A Fashionable Affair

by Joan Wolf

  “I have my first shooting on the new camera contract on Monday,” she said. “It should be fun.”

  “Yeah.” Fred was clearly not paying attention. “Patsy, what’s up? Why do you want that key?”

  He looked really disturbed and Patsy decided that he would probably worry more if he didn’t know what was going on.

  “It’s nothing major. Fred, I promise you. I had an IRS man come by the other day. He was asking questions about my investment in the Fairmont Shopping Center.”

  Fred seemed to relax. “Oh, Fairmont. So, what’s wrong with it?”

  “He said it was oversold, whatever that means, and they are not allowing my deduction.”

  “Oversold,” Fred repeated. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “Yes. He wanted to see my old tax returns as well. That’s why I need the key.”

  “You mean this IRS guy wants to talk to you again?”

  “Yes. But it’s purely routine, Fred. He said so.”

  Fred tried to sit up straight in bed. “Patsy, listen. I’ll give you the name of a guy to get in touch with. He’ll help you go through the files and get the material.”

  Patsy gently pressed him down onto his back. “Don’t worry about a thing, Fred. I’ve already got someone—an old friend from Long Island who happens to be a CPA. He’s going to get the tax material together.”

  Fred let her push him against the pillow. “Oh. A fellow from Long Island. What’s his name?”

  “Michael Melville.”

  Fred frowned. “Michael Melville. I know that name.”

  “He used to work for the Justice Department here in New York,” Patsy said helpfully. “He’s in private practice in Long Island now.”

  Patsy had thought Fred looked gray when she came in but now his skin turned the shade of parchment. “Jesus,” he said. “That Melville.”

  “Are you all right, Fred?” Patsy asked anxiously.

  He put his hand to his chest. “I’m fine,” he said. “Patsy, listen to me ...” But Patsy had gone for the nurse.

  Later that night Fred Zimmerman suffered another massive heart attack and died.

  * * * *

  It was a very subdued Patsy who called Michael the following morning.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said neutrally when she told him of Fred’s death.

  “The thing is, Michael, I feel as if I’ve killed him,” she confessed. “I should never have told him about the IRS.”

  “Patsy, be reasonable. He’d already had one massive attack. The other had probably been building all day.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Of course. Accountants deal with the IRS all the time. He wasn’t upset about the IRS. He was having a heart attack.”

  Patsy’s brow smoothed out. She was never one to dwell on unpleasant or upsetting thoughts. “You’re probably right.”

  “Sure I am. Now, can you meet me at his office this afternoon?”

  “Yes. Fred has a daughter, and she’s taking care of the arrangements. What time can you be there?”

  “Three o’clock. What’s the address again?”

  She gave it to him, hung up the phone, and went to jog in Central Park.

  * * * *

  He was waiting in the lobby when she arrived. He was wearing a well-cut, pale-gray suit, and once again Patsy found herself gazing appraisingly at his shoulders. Michael had always been slender and compact, but even in high school he had been strong. She remembered he had once beaten up the captain of the football team for saying something disparaging about a thin, bespeckled, academically minded friend of his.

  His dark head turned and he saw her.

  “Have you been waiting long?” she asked as she approached him.

  “No, I just got here.” He put a hand on her elbow. “The elevator is over here.”

  Obediently she fell into step beside him. She was wearing medium-high heels with her chocolate-colored slacks and cream sweater, and he was still nearly an inch taller than she. “Did you drive in?” she asked.

  “No. I took the train.”

  “That was probably smart. It doesn’t pay to bring a car into Manhattan. I only have one because I can garage it in my apartment building.”

  “Was that your Volvo wagon I saw in the parking lot yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  The elevator door opened and they started down the’ corridor. “A station wagon,” he said with amusement in his deep, pleasant voice. “Not at all the sort of car one would expect to see New York’s top photographic model driving.”

  “It’s built like a tank,” Patsy said. “New York’s top photographic model is more interested in protection than in style, thank you.”

