by Joan Wolf
A FASHIONABLE AFFAIR
Joan Wolf
Chapter One
Patsy Clark flashed a bright, friendly smile at the doorman, entered the elevator, and rode up to her sixth-floor apartment. She was frowning slightly, however, as she let herself in, and as she closed the door behind her the telephone rang. Patsy went into the kitchen and picked up the extension.
“Hello,” she said in her clear, low-pitched voice.
“May I speak to Miss Patricia Clark, please. This is the Internal Revenue Service calling.”
Patsy’s eyes widened. “This is she,” she said, and abruptly sat down.
“Miss Clark, this is John Maginnis. We’ve been looking into your tax return and there are a few things I’d like to go over with you. May I come and see you sometime this week?”
There was a blank pause. “Well, of course,” Patsy said, breaking the silence. “But I’m afraid I don’t know very much about my taxes, Mr. Maginnis. My business manager, Fred Zimmerman, handles all that.”
“Your business manager can be present when I talk to you.”
“But that’s just the problem,” Patsy explained. “He can’t. He’s in the hospital. In fact, I’ve just come from visiting him. He’s had a heart attack.”
“I see.” The cool voice on the other end of the line was very pleasant but distinctly businesslike. “Well, perhaps you’ll be able to answer my questions yourself, Miss Clark. Could you see me tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow. I have a modeling session. Wednesday would be all right.”
“Wednesday, then. At ten o’clock?”
“All right. Should I come to your office?”
“No.” He sounded quite definite. “I’ll come to your apartment. Thank you, Miss Clark.”
“Good-bye,” Patsy said faintly. She stood up to replace the receiver and remained staring at the old-fashioned wall phone for a few moments. “Damn!” she said. She went into the living room and threw herself on the sofa.
Should she tell Fred? She thought of his sickly gray face on the pillow this afternoon and decided almost immediately not to. She would just have to deal with this IRS man herself. After all, she thought righteously, whatever could they find wrong? She paid an absolutely huge amount of taxes each year. The audit was probably only routine. Then, being Patsy, she banished the whole thing from her mind and went inside to change for a dinner date.
Her doorbell rang promptly at ten o’clock Wednesday morning and Patsy went to the door to let the IRS man in. “Mr. Maginnis?” she said.
“Yes.” The man’s eyes widened slightly in a familiar expression of shocked delight as he looked for the first time at Patricia Clark. He took in her red hair, so fine that it floated around her shoulders like a luminous cloud; her wide brown eyes, so unbelievably dark in the dazzling purity of her flawless face. He had, of course, seen her photographs, but the reality was still astonishing.
Patsy held the door wider. “Come in,” she said. She was wearing tan slacks and a tattersall shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Being almost as tall as he, she smiled directly into his eyes. Patsy was well accustomed to the effect she had on men. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
The IRS however, is made of stern stuff. John Maginnis’ face resumed its impersonal look. “No, thank you,” he said in a colorless voice. “Perhaps we could just get down to business.”
Patsy sighed. “All right. Do you want to sit at a table?”
“That would be helpful.”
“Come into the kitchen, then.”
The agent’s eyes darted appraisingly around the apartment as she led him down the hall and into a big, immaculate, fully equipped kitchen. Patsy sat at a white Formica table and gestured for him to do likewise. He opened his briefcase and took out a file folder. Then he began to ask her some questions.
Fifteen minutes later Patsy was staring at a sheet of figures in utter frustration.
“I’m afraid it’s no good, Mr. Maginnis,” she said, putting the paper down. “To be honest, I don’t understand a word you’re saying. If you say I own shares in this Fairmont Shopping Center, then I probably do. Fred is always buying me shares of shopping centers.” She raised her eyes to the agent’s unconcerned face. “He’s always told me it’s a perfectly legal tax shelter.”
“It is, Miss Clark. But this particular shopping center has been oversold, you see, and so we are disallowing this deduction.”
