A Fashionable Affair (2 page)

“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, unosten
tatious 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 mil
lion 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, real
ized 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.

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 lit
tle 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 vir
tually 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 med
ical 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 hos
pital 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 admit
ted,” 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 indica
ted and gave the rest to the woman, who smiled
coolly and departed. Patsy sat next to his bed.

“I have my first shooting on the new camera con
tract 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 mas
sive 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.”