Free A Penny for Your Thoughts by Mindy Starns Clark Page B

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 hisson. 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,