“Oh,” Patsy said. “Do you mean I owe you more taxes?”
“I’m afraid so, Miss Clark.”
“I see,” Patsy replied thinking bitter thoughts about the taxes she had already paid.
“You said you owned shares in a number of shopping centers, Miss Clark?”
“Yes.”
“I think, purely as a matter of routine, that I’d like to take a look into those investments.”
Patsy stared at Maginnis. “But I’ve already told you, my business manager is in the hospital. You’ll have to wait until he recovers.”
The IRS man gathered his papers and placed them in his briefcase. “I’d like to finish with this as soon as possible, Miss Clark.”
“But Fred is in the hospital” Patsy repeated. “I simply cannot bother him right now.”
“Then I suggest you get yourself an accountant, Miss Clark,” the agent said pleasantly but firmly. “I’ll call you next week.”
“Next week,” Patsy shrieked glaring at him in outrage.
A gleam of appreciation flickered in Maginnis’ cool blue eyes, but he repeated evenly, “Next week. Get an accountant, Miss Clark. Thank you and good morning.”
Patsy closed the door behind him and stalked back into the living room. “I don’t believe this,” she said out loud, and walked to the long window that overlooked Central Park. The trees and grass were green with spring. “I don’t know any accountants,” Patsy said. She put her hands into her pockets and remained at the window, watching a group of children bicycle across Central Park West and enter the park. A thoughtful look descended over her face.
“Michael,” she said. “Michael is an accountant.”
She left the living room and went down another hall and into her bedroom. Sitting behind a maple desk, Patsy picked up the phone and dialed a number. It was answered on the sixth ring.
“Sally,” Patsy said. “Thank goodness you’re in.”
“I was in the basement doing laundry,” her longtime best friend answered. “What’s up, Patsy? You sound upset.”
“I am, rather. I’ve just had an IRS man here and they want to audit me.”
“Well, that’s never pleasant, of course, but it’s no reason to get yourself into a tizzy.” Sally’s voice changed. “No, Steven, you may not have that lollipop. It’s much too early.”
“You don’t understand, Sal. Fred is in the hospital. He had a heart attack a few days ago.”
“Fred? I didn’t know that. How old is he, Patsy?”
“Only fifty.”
“Oh, dear. Is it bad?”
“I’m afraid so. The doctors said if he hadn’t gotten to the hospital when he did, he’d be dead.”
“Good God.”
“Yes. So, under the circumstances, I can hardly expect him to cope with the IRS. I tried to explain that elementary fact to the IRS man who was here, but all he said was ‘Get an accountant.’’
“Lord.”
“Sally, Michael’s an accountant. I know he works for the government, but do you think he might help me? Or at least recommend someone who could?”
“Michael’s not working for the Justice Department anymore,” Sally said. “He’s just gone into partnership with an accountant out here on the Island. I’m sure he could help you, Patsy. If there’s anyone who has had experience in deali
ng with the IRS, it’s my darling brother.”
“I know,” Patsy said. “But he’s always been on the other end!”
Sally laughed. “True.” There was the sound of banging in the background. “Steven, no!” Sally said. “You’re frightening the baby.”
“Do you have Michael’s work number?” Patsy asked.
“Yes. Hold on a minute.” There was the sound of the phone being put down and Patsy accurately pictured the scene in Sally’s kitchen. Sally retrieved the phone. “Here it is.” She dictated a number, and Patsy wrote it down.
“Thanks a million, Sally,” she said. “I’ll call him right away.”
“Okay. Let me know how things work out.”
“I will. And thanks again. Give the kids a hug and a kiss for me.”
“You come out soon and hug and kiss for yourself.”
“I will. ‘Bye.”
Patsy hung up and left the receiver on the hook for half a minute before lifting it again, this time putting in a call to the CPA partnership of Lawson and Melville in West Hampstead, Long Island.
