"I don't dislike her. I feel kind of sorry for her."

"Because?"

"Because she's entirely confused by the world as it is. She thinks it is like the one she has seen in the movies and the women's magazines. She's always been s.e.xy, and she thinks it matters in the world she's entered."

"Gee," I said. "It does in my world."

"I would guess that," she said. "But not in the world of the wealthy Boston lady."

"What matters there?"

"Money, pedigree, or the illusion of pedigree."

"How do you fare in that world," I said.

"I don't aspire to it," she said.

I nodded again. The room was full of well-dressed women getting coffee and salads. Most of them were young and in shape. Young professional women were a good-looking lot.

"Cute, aren't they," Clarice said.

I grinned. "So, would you put Mary Smith on a list of friends?"

She smiled. "I guess I wouldn't."

We were both quiet, drinking our coffee.

"Do you think she has friends?" I said.

"I think she thinks the people on her guest list are friends," Clarice said.

"And the people she knew in Franklin?"

"Low-cla.s.s would be my guess," Clarice said.

My coffee cup was empty. So was Clarice's. I remained alert to the panorama of young professional women.

"s.e.x apparently does matter in your world," Clarice said.

"Does to me," I said.

"Are you married?"

"Sort of."

"How can you be "sort of" married?" Clarice said.

"We're not married, but we're monogamous."

"Except for the roving eye," Clarice said.

"Except for that," I said.

"Live together?"

"Not quite."

"Love each other?"

"Yes."

"How long you been together?" Clarice said.

"About twenty-five years."

"So why don't you get married?"

"d.a.m.ned if I know," I said.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Pequod Savings and Loan was essentially a suburban bank. It had branches in Concord, Lexington, Lynnfield, and Weston. There was a home branch next to a gourmet takeout shop on the first floor of a good-looking recycled manufacturing building in East Cambridge, near Kendall Square. A clerk pa.s.sed me on to a bank officer who questioned me closely and pa.s.sed me on to the home-office manager. In less than an hour I was sitting in the office of the vice president for public affairs.

She was a good-looking smallish woman with thick auburn hair and large dark eyes and a wide mouth. She was wearing a pale beige suit. Her nails gleamed with polish. She had a big diamond on her right hand. An engraved bra.s.s sign on her desk read AMY PETERS.

"Would you care for coffee?" she said.

I had decided to cut back on coffee. Three cups in the morning was plenty.

"Yes," I said. "Cream and sugar."

"How about milk and sugar?" she said.

"Oh well."

She stood and went out of the office. The pants of her beige suit were well-fitted. On her desk was a picture of two small children. On a shelf in the bookcase behind her desk was a picture of her with Bobby Orr. There was also a plaque recognizing her as Pequod Person of the Year. When she came back in carrying the coffee, she brought with her the vague scent of good cologne. She gave me one cup and took the other around behind her desk and sat and had a sip.

"So," she said. "You are a private detective."

I had some coffee. It wasn't very good. I had some more.

"I am," I said.

She smiled. Her teeth were even and very white.

"And what are you detecting here at the bank?" she said.

"You know that Nathan Smith has died," I said.

"Yes. I understand that he was murdered."

"Do you understand by whom?" I said.

"Whom? What kind of private detective says "whom"?"

"Handsome intrepid ones," I said.

She looked at me steadily for a moment, as if deciding whether to buy me. Then she smiled a little. "The papers say it was his wife."

"They do," I said.

"And what do you say?"

"I say I don't know. Tell me about Nathan Smith."

"Whom do you represent?" she said and smiled, pleased with herself for saying "whom."

"I'm employed by Mary Smith's attorney," I said.

"So you are predisposed to a.s.sume she's innocent."

"Me and the legal system," I said.

"Oh... yes... of course."

"So what was Nathan Smith like?" I said.

"He owned this bank," she said. "His father owned it before him and I don't know how many generations back beyond that."

"Un-huh. So who owns it now?"

"His estate, I a.s.sume."

"Who's running it now?"

"Our CEO," she said, "Marvin Conroy."

"Does he have any ownership?" I said.

She nodded. "He's a minority stockholder," she said.

"How about you?"

She smiled. "I'm an employee."

"Any other minority stockholders?"

"Frankly, I don't know. I'm here for public relations. I'm not privy to all of the arrangements Mr. Smith made."

"It sounds like there were some," I said.

"If there were I don't know of them," Amy Peters said.

"But you might speculate?"

"Public relations directors don't get ahead if they make improprietous speculations."

"What kind of banker says "improprietous"?" I said.

She smiled and there was in the smile the same sense I'd had before, that she was considering whether I'd be worth the purchase price.

"Handsome s.e.xy ones," she said.

"I'm a detective," I said. "I already noticed the handsome part."

"And the s.e.xy part?"

"I surmised that."

"Good," she said.

I smiled my most engaging smile at her. If you have an ace you may as well play it. Oddly, Amy Peters remained calm.

"What sort of private arrangements could a banker make?" I said.

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Have you been with the bank long?" I said.

"Ten years."

"Before that?"

"I did PR for Sloan, Simpson."

"Brokerage house?" I said.

"Yes. Am I a suspect?"

I smiled. Just the routine smile. If the A smile hadn't overwhelmed her, I saw no reason to waste it.

"No."