  “Smart girl,” he said. “Here we are.” He fitted the key into the lock and they entered Fred’s office.

  An hour later Michael was sitting at Fred’s desk with a pile of folders in front of him. Patsy, who was finding the whole process extremely boring, was prowling around the office.

  “Sit down, Red,” Michael said absently. “You’re making me nervous.”

  Red. She had forgotten that. He was the only one she had ever allowed to call her by that name. She crossed the room and sat across the desk from him, her eyes on his preoccupied face. He had always had the most fabulous lashes, she remembered. She and Sally had been wild with jealousy when they were younger. “I mean, what good are they on a boy?” Sally used to say.

  “Patsy. Are you awake?” There was a distinct note of irritation in Michael’s voice, and she opened her brown eyes wide.

  “I’m sorry, I was daydreaming. What did you say?”

  “I asked you about this line of sportswear you’re endorsing. I’ve never heard of the company.”

  “Redman Fashions,” she answered readily. “I know they’re not Sears, but the clothes have really been very successful.”

  “I see that.” There was a thin deep line between his eyes. He was looking at the paper in front of him. “You made over a million from them last year.”

  She smiled. “You see.”

  He looked from the paper to her. “I’ve never seen them in the stores,” he said.

  “Neither have I, actually. But Fred said they were very popular in the smaller Midwest department stores.”

  “I see.” Michael’s voice was undramatic and his face unreadable. “Have you ever seen any of these shopping centers Fred invested in?”

  “No, of course not. They’re all somewhere in the Midwest.”

  Michael’s brows rose and he looked at her in momentary silence.

  Patsy gave him a charming, rueful look. “Oh, dear, I don’t mean to sound like an ugly New Yorker.”

  “No one will ever call you an ugly anything, sweetheart,” he said, returning his attention to her papers.

  Patsy found herself thrown a bit off balance. She frowned and studied his absorbed face, trying to figure out what was so different about him.

  He was older, of course, but that wasn’t it. There was an authoritative air about him that the boy had not had, a quality of quiet power. She looked at the thin dark face.

  The long lashes lifted. “Everything seems to be in order, but I’m going to have to do some checking,” he said. “Is it all right if I take your files back to my own office?”

  “Of course it’s all right.” She looked at the files heaped on the desk. “You’re never going to get all that home on the train.”

  “I’m planning,” he explained calmly, “to borrow your car.”

  “Oh, are you?”

  “Yes.” He stood up. “Come on, we’ll go back to your apartment and collect it. I’ll drive it back in for you tomorrow morning.”

  Patsy followed him to the door. It occurred to her that she had been hopping to his orders since yesterday afternoon. “Fortunately, I don’t need the car tonight,” she said a trifle acidly.

  “Fortunately,” he agreed with perfect composure, and held the door open for her.

  They took a t
axi to Patsy’s apartment. It was rush hour and the streets were clogged with traffic.

  “You don’t want to drive in this madhouse,” Patsy said as they got out of the cab. “Why don’t you let me fix you some dinner and you can leave when things have calmed down.”

  “Great,” he said instantly.

  Patsy laughed. “Don’t let me twist your arm.”

  He grinned. “Six months out of New York and I’m reverting to being a hick. This traffic gives me the willies.”

  Patsy felt a stab of irritation. She was not accustomed to men regarding her as a mere refuge from rush-hour traffic.

  “You’re sure I’m not keeping you from another engagement?” he asked as they walked toward her front door.

  As a matter of fact, Patsy was planning to cancel her date as soon as she could get to the phone. “Nothing important,” she said airily. “Lucky for you I’ve got a steak in the freezer.”

  “Lucky for me,” he repeated amiably, following her into the lobby.

  She left Michael fixing drinks in the kitchen and went into her bedroom to make her call.

