Deadly Beloved(13)

“Deposit,” the young man said when he got to the window, after the girl in front of him, willowy and nervous, had finished her business and wandered off.

Patsy waited patiently. The teller did official-looking things with a computer and a print-out machine. The young man took his deposit slip and wandered off himself. Down at the third booth, the heavyset man was still counting out penny rolls. He had what looked like two more large brown paper grocery bags of them sitting at his feet.

“What can I do for you?” the teller asked Patsy. She was cute and perky and barely eighteen years old. She made Patsy feel faintly nauseated.

Even at eighteen I wasn’t that young, Patsy thought. She pushed the check across the counter along with her driver’s license and passport. The teller picked it up and went white.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh. Well. I don’t think I can cash this.”

“Of course you can cash it,” Patsy said patiently. “There’s more than enough money in the account.”

“Oh,” the teller said again. She was looking very frightened now, as if Patsy had done something crazy and might do something crazier at any moment, as if she expected to see a gun pulled out of Patsy’s black Coach bag. She tapped at her computer and stared at the screen. She said “oh” one more time and then, “well, yes, I see.”

“I would like as much of it as possible in one-hundred-dollar bills, please,” Patsy said. “I have only this bag to carry it in.”

“Just a minute,” the teller said.

The lines at the other windows had begun to get longer. The heavyset man was taking up all of one of the tellers’ time, and now Patsy was taking up time too. Only the teller in the middle was doing business as usual. People had begun to shift and cough and mutter. Patsy’s teller had gone around to the back of the bank to talk to a middle-aged woman at a desk. That must be the bank manager, Patsy thought, and went on waiting patiently. After all, she had all the time in the world.

Patsy’s teller left the bank manager at her desk and came back to her window. “I can’t cash a check this large on my own,” she said primly. “You’ll have to talk to Mrs. Havoric.”

“I have to talk to Mrs. Havoric just to get my own money out of my own checking account?”

“It’s for your own protection,” the teller said sourly. She pushed Patsy’s check and driver’s license and passport across the counter. “It’s to protect you against possible fraud.”

“I do have two pieces of identification,” Patsy said gently.

The teller looked past Patsy’s right shoulder. “Could I help somebody, please?” she asked in a larger voice.

Patsy stepped out of line. Mrs. Havoric was standing at the side of her desk, doing her best to look concerned but mostly looking nervous. She was a stout woman with thick legs and gray hair and a suit jacket buttoned all the way up the front, like a blouse. It was a cheap suit that wrinkled easily and didn’t fit right. Patsy walked over to the desk and handed over her check and her identification.

“I believe I’m supposed to get these authorized by you,” she said. Then she took the chair in front of Mrs. Havoric’s desk, pulled it back a little, and sat down. Mrs. Havoric did not look happy.

“Well,” she said. “Well. You must understand. This is very unusual.”

“People taking money out of their checking accounts is unusual?”

“People taking this much money out of their checking accounts is unusual, yes. Fifteen thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

“It’s mine.”

“Yes. Yes. Well. Your identification does seem to be in order.”

“Then I would like this money in hundred-dollar bills, if I could have it,” Patsy said. “I really don’t want too bulky a package to carry around in the city.”

“It’s very dangerous to carry cash like that in the city in any kind of package.”

“I understand that.”

“Do you mind if I ask what it is you want so much money for?”

“Yes,” Patsy said. “As a matter of fact, I do mind.”

Mrs. Havoric looked nonplussed. “Miss MacLaren. You must realize—”

“Ms.,” Patsy said.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Havoric said.

“Ms.,” Patsy repeated. “I’m married now. To a man named Stephen Willis. So I’m not Miss MacLaren. I’m Ms.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Havoric said.

“I suppose I could get my attorneys to force you to give me my money,” Patsy said, “but I don’t really see why I should have to do that, since legally you’re required to give it to me whenever I want it. This is a demand account.”