A Penny for Your Thoughts

  A PENNY

  FOR YOUR

  THOUGHTS

  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 Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.

  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.

  The author is represented by MacGregor Literary.

  Cover photos © mattesimages / Fotolia; vespasian / Alamy; Cover illustration © Gregor Buir

  Cover by Dugan Design Group, Bloomington, Minnesota

  A PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS

  Copyright © 2002 by Mindy Starns Clark

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  ISBN 978-0-7369-2956-1

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the edition as follows:

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Clark, Mindy Starns.

  A penny for your thoughts / Mindy Starns Clark.

  p. cm. —(The million dollar mysteries; 1)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-0992-1

  1. Woman lawyers—Fiction. 2. Nonprofit organizations—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3603.L366 P46 2002

  813'.54—dc21

  2002005633

  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 / LB-MS / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For John, my husband and best friend. Thank you for sharing the dream, every single step of the way.

  Acknowledgments

  “Thank you” seems inadequate, but I have to try. So, thank you!!!

  …to my husband, John Clark, J.D., C.P.A, for helping with every part of this work—from the original concept to advising me on legal and financial matters in the nonprofit world to editing with the skill of a master. This book literally wouldn’t exist without you!

  …to my editor, Kim Moore of Harvest House Publishers, for opening the door and pulling me through into the amazing world of Christian publishing; and to my agent, Frank Weimann, for making the connection.

  …to my father, Robert M. Starns, M.D., for medical information, clarification, and imagination.

  …to my mother, Jackie Starns, for extensive proofreading (and cheerleading!).

  …to my dear friend and research assistant, Shari Weber.

  …to the best group of readers in the world: Alice Clark, Jennifer Clark, Mary Davison, Lucille Dickerson, Kim Farr, Kay Justus, Arline King, Shirley Morris, Dolores Perla, Suzanne Scannell, and Roberta Sullivan.

  …to all who filled in the gaps of my knowledge: David Clark, Joyce Hammel, Eileen Hosgood, Mark Lampton, Sal Mannino, David Starns, Joey Starns, and so many others that I could fill this book with your names. You know who you are: Thank you!

  …to fellow writers who willingly shared the wealth of their experience: Jeremiah Healy, for valuable instruction on creating a series character; Anthony Bruno, for an encouraging critique and review; and all of my lovely, ever-helpful Sisters in Crime.

  …to Church of the Saviour in Wayne, PA, for biblical guidance, theological clarification, and support.

  …to my “e-mail posse,” that long list of folks to whom I send out all kinds of questions in the middle of the night and they reply with clever, delightful answers and suggestions. Friends, I couldn’t do it without you.

  Finally, to my fabulous daughters, Emily and Lauren, for your constant love and support—and for giving mom “just five more minutes” at the computer. You’re the best!

  Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.

  1 THESSALONIANS 4:13-14

  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

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  About the Author

  Other Books by Mindy Starns Clark

  About the Publisher

  One

  The organization was legit. After three weeks of investigating, that was my final conclusion, the final report I faxed to my boss. After he reviewed my summary and gave me the go-ahead, I wrote out a check for $300,000, locked it in my briefcase, and headed for downtown Chicago. I had already reserved a flight home for later in the afternoon; now all that remained was to meet with these people and do what I had come here to do.

  The place was called Transition Resources, and it was run by a friendly mother-and-son team. I had called for an “emergency” appointment, and they had readily agreed to see me, even though they didn’t know who I was or the real reason I was there. All I had told them was that my name was Callie Webber and that I needed to have a meeting with both of them.

  I’m sure they thought I was just another client wanting their agency’s help. My showing up in a taxi, wearing a suit, did seem to throw them a little—probably because most of their clientele usually come by bus, wearing sweatpants or torn jeans. Nevertheless, they shook my hand and invited me down the hall of their cramped, somewhat shabby office building and into a room lined with stacks of papers and folding metal chairs.

  “You’ll have to excuse the mess,” the woman said, motioning for me to have a seat. “There’s a leak in the ceiling of the back room where we keep the files. We had to move everything in here.”

