You have to understand Mary, Clarice said. She isnt very bright.
That I understand, I said.
And she has no training in being a rich upper-class lady.
Which she wasnt, I said, until she married Nathan Smith.
Exactly.
And the charity work? I said.
Part of becoming a wealthy Boston lady.
I nodded. Clarice drank some coffee. Her eyes were big and dark. She had on a nice perfume.
Whered she grow up? I said.
I think someone told me she lived in Franklin.
I asked her for a list of her friends, I said. She gave me a guest list, on which you are the final name. You a friend of hers?
Not really. Each year, the bank designates a certain sum of money to be distributed to deserving charities. Im the one decides who gets it.
So she woos you for your money.
The banks money, Clarice said. But yes.
You wouldnt put her on a list of your best friends.
I dont dislike her. I feel kind of sorry for her.
Because?
Because shes entirely confused by the world as it is. She thinks it is like the one she has seen in the movies and the womens magazines. Shes always been sexy, and she thinks it matters in the world shes entered.
Gee, I said. It does in my world.
I would guess that, she said. But not in the world of the wealthy Boston lady.
What matters there?
Money, pedigree, or the illusion of pedigree.
How do you fare in that world, I said.
I dont aspire to it, she said.
I nodded again. The room was full of well-dressed women getting coffee and salads. Most of them were young and in shape. Young professional women were a good-looking lot.
Cute, arent they, Clarice said.
I grinned. So, would you put Mary Smith on a list of friends?
She smiled. I guess I wouldnt.
We were both quiet, drinking our coffee.
Do you think she has friends? I said.
I think she thinks the people on her guest list are friends, Clarice said.
And the people she knew in Franklin?
Low-class would be my guess, Clarice said.
My coffee cup was empty. So was Clarices. I remained alert to the panorama of young professional women.
Sex apparently does matter in your world, Clarice said.
Does to me, I said.
Are you married?
Sort of.
How can you be sort of married? Clarice said.
Were not married, but were monogamous.
Except for the roving eye, Clarice said.
Except for that, I said.
Live together?
Not quite.
Love each other?
Yes.
How long you been together? Clarice said.
About twenty-five years.
So why dont you get married?
Damned if I know, I said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pequod Savings and Loan was essentially a suburban bank. It had branches in Concord, Lexington, Lynnfield, and Weston. There was a home branch next to a gourmet takeout shop on the first floor of a good-looking recycled manufacturing building in East Cambridge, near Kendall Square. A clerk passed me on to a bank officer who questioned me closely and passed me on to the home-office manager. In less than an hour I was sitting in the office of the vice president for public affairs.
She was a good-looking smallish woman with thick auburn hair and large dark eyes
and a wide mouth. She was wearing a pale beige suit. Her nails gleamed with polish. She had a big diamond on her right hand. An engraved brass sign on her desk read AMY PETERS.
Would you care for coffee? she said.
I had decided to cut back on coffee. Three cups in the morning was plenty.
Yes, I said. Cream and sugar.
How about milk and sugar? she said.
Oh well.
She stood and went out of the office. The pants of her beige suit were well-fitted. On her desk was a picture of two small children. On a shelf in the bookcase behind her desk was a picture of her with Bobby Orr. There was also a plaque recognizing her as Pequod Person of the Year. When she came back in carrying the coffee, she brought with her the vague scent of good cologne. She gave me one cup and took the other around behind her desk and sat and had a sip.
So, she said. You are a private detective.
I had some coffee. It wasnt very good. I had some more.
I am, I said.
She smiled. Her teeth were even and very white.
And what are you detecting here at the bank? she said.
You know that Nathan Smith has died, I said.
Yes. I understand that he was murdered.
Do you understand by whom? I said.
Whom? What kind of private detective says whom?
Handsome intrepid ones, I said.
She looked at me steadily for a moment, as if deciding whether to buy me. Then she smiled a little. The papers say it was his wife.
They do, I said.
And what do you say?
I say I dont know. Tell me about Nathan Smith.
Whom do you represent? she said and smiled, pleased with herself for saying whom.
Im employed by Mary Smiths attorney, I said.
So you are predisposed to assume shes innocent.
Me and the legal system, I said.
Oh yes of course.
So what was Nathan Smith like? I said.
He owned this bank, she said. His father owned it before him and I dont know how many generations back beyond that.
Un-huh. So who owns it now?
His estate, I assume.
Whos running it now?
Our CEO, she said, Marvin Conroy.