"Well, that's nice. But you can't just put your whole life on hold, waiting for someday to get here. What if it never does, and then what do you got?"

"What am I going to tell her?"

"Tell her . . . tell her the bank has requested that all of its employees open savings accounts to 'improve investor confidence.'"

Max was a genius. It was as if Mr. Halloran or some executive were talking. That settled it.

Beatrice smoothed the lapel of her new knit top. It was covered in little paisleys and hugged her ribs.

"I like it." Mr. Halloran grinned. After an uncomfortable pause, he seemed to remember himself and turned toward his desk. "Have a seat. I need you to take a letter."

Beatrice obediently opened her steno pad. After practicing nearly every day with her Gregg shorthand manual on the bus to and from work, she had mastered a sloppy sort of shorthand. She was beginning to feel like a real professional.

"Attention: Mr. Bruce Paxton, Federal Reserve Board." He gazed out his window at the Cleveland skyline. "I understand your interest in our recent trading activity; however, I must remind you that the Gold Reserve Act of 1934 has been repealed . . ." Beatrice took notes while he lectured the addressee. She lost all track of the content of his words as she jotted them down in little swishing lines. She was almost able to keep up. He closed the letter with, "President Nixon may have abandoned the country to inflation, but we are banking on gold. We intend to fight this investigation all the way to the Supreme Court."

Her eyes widened as she jotted down the words. "Is someone investigating the bank, sir?"

"Hmm?" he replied as if he had forgotten she was there. "Uh, no, Beatrice. This is just a formality. Just tag it with my usual closing and type it up."

"Yes, sir." She stood to leave.

"Wait, Beatrice. There is another matter I'd like to discuss with you."

She sank back down to her seat. "Yes?"

"What I am about to tell you can't leave this room, do you understand? Can you keep a secret?"

She swallowed. "Um. Yes, sir."

"We have reason to believe that there is a mole working here at First Bank of Cleveland, someone who is trying to sabotage the company from within."

"A mole?"

"A spy." His eyes simmered darkly.

Beatrice waited for him to say more. According to the letter he had just dictated, the Federal Reserve was investigating the bank, and she wondered if that had anything to do with it. After a long pause, she had to ask, "What does this have to do with me?"

"You're friends with Maxine McDonnell, aren't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"I need you to find out what special projects she's working on with Mr. Thompson."

"You don't think Max has anything to do with this, do you?" Her stomach sank.

"Her? No," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "I just need to know what Mr. Thompson and his team are up to."

"And you think Max will tell me?"

"She'll feel more comfortable talking with you. Girl talk. You know." He winked at her. "Of course, I'm going to need you to keep this conversation strictly between us. Maxine can't know you're working for me."

He walked over to her chair and took her hand. As he gazed down at her, his smile deepened. His eyes darkened. "Can I count on you, Beatrice? Your loyalty will not go unnoticed."

The way he was standing over her, she panicked he would lean down and crush her with a kiss. She rose from her seat awkwardly and took a step toward the door. "Of course, Mr. Halloran."

"Randy," he said, leaning closer. He was still holding her hand.

She shook it firmly just as she'd been taught and then wrenched her hand free, making as if her notes needed sorting. "Of course, Randy. I'll see what I can find out."

"Wonderful. I'll expect a report sometime in the next two weeks."

She nodded and scurried to the door. "Okay, happy Thanksgiving!"

"Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Beatrice."

Back at her desk, Beatrice shuddered at the thought of what might have happened if she hadn't escaped when she did. Max had said, "The man's a shark." And now the shark wanted her to get information out of her one and only friend.

They had even shaken hands on the whole deal. It was self-defense, she protested, but now she was trapped. Her very job might depend on getting Randy what he wanted. But Max would know something was fishy if she started asking about secret projects.

"Hey!"

Beatrice let out a small squeak. Max had appeared next to her desk, as if on cue. She shook her head a little and tried to laugh casually. "Oh goodness, you snuck up on me." She wasn't fit to be a spy.

"You look nuts. I think we need a drink!" With that, Max grabbed her elbow and led her out of the office and down the street to the Theatrical Grille. "Say, what are you doing for the holiday tomorrow night?"

"Oh, I think my aunt has to work. She's always working the holidays." Beatrice remembered Doris complaining the week before about the drunks who would wander into the diner late at night on Thanksgiving to avoid spending time with their relatives.

"So are you going back home to Marietta?"

"No, my mother and I don't . . ." Beatrice trailed off, at a loss for words.

Max's penciled brows were raised, but her eyes were soft. "Why don't you forget your silly family and come home with me tomorrow?"

"Are you sure it would be all right with your family if I came with you?" Beatrice was overwhelmed by the generous offer, especially considering what a horrible friend she was turning out to be.