  “Hi, Don,” she said to the man on the other end of the wire. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to break our date tonight.” She listened for a few minutes, her eyes fixed on a favorite landscape hanging on the pale golden bedroom wall. “I know,” she said at last. “And I’m terribly, terribly sorry. But the IRS is going to audit me, and I have to huddle with my accountant. It’s all too dreadful, Don. Fred died last night. He had another heart attack.” She listened again, her foot tapping lightly on the thick beige carpet. “Yes,” she said, “I know. I’ll call you when things straighten out a bit. Yes. I know you do, Don. All right. Good-bye.” Patsy hung up briskly and went into the kitchen.

  Michael had taken off his suit jacket and hung it over the back of a kitchen chair. In his shirt sleeves he looked much stronger than one would have supposed. Patsy, however, was not surprised. “Why don’t you take off your tie too?” she said. She picked up her drink and took a sip while he did as she suggested. “Do you remember the time you beat up Dean Walters?” she asked unexpectedly.

  He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and looked at her in surprise. “Dean Walters?” he repeated. “Your old boyfriend?”

  “The same.”

  “Yeah. Whatever brought that to your mind?”

  “Seeing you in your shirt sleeves,” Patsy replied with disconcerting candor.

  He looked startled at first, and then began to smile. “Dean Walters was a swine,” he said, taking a long sip of his drink.

  “He was,” Patsy agreed cordially. “And he wasn’t my boyfriend for very long.”

  “True.” He looked at her out of inscrutable hazel eyes. “You never could bear anyone who wasn’t kind.”

  “It doesn’t take a great deal of effort to be pleasant,” Patsy said lightly. She took the steak out of the freezer and put it on a countertop. Michael was looking around the kitchen.

  “Do you have a view of the park from here?” he asked.

  “Yes. From both the living room and the bedroom. Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the apartment.”

  The drapes in the living room were open and the big, high-ceilinged room was filled with natural light. It was a comfortable room, with bookcases, plants, and chintz-covered furniture. Michael walked around the room, his thoughtful gaze taking in the good but certainly not fabulously expensive furniture. Just as Patsy was starting to get her back up, he turned to her and smiled. “It’s a great room,” he said. “I like it very much.”

  Immediately disarmed, she smiled back. “The rest of the apartment will probably look very familiar. When Mother and Daddy moved to Arizona, I inherited all the furniture they didn’t want. Here’s the dining room.” And the dining room was indeed furnished with the Hitchcock set Michael remembered from her parents’ home. “I’ve got my old maple bedroom set, too,” Patsy informed him.

  “And the twin beds from the spare room. Mother didn’t want another big house, she said.”

  They were in the living room again and she gestured for him to sit down. He chose a club chair and Patsy subsided on the sofa, kicking off her shoes and pulling her legs up under her. Her red hair floated around her shoulders, glinting with copper and gold highlights. Her body was relaxed and unstudiedly graceful against the cushions, her flawless face clear in the afternoon light. She sipped her drink and gazed at him.

  She had never had any vanity, he thought suddenly. She was so beautiful that she didn’t need it.

  “How are your parents?” he asked, revolving his glass in his hands.

  “Pretty good. The move to Arizona was a good idea. Mother’s arthritis is definitely better.”

  “Do you miss them?”

  Patsy made a face. “I do. Isn’t it silly? I haven’t lived at home for years and during the week I never think about them, but come Sunday afternoon and it hits me that there’s no mother to make me leg of lamb and mashed potatoes. I visit when I can, of course, but it isn’t the same.”

  “No,” he agreed. “That’s one of the reasons Sally and Steve came back East, I think. Steve’s parents aren’t getting any younger, and Sally’s only family is me.” He smiled faintly. “And you,” he added.

  Patsy met his eyes and felt an odd little flutter in her stomach. “I’m glad she’s back,” she replied. “I missed her. I have other friends, of course, but there’s no one like Sally.” She laughed and tried to recover her balance. “When I think of my phone bills!”

  He didn’t say anything but continued to regard her, that faint smile still on his face. In order to cover her confusion, Patsy stood up. “Well, if we’re going to eat, I’d better get to work.”

  He stood up as well. “I’ll make a salad if you want.”

