A Perfect Crime by Peter Abrahams Page A

secret.
    “What?” said Nora. “What?”
    Francie tried to think of some breezy diversion, some bridge to another subject, but nothing came to mind. Nora’s eyes narrowed. “This divorce can’t come too soon.”
    “I don’t know about that,” said Francie.
    “Why not?”
    “Maybe if he had a job again, Nora, but right now it wouldn’t be fair.”
    “Fair? You said fair?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then maybe it’s time to consider a boyfriend.”
    “And that would be fair?” Francie asked—very close to the first question she would have asked if the real story had come spilling out.
    “You’re asking me if cheating on Roger would be fair?”
    “If you want to put it that way.”
    “That’s the way people put it.” Nora thought, drank more beer, thought again. “Got anyone in mind?” she said.
    “No,” said Francie, feeling Nora’s gaze and not even trying to meet it.
    A long silence followed. Nora poured the rest of the beer, looking at Francie from the corner of her eye. “Did I ever tell you about my grandmother?” she said.
    “Rose? I knew her.”
    “But did I ever mention the time I called her number, six months after she died?”
    “Why?”
    “Because there was something I’d meant to tell her.” Nora rose. “Good luck, kiddo.”
    “Good luck?”
    “With Anne,” said Nora. “In the tournament.”
    Francie went home. The phone was ringing. She picked it up.
    “Francie? Anne Franklin. Hope it’s not too late. They just called me with the draw—we play Friday at four-thirty, if that’s all right.”
    “Fine.”
    “And I was thinking maybe we could set up a practice match before that.”
    “Sure.”
    “I’ve got a court Thursday at six.”
    “Thursday’s out,” Francie said.
    “I’m sorry—that’s the only time they had.”
    “We’ll just have to wing it,” Francie said.
    Francie went to bed but couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking of Nora’s grandmother, kept hearing the chill in Nora’s voice when she wished her luck. That was unbearable: candor, as they said, was the soul of friendship, and she had let Nora down. There would have to be at least one change in Ned’s rules.

6
    T hursday. Francie spent the day in her office, preparing a report (negative) for the acquisitions committee. “. . . menstrual performance, coupled with an installation consisting of outsize Tupperware (e. g., casserole dish—10 ft. diameter) suspended from a . . .” She found she’d already typed that sentence, not once but twice, as a quick scroll through the text revealed. She couldn’t concentrate at all. This often happened on Thursdays, but this Thursday more than ever.
    The phone rang. Francie reached for it with dread. Once before Ned had called to cancel, at about this same time. But it wasn’t Ned.
    “Francie? Tad Wagner here.”
    “Yes?” She’d heard the name but couldn’t place it.
    “Your insurance agent—classmate of Roger’s.”
    “Oh, yes.”
    “How’re you doing?”
    “Fine, thanks.”
    “So I understand. I saw a nice article in the
Globe
.”
    “That was really about the foundation. I wasn’t even supposed—”
    “I’m impressed. But the reason I’m calling—now that this career of yours is taking off, have you given any thought to a term policy in your own name?”
    “A term policy?”
    “That’s the instrument I’d recommend in your case.”
    “Are you talking about life insurance?”
    “That’s my forte.” He pronounced it correctly—at least Harvard gave you that.
    “I have no dependents, Tad.”
    Pause. “What about Roger? Word is he’s . . .”
    What about Roger? Roger had supported her for years. And if they did end in divorce, she could change the beneficiary:
to Em
. “How much does it cost?”
    Tad described different options. Francie settled on a term policy for $500, 000 with Roger as beneficiary and hung up. Tad must have been desperate for business: that
Globe
article was six months old.
    Ten to four. Enough. She saved and