* * * *
At three o’clock that afternoon Patsy drove her Volvo station wagon over the Triborough Bridge out of Manhattan and onto Long Island. She negotiated the maze of highways with easy confidence— Patsy had, after all, grown up on Long Island—and cruised comfortably along the Long Island Expressway until she saw the sign for West Hampstead. She got off the expressway and followed the directions Michael had given her over the phone. In five minutes she was parking her car in a small lot behind an old, three-story clapboard house.
There wasn’t a cloud on Patsy’s lovely face as she smiled at the receptionist and asked “for Michael. When she was told he’d be with her in a minute, she nodded serenely and sat on the sofa in the waiting area. She picked up a magazine, which happened to have her picture on the cover, and thumbed through it, utterly unaware of the receptionist’s envious eyes.
Twenty minutes went by. Patsy put down the magazine and looked around.
“I’m sorry it’s taking so long, Miss Clark,” the receptionist said apologetically, “but Mr. Melville is with another client.”
Patsy smiled. “I don’t mind waiting. It was good of him to squeeze me in at such short notice.” She stood and the folds of her emerald green suit skirt fell gracefully around her long legs. “I hope you don’t mind if I prowl about for a bit.”
“Of course not,” the girl answered.
There was the sound of male voices in the hall and then a tall, broad-shouldered man entered the reception room. He was in his early thirties, very good-looking, and his blue eyes instantly glued themselves to Patsy. Miss Revere, the receptionist, had been trying vainly for weeks to cadge a date with him, and her lips tightened in frustration as she observed the bedazzled expression in his eyes.
Patsy, however, had barely noticed him. Her eyes were on the shorter, slender, dark-haired man who now stood in the doorway.
“Well, Patsy,” said a deep, slightly amused voice. “I’d know that red hair anywhere.”
Patsy laughed and crossed the room with the swift, graceful walk so familiar to fans of her TV commercials.
“Michael!” she said, holding out her hands. “I do appreciate you seeing me like this, really I do.”
“It’s a pleasure,” he said easily, briefly clasping her hands. “Come into my office and tell me all about it.”
Patsy obediently followed him down a hall, up a flight of stairs, and into a comfortable, unostentatious office. He gestured for her to sit in the chair in front of his desk, and he himself sat behind it. Leaning back a bit, he regarded her out of darkly lashed hazel eyes. “It’s been a long time, “ he said.
Patsy was conscious of a shock of deep surprise. The man facing her seemed very different from the Michael she remembered. She frowned a little. “Yes, it has been,” she said slowly. “I’m trying to remember when I last saw you.”
“It was at my father’s funeral.”
Her eyes widened. “Was it as long ago as that?”
“Seven years.” His voice was cool and steady, his eyes level and inscrutable.
“Seven years,” Patsy repeated. “My God.” She wrinkled her nose. “Do you know that in two years I’ll be thirty? Can you believe it? Do you remember how old we used to think thirty was?”
He grinned and suddenly looked much younger, much more like the Michael she remembered. “It seems younger every day,” he said.
“Well, you at least have three more years before the bell tolls,” she retorted.
“You’re depressing the hell out of me, Patsy,” he complained humorously, and Patsy laughed.
“Sorry,” she apologized, “but I’ve been smitten by melancholy all day. The IRS can do that to you.”
The humor left Michael’s face, and he leaned back slightly in his chair. “Tell me about it.”
After a brief hesitation Patsy recounted the entire story and then answered the few questions he asked her as clearly and intelligently as she could. The phone rang. “Excuse me,” Michael said, picking up the receiver. As he spoke, his attention on the conversation, Patsy looked searchingly at his face and tried to figure out why he seemed so different when so much about him was familiar. The black hair was the same as were the hazel eyes, the high-bridged nose and straight, firm mouth. But it was not a boy’s face any longer. Nor was the voice— cool, pleasant, subtly authoritative—the same as the voice she remembered, even though so many of the intonations were familiar.