  “Quite alright,” I said, smoothing a piece of hair back into the chignon at my neck. I always wore my long brown hair pulled straight back despite the nagging of my friend Harriet, who was forever urging me to visit her hairdresser. He’ll work a miracle on you! she would say, insisting that my look was too severe and old-fashioned, that the right cut would bring out my blue eyes, my cheekbones. But I liked myself the way I was. The
hairstyle that had served me for the last three years would continue to suffice.

  “So how can we help you today?” the young man across from me asked, and I turned my attention to him. He was rather short and plain, but there was a sweetness to his face, a gentleness to his expression that reminded me of my brother. “Do you have a parent with a situation that needs our services?” he continued. “Because we do have to consider cases based on financial need…”

  His voice trailed off as I placed my phenomenally expensive ostrich-skin briefcase on my knees and began working the gold-plated combination lock. The case had been a gift from my boss, who was generous to a fault and always spent far too much money on gifts. A thrifty person myself, I had never been comfortable with the briefcase, but I didn’t return it for fear of hurting his feelings, knowing that somehow he would eventually find out.

  “Tell me about your organization,” I said as I clicked the first number into place. “I understand you’re in three states now?”

  “Four, as of last week,” the woman answered. “We set up a little satellite office in Detroit, and already it’s being swamped with applications.”

  She went on to tell me how their company was a nonprofit organization that specialized in the relocation of the elderly. Specifically, they helped older people with limited financial resources make the difficult transition from independent to assisted living, from their own homes into retirement villages or nursing homes. This organization helped find housing, do the paperwork, pack possessions, sell extraneous belongings—they even offered psychological counseling to guide their clients through the emotional experience of letting go and saying goodbye.

  Of course, everything the woman told me I already knew. I knew that and much more.

  It was my job to know.

  “So are you a reporter or something?” the son asked, still eyeing my briefcase. “’Cause we’ve been trying to get some more exposure. We think we might stir up a few donations if we could get on the local news.”

  I finally got the lock undone. I opened the lid and reached inside the front pocket for the familiar rectangle of paper that was waiting there.

  “Actually, I’m not a reporter,” I said. “I’m from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation.”

  It took a moment for that to sink in, but when it did the mother and son looked at each other in surprise.

  “The grant!” the woman said. “I nearly forgot we applied for that. Are you here to get some more information?”

  I shook my head and allowed myself a small smile.

  “I’m here to present you with this check,” I said, “from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation to Transition Resources in the amount of $300,000.”

  I held out the check, and neither of them moved for a moment. Then suddenly they began jumping up and down and hugging each other and screaming and cheering and embracing me. It was one of the more jubilant reactions I had gotten in the last few months, and I allowed myself to relax and go with it, silently thanking the Lord for good people like these, people who had a gift for taking God’s resources and using them in wonderful ways.

  “We can buy a truck,” the son said. “That’ll cut our moving costs by 38 percent!”

  “We can do a lot more than that,” the mother said, counting off on her fingers the plans they had itemized in their grant proposal. “Extended counseling, bigger facilities, more caregivers…”

  They listed ideas for the money, lobbing them back and forth like a tennis ball. They asked if they should call the local newspaper to have a photographer and a reporter record this event. I told them no, that our foundation preferred to do things in a more discreet manner.

  “So what was it about our little company that caught your eye?” the mother asked, finally settling down into her chair and pausing to catch her breath. “We didn’t think we stood a chance. We just did the paperwork and sent it out on faith.”

  I took a deep breath, wondering how I could ever explain the way our foundation worked. I wasn’t exactly sure myself what the selection process was. I only knew how my part of it worked: I received a sealed packet from my philanthropist boss, a packet full of information about an organization or business to which he would like to make a donation. It was my job to verify the integrity of the organization as thoroughly as possible. Sometimes that meant digging around a little, examining records, talking to people—occasionally even posing as a client or infiltrating the ranks as an employee. My eclectic employment history as a private investigator and then an attorney had trained me well for my job, and I was very good at what I did. When my research was finished, I was the one who gave the red or green light, and thus far the boss had always relied completely on my recommendation. If I said the place was good, then he would commission me to write and deliver a check for amounts ranging as high as a million dollars.