"Are you kidding? I come from an Irish Catholic family. I doubt they'll even know you're there."

Max pushed her way into the Theatrical.

Carmichael waved from the bar and rushed to their side. "Bellas! What can I get you today?"

Max kissed him on the cheek. "How 'bout a couple of screwdrivers? We're working girls after all-we need all the tools we can get!"

CHAPTER 10.

Thanksgiving morning, Beatrice woke up to an empty apartment. Aunt Doris had come in late the night before and left early. Beatrice was getting worried that she hadn't really seen or talked to her aunt in days. She was relieved she didn't have to lie about working late when Max insisted on having a drink at the Theatrical or about opening her own bank account, but it wasn't like Doris to come and go in the dark.

Beatrice peered over the arm of the couch at her aunt's room. The door was wide open, and the bed was made. Beatrice never went into her aunt's bedroom. It had been off-limits since she moved in. Even when Doris was gone, Beatrice always respected her aunt's wishes.

"You can live here as long as you follow two rules-keep your s.p.a.ce clean, and stay out of mine," she'd said with a grin and a smack on the back. Beatrice suspected that taking in her troubled niece was a stretch for Doris. She'd always lived alone, as far as Beatrice knew, and didn't care much for family. At least, the family didn't care much for Doris. Her mother wouldn't even speak her name.

Beatrice sat up on the couch and stretched. The lumpy cushions always left her feeling bruised. She pulled her hand-knit slippers onto her size 6 feet and padded across the cold floor to the tiny brown refrigerator. She filled a coffee cup with OJ and foraged for breakfast. The fridge always contained at least a six-pack of beer and a leftover pizza, but that morning it was nearly empty. One beer and a few slices of cheese. When she closed the refrigerator door, she noticed a small note on the Formica counter.

"Dear Beatrice, I have to work late tonight. Swing by the diner and wish your old auntie a happy Thanksgiving. Love, Doris."

Happy Thanksgiving, Beatrice thought, and looked around the empty room. She reminded herself to be thankful, but a familiar loneliness sank into her gut. It had been so long since the holidays were happy. Memories of turkey and bacon wafting out of her mother's shotgun kitchen had nearly faded away, but not quite. There was a time when her father would tickle her under her chin, and her mother would laugh. She was a little girl then. She felt her throat tighten. This year was supposed to be different. She gripped her mug of juice until the tears dried in her eyes.

Beatrice neatly folded her thin, flowered bedsheet and stashed it with her pillow in the hall closet as she did every morning. She returned to the sofa and peeked again into Doris's bedroom.

The room was tiny, barely big enough to hold the queen-sized bed and its painted iron headboard. The bed's lattice crown was twisted with iron flowers and vines, but the paint was cracked and peeling. A ratty patchwork quilt covered the mattress. The bed was shoved against the far wall next to a crooked window, and Beatrice could see the brick driveway through the yellowed sheers that hung from a rusted curtain rod. She inched her way inside.

A small dresser flanked the wall next to the door, leaving just a thin strip of worn wood flooring between it and the bed. The path led to a narrow closet door. It was slightly open, and the sleeve of Doris's flannel robe waved at her. Dusty knickknacks crowded the top of the dresser. In the corner, several necklaces strangled a porcelain cat. Beatrice couldn't remember seeing her aunt wear jewelry of any kind, ever. She stepped into the room and ran a finger over the gold chains and beads.

In the other corner, two young women smiled up at her from a black-and-white photograph. The girls looked strangely familiar. They couldn't have been more than eighteen years old with their happy, wide-eyed, and optimistic faces. It was the image of her own mother, Ilene, that Beatrice first recognized from a few buried photographs she'd seen growing up. The other woman must be Doris. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the photograph in disbelief. Doris looked beautiful. This younger version of her aunt was nothing like the stout, worn-out woman she had come to know. Her hair was neatly curled in a bob. She was wearing high heels and a dress.

Despite how unsettling it was to see Doris in a dress, eventually Beatrice found herself staring into her mother's eyes. Ilene smiled innocently up at her from the picture frame. It didn't seem possible that the girl in the photograph could also be the woman who raised her. Tears made the picture a blur. She carefully placed the photograph back in its dusty home.

Beatrice crept toward the closet. As she touched the door, cold fear inched up her spine, and she couldn't help but look over her shoulder. She had no idea what Doris would do if she caught her snooping. Wincing from the hard slap she could feel coming, she swung the closet door open.

A tightly packed pile of clothing threatened to collapse on top of her. It was as though twenty years' worth had been shoved inside. Coats, suits, dresses, blouses, linen bags-all were crammed onto the three-foot rod. Wire hangers were stacked one on top of the other. The floor and shelf above the rack were packed with shoe boxes.