He hung up, and his eyes returned to her. “The first thing I’ll have to do,” he said, “is look at your past tax returns.”
“Fred Zimmerman has all those records, Michael.”
“Where’s his office?”
“On East Forty-fourth Street.”
“Can you get the key from him?”
“I guess so. He’s still in the hospital, poor guy.”
“Too bad.” Michael’s darkly lashed greenish eyes were quite impersonal. “Patsy, do you know how much money you made last year?”
Patsy lowered her eyes. “Something over two million dollars,” she answered softly.
Michael did not blink. “I see. And Fred was investing it for you?”
“Yes.” Patsy felt like a school girl being brought before the principal, and to shake her unease she smiled at Michael. “He put a lot of money into shopping-center shares,” she said. “Unfortunately, it seems one of them was not quite on the up and up.”
“I see.” He did not return her smile. In fact, he looked rather preoccupied. His face was thinner than she remembered, Patsy thought. Or perhaps it was just that his shoulders were wider. “Well, there isn’t much I can do until I get a look at those records,” he said, and Patsy’s eyes guiltily snapped back to his face. “Why don’t you go see this Zimmerman fellow and give me a call tomorrow if you have the key to his office. I’ll meet you there and we’ll see what we can come up with.”
“All right,” Patsy said, and then, belatedly, realized she was being dismissed. She stood up. “Thank you, Michael.”
He had risen with her. “Not at all.” The phone rang again. “Can you find your way out?” he asked.
“Of course.”
He was picking up the receiver as she left.
Chapter Two
Patsy hit rush-hour traffic on the way home, so she had plenty of time to think about her interview with Michael Melville. She didn’t waste any thoughts on her tax problems; what she thought about was Michael—the boy she had grown up with, Sally’s little brother.
The Clark and the Melville families had lived next door to each other on Long Island since their children had been born. Sally was the oldest, then Patsy, and then Michael. As only eighteen months separated Sally and Michael, the children were virtually the same age and had played together since the time they could talk. It wasn’t until they had gotten into junior high that Patsy had started to think of Michael as being younger than she. Because of the way their birthdays
fell, Patsy was in Sally’s class—a year ahead of Michael. And that year assumed gigantic proportions as they grew older.
But they had always been good friends. It was Michael, brilliant in math and in an accelerated program, who had drummed the rudiments of trigonometry into Patsy’s head. Sally, also a top math student, had not had the patience. And when Michael had been state wrestling champion in his junior year, Patsy had been in the audience cheering him on.
Yet they had always been just friends. Patsy had dated constantly all through high school, but never with Michael.
Seven years, Patsy thought. Had it really been seven years since she had seen him last?
She finally edged her car into the toll booth on the Triborough, handed the man her money, and accelerated slowly. If Sally hadn’t married a medical student and moved to Michigan, Patsy thought, she and Michael would have met more often. Now that Sally was back home, no doubt they would be seeing a bit more of each other. Seven years, thought Patsy. My goodness. Where had the time gone to?
* * * *
That evening after dinner Patsy went to the hospital to see her business manager. He had been moved from the intensive-care unit into a regular private room and she sat with him for a few minutes chatting about insignificant things before asking him for the key to his office.
He frowned. “What do you need that for?”
“Oh,” she deliberately kept her tone light and unconcerned. “There are a few papers I need. There’s nothing to worry about, Fred.”
“The hospital took all my keys when I was admitted,” he said slowly. “I don’t know where they’ve put them.”
Patsy got to her feet. “I’ll find out.”
She was gone for ten minutes, and when she came back, she was with a woman who was holding his keys.
“Here they are, Fred,” Patsy said serenely. “Just show me the office key, and we’ll send the rest back.”
He separated out a key and very slowly gave the chain to Patsy. She detached the key he had indicated and gave the rest to the woman, who smiled coolly and departed. Patsy sat next to his bed.