  I heard the gunshots from a distance, sharp and loud in the cool November air. A few seconds later there were more gunshots, then more, then all was silent.

  Quickening my pace, I rounded the corner and hurried through two large stone arches into the Glenn Oaks Cemetery, a beautiful, shady old graveyard on the outskirts of Nashville, Tennessee. I had timed this just right, since I didn’t really want to get there until the funeral was finished. Now that the honor guard had fired three volleys, I knew it was almost over.

  I slowed down a little, found the gravesite, and stopped a respectful distance away. The deceased had been a naval chief petty officer in his youth, and his family had wanted him to have a full honor guard at his burial. Now I could see that nearly half of the 20 or so people in attendance were wearing full military dress uniforms.

  I watched as two young soldiers carefully folded the flag that had been draped over the coffin, and then they presented it to the widow. As they did so, an older soldier lifted a bugle to his lips and lightly sounded out the notes for “Taps.” The simple tune, always so mournful, sounded especially sad in the middle of this Tennessee graveyard.

  Ordinarily, I think, the whole scene would’ve brought me to tears. Even though I didn’t personally know the deceased or his family, I had been widowed myself only three years before, and it still didn’t take much to open those wounds. Today, however, I was distracted by other matters. I had an exciting event of my own coming up in just a few hours, thoughts of which were keeping my mind from becoming too absorbed with what was unfolding before me.

  Once the service ended, I watched as the tiny crowd dispersed. The seven soldiers I was here to see turned and walked in the opposite direction from me, somberly shouldering their rifles as they marched toward a row of cars. I tried to catch up with them, but the earth was muddy, and the heels of my Joan & David pumps sunk into the ground with the first step. Fortunately, storing away the bugle and rifles took a few moments, allowing me time to walk around the perimeter on the sidewalk and reach them just before they drove away. All of the other mourners had already gone by then, leaving only the seven men crowded into an ancient station wagon and me. I waved at the driver, and he rolled down his window and smiled.

&
nbsp; “Can I help you, young lady?” he asked, perfect dentured teeth showing in a tan, wrinkled face. He looked to be in his late 70s, weathered but still handsome in a crisp white naval dress uniform. I guess to him I was a young lady, though I didn’t always feel young.

  “I’m looking for Commander Davis,” I said.

  “That’s me,” he replied. He opened the door of the car and stepped out, closing it behind him as the other men peered curiously from inside.

  “Callie Webber,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “It’s my privilege, ma’am,” he replied, glancing down at the envelope I was holding. “Thanks aren’t necessary. It’s part of the Greater Nashville Honor Guard service. No charge, please.”

  I realized he thought I was connected to the deceased and that I was here to thank him and pay him for the military send-off. I smiled. I was here to give him some money, but not for the reason he thought.

  “That’s a beautiful service you provide,” I said. “Very dignified and touching.”

  “It’s our opinion, ma’am, that every veteran deserves full military honors at their funeral.”

  “Yes, I agree,” I said, aware that although the government will provide a burial flag and two military representatives for a veteran’s funeral, it’s up to volunteer groups like this one to flesh things out by giving a full military send-off, including the firing party and a live rendition of “Taps.” I thought their group provided a valuable community service, and I was happy to be the bearer of good news on this sunny autumn morning—despite my distracted mind-set and the grim surroundings of a cemetery.

  “’Course,” he said, “our job is a lot easier on a gorgeous morning like this. Two days ago we were out in the pouring rain.”

  I smiled, agreeing that it was, indeed, a lovely day. Unbeknownst to him, I had watched him and his little group of veterans at that rainy funeral—though at a distance and from the comfort of my rental car. In fact, I had been in town now for three days and had spent the majority of the time discreetly examining his organization. As an investigator for a charitable foundation, it was my job to scrutinize the finances and activities of selected nonprofits and award grants to them if they passed our rigorous screening process. This gentleman’s application had struck me as particularly charming, and I was glad that after a little digging around I had been able to determine that his group was a legit bunch doing good work. A grant would be a big help for them. The handing over of the money, like now, was the fun part that always came at the end of a successful investigation.

  For me, however, an even more fun event awaited at the conclusion of this particular investigation. After much frustration and anticipation, I was finally going to meet—face-to-face, for the very first time—my enigmatic boss, Tom. We had known each other for two years now, spending countless hours together on the phone and over the Internet. But we had never actually met in person. Today, however, we were finally going to change that with a brief get-together in the airport as our paths crossed. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing!

  For now, I was trying to put my meeting with Tom out of my mind until I was actually on the plane flying home. As long as there were no glitches, I should be able to finish my work here and make it to the airport in plenty of time for my flight. Guiltily, I glanced at my watch, telling myself to focus.

  “I would imagine you have a lot of expenses with something like this,” I said, looking at Commander Davis.

  “Well, the government provides the blanks for the M-1s,” he replied. “Other than that, it’s just your basic stuff. Transportation to the funerals, maintenance on the rifles, things like that.”