Beatrice could not remember Doris wearing one thread of clothing in the lot. Her fingers itched to pull out an item and take a closer look, but she was certain she would never be able to fit it back into the mess. A glimpse of a mink coat teased her from the back of the closet. Knee-high leather go-go boots with three-inch heels leaned toward the front.

The Doris she knew wore the thick-soled leather lace-ups favored by nurses and cashiers. Her aunt's daily wardrobe consisted of polyester pants and white b.u.t.ton-down shirts. Beatrice couldn't remember her wearing anything else. There was no sign of Aunt Doris in the whole closet, except for the robe hanging on the inside of the door from a nail.

Beatrice carefully closed the closet and approached the dresser. She didn't know why she was being so quiet. Doris wouldn't be home for hours, but she found herself holding her breath as she opened the top drawer.

Granny underwear and socks were folded in straight piles. Beatrice averted her eyes and shut the drawer. She nearly lost her nerve and checked the door. There was no one there. The middle drawer was next. She found five pairs of polyester slacks and seven b.u.t.ton-down shirts. This was the Doris she knew and loved-or tried to anyway. That left the bottom drawer. She pulled on it, but it resisted. The drawer facing was plain pine and had a little carved flower in the middle. Beatrice scowled at the dainty rose as she struggled to wrench the drawer free, pulling again and again. It finally flung open, and she fell back on her rump.

Paper-reams and reams of yellowing paper were strewn about in the drawer. Beatrice lifted a page from the top of the three-inch pile. It was on letterhead that read "First Bank of Cleveland." It was a notice to a customer regarding their safe deposit box. Beatrice scowled and looked at it more carefully. It was a carbon copy. She could tell by the feathered ink around the edges of the typeface. The letter was signed "William S. Thompson, Director of Audits." Under his name were the initials of the typist, "DED." Doris? Had Doris typed the memo? Beatrice sat back, stunned, with the paper in her hand. Had she worked at the bank too?

Beatrice laid the letter back down in the drawer. Doris hated answering questions about the past. She never explained why she had left Marietta all those years ago, or why she and her sister, Ilene, hated each other. She certainly never mentioned working at the bank.

Beatrice thumbed through more pages, looking for some sort of explanation. Underneath sheets and sheets of bank letters, she noticed a different type of paper toward the drawer bottom. It was beige and soft, like cloth. She carefully lifted the stack of bank letters at a higher angle so she could get a better look at the parchment below. It was covered in beautiful cursive ink. She read upside down.

My Dearest Doris, The nights without you are killing me. I must see you again. Forget this terrible business, forget my wife, forget everything but our love. Every time I . . .

She couldn't make out any more of the letter without pulling it out of the drawer. She didn't dare try. Doris would notice if her things had been shuffled around. She closed the drawer, careful not to disturb any of the papers, and tiptoed out of her aunt's bedroom.

Beatrice sat on the couch, bewildered. Aunt Doris had been in love, or rather someone had been in love with her. That someone had a wife. Her head spun with the possibilities. Did the affair happen while Doris worked at the bank? Was the man some shark, like Mr. Halloran? Did she lose her job because of it? Beatrice glanced back at her bedroom.

Doris had secrets; she had a closet full of fancy clothes that she never wore and a drawer of letters. On top of the dresser, the black-and-white photograph sat in its frame, and her aunt was young and smiling.

CHAPTER 11.

Monday, August 10, 1998 That Monday, Iris didn't roll out of bed at 7:50 a.m. It didn't matter if she was a few minutes late; there was no one to check up on her in an abandoned building. No makeup or awkward business casual clothes were required. In her old T-shirt, jeans, and baseball hat, she left for work feeling like herself instead of her stilted impression of a grown-up engineer. It was almost like not going to work at all.

Her beater car pulled in front of the rolling garage door behind the old bank at 8:41 a.m. Iris got out and stretched leisurely. A block away, a young woman was rushing down the sidewalk in a suit, balancing a coffee and a briefcase. Iris smiled to herself and pressed the white b.u.t.ton by the loading dock entrance. Somewhere inside, Ramone heard the call and opened the door. She parked across all three spots in the loading dock and finished her cigarette, downed her coffee, and set out for another day of wandering the deserted hallways of the First Bank of Cleveland with her tape measure.

Clipboard in hand, she spent the morning tracing her steps down the hallways that circulated around the dead elevators on the third floor of the old bank, drawing a rough sketch of the floor plan. She stopped at a door that read "Human Resources" and pushed it open. It was another drab 1970s room with low drop ceilings, bad carpet, and avocado furniture. The broken windows were boarded up, so she flipped on the lights. She walked through the sitting area and behind the receptionist's desk. The drawers had been pulled open, and papers were strewn everywhere. A name plaque lay facedown in a file drawer. Iris picked it up and read "Suzanne Peplinski." She placed the name plaque back on top of the desk, as if Suzanne might be coming back soon. The center drawer of the desk still had a handful of paper clips and an unopened box of pens sitting inside it.

