Widow’s Walk

CHAPTER SEVEN

I went back to my list of names. A number of Mary Smith’s 226 other best friends didn’t know her at all. They could be handled by phone. Some weren’t available. Some needed to be called on. None appeared to be an ex-boyfriend. The last call I made was to a woman named Clarice Taggert, who was the director of corporate giving at Illinois Federal Bank. I met her in the bank cafeteria, where she was drinking coffee at a table near the door. I had described myself on the phone and she stood when I came in.

“You said you looked like Cary Grant,” she said.

“You recognized me when I came in,” I said.

She grinned. “You don’t look like a banker,” she said. “Want coffee?”

We took our coffee to a table. She was a strong-looking black woman in a pale gray pantsuit with a white blouse. She wore a gold chain around her neck. There was a wide gold wedding band on the appropriate finger.

“What can I do for you?” she said.

“Tell me about Mary Smith, Ms. Taggert.”

“Clarice,” she said. “You don’t vamp around much, do you?”

“I did that on the phone,” I said.

“Mary Smith was a very good hit for various charities.”

“She was generous?”

“More than that,” Clarice said. “She was generous with her own money, and active in getting other people to give.”

“How so?”

“She was always eager to throw a fund-raising party.”

“Like?”

“One of the things she did was to host a gourmet dinner at her elegant home in Louisburg Square, prepared by a celebrity chef from one of the restaurants. Sometimes there would be a celebrity there-sports, local television, politics, whoever they could snare. And people would pay X amount of dollars to attend. They’d get a fancy meal, and a house tour, and, if there was a celebrity, the chance to eat dinner with him or her.”

“That’s why she has a PR guy,” I said.

“You have to understand Mary,” Clarice said. “She isn’t very bright.”

“That I understand,” I said.

“And she has no training in being a rich upper-class lady.”

“Which she wasn’t,” I said, “until she married Nathan Smith.”

“Exactly.”

“And the charity work?” I said.

“Part of becoming a wealthy Boston lady.”

I nodded. Clarice drank some coffee. Her eyes were big and dark. She had on a nice perfume.

“Where’d she grow up?” I said.

“I think someone told me she lived in Franklin.”

“I asked her for a list of her friends,” I said. “She gave me a guest list, on which you are the final name. You a friend of hers?”

“Not really. Each year, the bank designates a certain sum of money to be distributed to deserving charities. I’m the one decides who gets it.”

“So she woos you for your money.”

“The bank’s money,” Clarice said. “But yes.”

“You wouldn’t put her on a list of your best friends.”

“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 sexy, 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-class 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.

“Sex 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?”

“Damned if I know,” I said.