Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,38

Marvin to do her bidding. Figuratively as well as literally they served as pacifiers. At this moment Helene instinctively opened the third button of her blouse to expose her cleavage more fully. She put on her fun-loving face, and as she worked her way down the abbreviated staircase she added the final touch, the hip swing.

"What's the matter, honey?" she said, at the same time catching sight of the Saks' bill crumpled on the thick carpeting. "Did Saks make another little mistake?" Marvin flicked his head slightly, a boxer evading a left jab. He had, within his solid accountant's mind, constructed a flawless case. His profligate wife had obviously, perhaps even deliberately, overspent their available funds on personal luxuries. She had done this despite a November promise to try like hell to do better. She was wrong and she would be punished. He was the aggrieved party and would determine her fate. But the possibility of a bookkeeping error had not been considered. Big department stores are not supposed to make mistakes and yet, as an accountant, Marvin knew how often they could -and did. The possibility, however remote, destroyed the perfection of his attack. It would have to be erased before he could feel completely victimized and thus self-righteous once again.

"What the hell do you mean another mistake?"

"Oh, honey" – teasingly now – "you remember that time you were so angry that you got all mixed up. You called me a 'gold damndigger.' And how cute you looked when you had to apologize. They'd sent us your mother's bill by mistake. You remember that, don't you?"

It had happened, of course. Six years ago, as he recalled. He also recalled that Helene's explanations had seemed so absurd at the time that he had stopped just short of hitting her. And then Saks had admitted the error. And his widowed mother, whom he constantly held up as a model of economy, had actually run up the staggering bill. It was a multiple embarrassment and, in order to let his wife recover her self-respect, he had stood idly by while she embarked on her greatest buying spree. Wincing at the memory, he revised his strategy – after all, was not discretion the better part of malice?

"Are you telling me they screwed up again?"

Helene brushed her freshly dyed black hair away from her forehead with a calculatedly casual motion and bent over in front of Marvin to retrieve the Saks bill. She simultaneously inhaled, allowing Marvin a long look down the front of her blouse. She briefly studied one sales slip after another, and at the fifth she stopped.

"Here it is," she said. "I just knew there had to be a screwup."

Marvin studied the sales slip. It appeared entirely normal. It was for a dress that had been ordered by telephone. It had been ordered on the 27th day of November. It came to a figure of $125.

"And where's the screwup?" he asked.

"No dress, honey," Helene said. "No dressee, no tickee. Anyhow, there shouldn't be any tickee. I never ordered that dress and they never sent it."

"You sure?" Marvin remained skeptical. "I mean, that's kind of a weird mistake. They've got your name and address down there."

"What does that mean?" Helene moved closer to Marvin, close enough so that the biceps of his left arm rested against her right breast.. Then she applied the pressure. "Some dumb broad writes the wrong address and the bill goes out. You think Mr. Saks checks these things personally?"

"But that's not the point," Marvin said. "It's not just a mistake. It's money. You think they're just going to take my word for it?"

"Well, what can we do – take them back the dress I didn't get? Come on, Marvin. You were ready to tell me off – how about taking some of that anger down to Saks and show them what a big man you are? Your mother would have been down there ten minutes ago."

In the garage Marvin stepped through a transparant Plastic kite and climbed into his white Cadillac convertible. Batshit, he thought. As he gunned the car down the graveled street, Helene was upstairs looking at the $125 dress with the Saks label. She had once heard it said that, if he knows his client is guilty, a good lawyer tries to postpone the trial as long as possible. Witnesses can die; victims can change their minds; clients can take ill suddenly. Yes, given time, all kinds of things can happen. She shrugged, closed