"What happened, Suzanne? You leave in a hurry?" she joked, and pushed the drawer closed. It was more creepy than funny.

Iris's shoes thumped past the desk and into the office behind it. The door read "Director of Human Resources Linda Halloran." The desk in the middle of the room was empty. Iris opened the drawers and saw that they were empty too. The bookshelf behind the desk was barren. There were no traces of Linda anywhere. Iris broke out her tape measure and plopped her clipboard on the desk with a thunk. It took five minutes to measure the room and mark up her sketch. When she picked her notes back up, her fingers left claw marks in the thick dust coating the desk. She wrote "Wash Me" next to her fingerprints, then brushed her hand against her jeans.

Iris left Linda's office and wandered over to a narrow file room. Eight feet by fifteen feet she measured, and marked the graph paper. There were ten filing cabinets lining one wall. Yellowed labels were still taped above each handle. Iris scowled at them. She set her clipboard down and pulled out a drawer. It was still full of manila folders. She pried one open and found a hand-typed pay stub.

"What the f.u.c.k?" she said under her breath.

The bank had shut down and left its records behind. Looking down the row of cabinets, she realized they probably contained detailed information on every person who worked at the bank. Iris glanced over her shoulder at Linda's empty office and pulled out another drawer. Haas, Haber, Hall, Hallock-there were no files for Halloran. Iris looked again but found nothing. Maybe Linda left long before the bank shut down.

"What about you, Suzanne? Are you in here?"

Miss Peplinski's file was right between Peples and Peplowski, where it was supposed to be. Iris yanked it out of the drawer and opened the folder. A small, yellowed photograph of a woman in her late forties smiled up at her with slightly crooked teeth. The attached form listed Suzanne's birth date, her address, and her social security number. Iris flipped back to the picture. Suzanne would have been sort of pretty if it weren't for the checkered blouse with the built-in bow tie and the frizzed-out hairdo. Maybe it was the flickering fluorescent lights, but she began to feel like the woman in the photo was looking back at her. She flipped the file closed.

Poor Suzanne, Iris thought. One day you're sitting at your typewriter minding your own business, and the next day you're fired. Suzanne probably showed up on time to work every day, like a good worker bee. And look what it got her. Maybe her bartender friend, Ellie, was right. The bank owners just chewed her up and spit her out when it suited them.

Iris left the file room and plopped herself down at Suzanne's desk. The chair was padded but not comfortable. Iris spun the paper Rolodex wheel. A flurry of dust scattered across the strewn papers that covered the fake wood desktop.

A coffee mug sat on the opposite corner of the desk next to an ashtray. At least Suzanne was allowed to smoke at her desk, Iris thought, and pulled her own cigarettes out of her field bag. She checked the ceiling for an active smoke alarm before lighting one. It was a tiny rebellion, smoking on the job, but Iris couldn't shake the feeling she was going to get caught. It wasn't professional.

"f.u.c.k 'em," Iris muttered, and took another drag but kept a watchful eye on the door.

The box of ballpoint pens in the center drawer caught her eye. She could always use more pens. It wasn't like Suzanne needed them. Iris picked up the box and gave it a gentle shake. Something hit the bottom of the metal drawer with a clink. It was a small bronze key.

"What the . . . ?" She picked it up. There was "547" engraved on one side. Surrounding the number were tiny letters that read in a circular arc "First Bank of Cleveland."

Iris sucked on her cigarette, turning the key over in her hand. The longer she studied it, the more she suspected that it was for one of the safe deposit boxes in the bas.e.m.e.nt vault. It was too small to be a door key, and then there was the number. She ground out the cigarette in the ashtray and pulled the drawer open wider. Ramone had said all of the vault keys went missing when the bank was sold. Maybe they'd been right there in Suzanne's desk all along.

She shoved aside the paper clips and highlighters in the center drawer and found nothing. She pulled open the other drawers one by one and shuffled through papers and hanging files. If she found all of the keys, she figured, someone would be overjoyed-Mr. Wheeler, the client, somebody. A twenty-year-old mystery solved by a lowly engineer just doing her job, going above and beyond the call. Maybe they would even let her open one of the boxes. They would track down its rightful owner, who would surely be some sweet little old lady down on her luck.

Before Iris had a chance to fully plan the hero parade through the streets of Cleveland, her hunt came up empty. She slumped back in the chair with the one key in her hand. Not ready to give up, she told herself there could still be more keys lying around in the building. Besides, she couldn't just put Key 547 back in the drawer and walk away. What about the little old lady? Maybe that little old lady was Suzanne Peplinski. The key was in her desk after all.