  “Great,” Patsy said.

  They prepared and ate the meal together in comfortable conversation, and by the time Patsy got up to make coffee, she felt as if she had the old Michael back.

  “Did I tell you that Fred knew who you were?” she asked, stirring milk into her coffee.

  He looked at her, his hazel eyes intent and narrow. “No,” she said. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “When I told him you used to be with the Justice Department. He said, ‘Oh, that Melville.”

  “I see,” Michael murmured.

  “He must have heard about you catching that organized-crime bigshot on tax evasion.”

  “He must have,” he agreed. His eyes were half-veiled by his lashes. “I’m surprised you knew about it,” he said.

  “Oh, I followed the whole thing in the papers. Sally told me you were the one who caught him.”

  “Yes. But my name never appeared in the papers.”

  “I know. But I knew, from Sally, who they were referring to when they spoke of the ‘young Justice Department accountant,’ you see.”

  “I see how you knew,” he pointed out. “What I don’t see is how Fred knew.”

  “Oh,” Patsy said blankly. “Well, maybe he knew you from something else.”

  “Maybe,” he replied blandly as he rose from the chair. “Everything was delicious, Patsy, but I’d better get going. I have to collect the stuff at the office first. Do you have the car keys?”

  Patsy obediently went to fetch the keys and then took him to the garage. “Will you be home tomorrow morning for me to return it?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Fine, I’ll see you then.” He opened the car door and got in. Patsy stepped back and watched as Michael competently backed the Volvo out of its space and proceeded up the ramp and out of the garage.

  “Yes, sir,” she said out loud, half in amusement and half in annoyance. Then she turned and went back upstairs.

  Chapter Three

  Patsy got up early Saturday morning and went for a run in the park. She was just getting out of the shower when the phone rang. Wrapping a towel around herself, she went into the bedroom to answer it.

  “Patsy?” said
the voice on the other end.

  She recognized it instantly. “Hi, Michael, What’s up?”

  “I’m afraid I have a rather hysterical client on my hands this morning. I’m not going to be able to get your car back to you after all.”

  He sounded quite matter-of-fact, not apologetic at all. “Oh,” Patsy said. “Well, when do you think you’ll be able to get in?”

  “Not this afternoon, either. But I was talking to Sally earlier and she wondered if you’d come out to dinner. She’ll meet you at the train. Then I’ll drive the car to Sally’s and you’ll have it to get back home.”

  Patsy stared at the phone in disbelief. But her voice, when she spoke, was quite calm. “You want me to take the train out to Sally’s so I can collect my own car, which you borrowed, because you don’t have the time to return it yourself.”

  “That’s right.” He sounded quite cheerful. “If you can’t make it, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for the car.”

  “I’ll come.”

  “Great. Sally said she’d give you a call this morning. See you later, then.”

  “See you later,” Patsy repeated and hung up in a slight state of shock. She had had no intention of going to Long Island. Why did I say I’d come? she asked herself. I don’t need the car this weekend. I should have made him bring it back tomorrow. She shook her head in bewilderment at her own behavior and went over to her closet. I suppose it does behoove me to be a little accommodating, she told herself as she chose slacks and a blouse. After all, it is very nice of Michael to take on my problem. And it will be nice to see Sally and the kids.

  She finished dressing and went back to the phone. She was going to have to break another date.

  * * * *

  She took an afternoon train out of Penn Station. Sally, as promised, was waiting for her at the Long Island station.

  “Hi, Sal,” Patsy said, giving her best friend an affectionate kiss.

  Sally smiled, her hazel eyes bright with pleasure. Strange, Patsy thought, she had never noticed that Sally’s eyes were the same color as Michael’s. Michael’s lashes, however, were definitely longer.

  “I’ve got the gang,” Sally said, gesturing to the two kids in the back car seats. She took Patsy’s overnight bag and put it in the rear of the station wagon, then got into the driver’s seat. Patsy slid in next to her and turned to grin at the children.