  The amazing part was that my boss stayed out of the picture, remaining completely anonymous. He kept such a low profile, in fact, that even I didn’t know much about him beyond the basic facts. Tom and I had spoken on the phone hundreds of times, but we had never met face-to-face, nor did we have a need to. I left him to his privacy.

  “It’ll take days before this really begins to sink in,” the son was saying now, still staring at the check in wonder and grinning from ear to ear.

  “Whom can we thank for this money?” the mother asked. “I know a little about the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation, but is there someone in particular…” She let her voice trail off, looking to me for information.

  I smiled, clicked my briefcase shut, and stood.

  “The best way you can say thank you 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 a small part in furthering your efforts.”

  It was a speech I had made many times before, but it still never failed to bring a small lump into my throat. There were so many unsung heroes out in the world, people who had decided to dedicate their lives to helping others. The fact that I got to be the bearer of such good news was the very best part of what I did for a living.

  I caught the next flight back to Washington, DC, reading a magazine most of the way, closing it finally as we crossed over the Ohio River. I leaned back and looked out of the window, marveling at the gorgeous streaks of purple and orange that accompanied the sunset.

  I was tired. Actually, I was exhausted. This was the fifth case I’d worked in a row without a break. Now I was ready to take a few days off, putter around the house, and catch up on things that needed doing there.

  The seat in front of mine held a telephone in its back, and when the man sitting next to me headed to the restroom I took the opportunity to pull out the phone and dial. My boss liked to hear from me as soon as possible after a delivery; he would be expecting my call.

  The connection was surprisingly good. I had dialed Tom’s private line, the one I was supposed to use in case of emergency or at prearranged times. He answered on the second ring, his voice sounding deep and resonant as usual.

  “Callie?” he answered.

  “It’s me,” I said, feeling a smile creep into my voice. Though Tom and I had never met in person, we always had a certain rapport over the phone. I had an image of what I thought he looked like, though that image had evolved and shifted over time. All I knew for certain was that he was in his early 30s, like me, and that he had made his fortune in the computer industry. Otherwise, I did not use my investigative skills toward him. It was enough for me that he was my employer, that he valued his privacy above all else, and that he was a good man with a generous heart and very, very deep pockets.

  “Callie, Callie, Callie,” he said now, and I could hear the click of a computer in the background. “You traded in your first-class ticket for coach again.”

  “You know how I feel about flying first class,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I got over $400 back.”

  “So keep the money as a bonus and spend it
on yourself, then.”

  “It’ll go back to the foundation,” I said, “as always.”

  He exhaled slowly, but I could tell he wasn’t exasperated, merely baffled. There were things I had no qualms spending money on—such as a good suit or a nice pair of shoes, because they were essential to the image the foundation wanted me to present. But to me, it always seemed silly to fly first class when coach was available. Either one got you where you were going, and wasn’t that the point anyway?

  “So tell me about our friends in Chicago,” Tom said. “Were they pleased with our little contribution?”

  I sat back in my seat and described their reaction, enjoying the vicarious pleasure Tom received from my description, wondering for the hundredth time why he didn’t simply show up to deliver the money himself.

  “As I was leaving,” I said, “they got a phone call from a nearby hospital. Seems there was a 91-year-old woman who had been living with her son, but the son had died and the hospital didn’t know what to do with the woman.”

  “Sounds like a case for social services.”

  “Social services was trying to locate a nursing home for her. But within five minutes Transition Resources had dispatched a counselor to go to the hospital and stay with the woman while they waited, and they even sent a volunteer worker over to her house to see about her cat.”

  “Nice.”

  “They’re good people, Tom. You did a wonderful thing.”

  “As did you.”

  We chatted a little longer about nothing, really, the way we did sometimes. I always pictured Tom as a Quasimodo-type, alone in a vast castle, the world at his fingertips, but his life a somberly empty place. Of course, that image was probably way off. For all I knew, he was a dashing jet-setter with a gorgeous woman on each arm and a fancy home on every continent.

  “Well, now that this case is closed, I have a different sort of assignment for you,” Tom said finally. “This one is a bit of a departure from your regular routine.”

  “Oh?”

  “The place is called Feed the Need. It’s a worldwide hunger relief organization based in Philadelphia. I want you to make a delivery there tomorrow.”