A Fashionable Affair

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 ques
tions yourself, Miss Clark. Could you see me tomor
row?”

“Not tomorrow. I have a modeling session. Wed
nesday 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 din
ner 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 famil
iar 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 photo
graphs, 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 accus
tomed 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 shop
ping 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 chil
dren 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 num
ber. It was answered on the sixth ring.

“Sally,” Patsy said. “Thank goodness you’re in.”

“I was in the basement doing laundry,” her long
time 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 lolli
pop. It’s much too early.”

“You don’t understand, Sal. Fred is in the hospi
tal. 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 got
ten 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 Depart
ment 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 dealing 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 pic
tured 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 your
self.”

“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 nego
tiated 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 Hamp
stead. 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.