  I nodded, thinking back over the information he had supplied in his grant request. I especially liked the section he had written under “Additional Needs”: I guess we could use a few bugles and some bugle lessons, ’cause we don’t want one of those fake bugles the government keeps trying to give us, the ones that play “Taps” digitally. Those new-fangled things might work for the younger soldiers, but when we send off an old-timer, we want the real thing. Unfortunately, right now the only one in our group who knows how to play is Charlie, but he’s getting hard of hearing so sometimes his notes are a little off key.

  “I suppose I should tell you,” I said, “that I’m from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation.”

  “The grant people? Yes, ma’am. I sent in an application a while back.”

  “Well,” I replied, “it made its way to me, and I’m happy to say we will be awarding you a small amount of money for your bugles and bugle lessons.”

  I handed him the envelope, inside of which was a check for $5000 made out to the Greater Nashville Honor Guard Society. I could see a slight disappointment flash across the man’s face, sorry that he hadn’t received the money for his primary request, which was $11,000 for a used transport vehicle to carry their small group back and forth to all of the funerals they attended in the region.

  “Well now, that’s good news. That’s very good news,” he said finally, tucking the check back inside the envelope. “We sure do appreciate that. Old Charlie, especially. Thanks.”

  Old Charlie waved to me from the backseat, obviously hanging onto every word of our conversation.

  “The best way you can say thanks,” I replied, repeating the little speech that always accompanied the handing out of a donation, “is to take that money and use it to further your mission as outlined in your grant proposal. The foundation believes strongly in what you’re trying to accomplish, and we just wanted to have some small part in furthering your efforts.”

  “That’s real nice,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. Similar sentiments were expressed from inside the car, which I accepted on behalf of my employer. I told them that I understood if they needed to get going, and I waited until Commander Davis got back into the car before I leaned over and spoke again.

  “Oh, and on your way,” I said, “you might want to stop off at Henderson Motors.”

  “Henderson Motors?” the commander asked, concern wrinkling his brow. “Do we have a flat tire or something?”

  “No, sir,” I replied with a wink. “But they’ll have your brand-new Transmaster Eclipse 12-passenger van ready for you in about ten minutes.”

  “What?” he asked, his eyes suddenly wide with excitement.

  “It’s all yours, gentlemen, compliments of the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation.”

  Two

  I just made it. Returning the rental car had taken a little longer than I had anticipated, which then necessitated a bit of a sprint down the hall once I got through security in the airport. But the important thing was that I was here now. I was on the plane.

  At last, I was on my way to the big moment!

  The rest of my row was empty, so once we were airborne it was easy for me to settle down and get organized. I retrieved a pillow from the overhead compartment and tucked it behind my back, then I took a minute to undo and resecure my hair into a chignon at my neck. Once that was done, I lifted my beautiful ostrich-skin briefcase, a gift from Tom, onto the seat next to me. I dialed the lock’s combination and popped it open. Then I took a few minutes to organize the papers, files, and receipts that had accumulated on this trip, tucking them away into their proper places inside the case. Finally, I closed the briefcase, slid it under the seat in front of me, and leaned back in my chair. I took a deep breath, let it out, and closed my eyes.

  Finally, I was on my way to see Tom.

  I don’t know why I was so excited, or what it was about our situation that made my pulse race every time I thought about it. Tom was my boss, a wonderful man I had grown to like and respect more every time we spoke. Though we interacted as professionals, Tom and I had a rapport that had developed over time and now extended far beyond the bounds of mere employer-employee interaction. Still, no matter how often we spoke or how fond we were of each other, it was kind of hard to call it a “relationship” when we’d neve
r met face-to-face!

  An enigmatic multimillionaire who kept an incredibly low profile, Tom was a philanthropist who did his donating anonymously through the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation. Tom had made it clear from the day he hired me—over the telephone and on the recommendation of a mutual friend—that though it was primarily his money the foundation would be giving away, he wanted to remain as far removed from the process as possible. He first screened all of the applications, using some personal criteria to narrow them down, but then he always handed the reins over to me for a final recommendation. As an attorney and licensed private investigator, it was my job to investigate those organizations on behalf of the foundation and present funds if we found them to be deserving.

  Our system worked well, and we could’ve gone on indefinitely the way things were. But somewhere along the line, Tom and I found we shared more than just the common goal of philanthropy. Somehow, we shared a connection at a personal level as well—though we rarely verbalized it. Instead, we spent hours talking and laughing on the phone, writing back and forth online, and basically dancing around the idea of finding a way to meet in person.

  Today was that day.

  Given that we were going to be in the exact same airport at the exact same time, we had finally committed to specific plans to get together, though only for a short while. Tom had flown to Washington, DC, yesterday on business and had spent last night in the apartment the foundation kept near the Watergate. Today, he was heading to New York City and then on to Singapore for an extended business trip, but his flight didn’t leave the airport until an hour after mine arrived.

  Therefore, God willing, today at exactly 1:10 P.M. I was going to get off this plane, walk to the Executive Club in the Reagan National Airport, and meet my employer. I would at last be able to put a face with the name, with the voice. Sometimes, and in some ways, I felt closer to Tom than to anyone else on earth. After today, I knew there would be a completeness to our entire situation that had always been lacking before.