Walter Bancroft, whom everybody knew was by far the richest man in town, didn’t reach out to me himself. His lawyer, James Blake, extended the invitation. Blake confirmed he reached the right agency—AAA Investigations—and asked if I might be free to meet with his client late that afternoon. He didn’t provide any details, but the prospect of handling a problem for a multi-millionaire was at least worth considering, so I agreed to meet.

The first thing Bancroft said was, “You’re a woman. I wasn’t expecting that.”

For too long and too often, I have encountered comments like that one and the implied conviction that I couldn’t possibly be as good as men who do what I do. I’ve grown accustomed to it, but sometimes I just can’t resist responding with a verbal slap on the wrist. “Wow,” I said, “a keen eye and sharp instincts. No wonder you’re so successful.”

James Blake shot me a menacing glance, but I just smiled at him. My snarky crack didn’t seem to faze Blake’s boss.

“Alice Abigail Anderson, Mr. Bancroft,” I said by way of introduction and extended my hand to him. “Most folks call me Ali.”

His firm grip was something of a surprise since Bancroft was well on in years and looked it—gaunt and skinny in a suit which might have fit once but now hung loosely. He held the grip a little longer than necessary, making a point of being stronger than he appeared.

Blake and I sat in chairs facing his surprisingly uncluttered desk. There was a phone, a pen and pencil set, a blotter, a small adding machine, and, dead center, a single file folder.

“James here tells me you’re a good investigator,” said Bancroft.

I nodded. “I’ve got a BA in accounting and a Master’s in financial crime. I handle skimming, phony accounts, fraudulent bookkeeping. Done well, it’s hard work, but I enjoy it. It’s like a challenging crossword puzzle, sir. Demanding, but extremely satisfying when you get it right. If you’ve got an accounting problem, I’ll find it and fix it.”

Blake seemed a little uncomfortable when he heard accounting problem, but Bancroft smiled coldly. “It’s an accounting problem in its own way. I believe my wife is cheating on me and, if she is and you prove it, there’s a great deal of money involved.”

I nodded, doing my best to conceal my surprise. I’d done a few net worth investigations at the behest of divorce attorneys, evaluating income and assets to determine exactly who got what, but in those cases the divorce proceedings were already well under way. This didn’t fit that model.

Blake shifted in his seat again and pointed to the folder on his client’s desk. “That’s a pre-nuptial agreement. It’s as rigorous as it can be and it’s been in place since Mr. Bancroft and Melody got married nine years ago. It has a rather unique clause.”

There was a hint of bragging in his tone. I figured it couldn’t hurt to stroke his ego. “I assume you’re the one who prepared that agreement?”

He nodded vigorously.

Bancroft leaned forward and slid the file toward me. “You can review it fully once we agree on terms. The clause James is so proud of is indeed unique, and James assures me it’s iron-clad. I have learned over the years not to doubt his word.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

“I will,” said Blake, “but first, we have a Non-Disclosure Agreement for you to sign.”

“An NDA,” I said.

He extracted a neatly folded document from a folder on his lap and handed it to me. “Yes, ma’am. Whether you agree to take this case or not, you must agree not to disclose anything about the pre-nup to anyone under any circumstances.”

I turned to face him and held his gaze. “I’ll sign it. Confidentiality is my stock in trade. But there’s a caveat. I won’t allow myself to be in contempt of court. I cannot and will not disobey a court order to testify.”

Blake smiled. “Just read it. The NDA applies to social interaction and any disclosures to any media of any kind. This matter will never end up in court, but if it does, you are free to obey a legitimate court order to testify.”

“Fair enough,” I said. I skimmed and signed the document.

Bancroft leaned back and relaxed into his chair. “That copy of the pre-nup is yours. You can review it in more detail after our meeting. The clause James is so proud of is the only salient feature you need to examine, so perhaps I can save you some time.”

“Of course,” I said. I was going to scour every essential document in the investigation thoroughly—I’d be a fool not to—but if the rich guy on the other side of the desk and his uber-confident lawyer wanted to mansplain it to me, so be it.

“If my wife is proven unfaithful to our marriage, I’m empowered to divorce her on that basis alone,” said Bancroft. “Should that be the case, she will forfeit any financial claim of any kind or amount. No alimony, no lump sum, no property. Nothing. She won’t even be allowed to empty her closet full of clothes I purchased or drive away in that expensive convertible I bought her to get around town.”

I nodded, took the file off his desk, flipped to the clause he and Blake cited, and read it carefully. I also read the clause which followed and held it up so Blake could see it. “I want to be sure I understand this one as well,” I said. “It appears to address the opposite circumstance.”

Blake nodded. “That’s right. Should Mr. Bancroft engage in unfaithful conduct, his wife is entitled to an uncontested divorce and a settlement of two and one-half million dollars. She will also become the sole owner of her clothing, jewelry, and other personal assets including her car.” He nodded toward his client. “However, I can assure you that that clause will never become relevant. Mr. Bancroft has been and remains entirely faithful to his spouse. We seek your services to confirm Mr. Bancroft’s suspicions.”

I looked across the desk and Bancroft nodded. “I’m not happy about this,” he said, “but I’m adamant about the terms of that document. I strongly suspect that Melody is…what do the kids say? Hooking up with somebody? If that’s the case, I’m going to invoke the clause and send her packing.”

“With an empty suit case,” I said.

He laughed without mirth. “Damn right.”

********************

After that first meeting, Blake and I emailed and phoned one another for several days to iron out the details. I asked for, and he agreed to, access to the Bancrofts’ checking accounts, credit card information, and bank statements. We also agreed that I would provide any evidence of infidelity to both Blake and Bancroft with supporting documents and citations.

Before we were good to go, I added a wrinkle. “I want you to understand,” I told Blake, “that I will not undertake to record, photograph, or otherwise document actual acts of infidelity. I won’t sit in some motel parking lot with a camera and I won’t kick in a door to catch anybody in the act.”

Blake agreed, although something in his tone made me wonder if he was disappointed. I didn’t care if he was; I’m not in the pornography business and I wasn’t about to give up my integrity, never mind my dignity, just to satisfy his, or his boss’s, salacious curiosity.

He agreed to that condition and then I quoted him my fee. It was larger by far than any I’d previously quoted for two reasons. First, I figured that anybody as rich as Bancroft could easily afford it, so why not? Second, something about the assignment made me uneasy. They hadn’t hired a traditional private eye to tail Mrs. Bancroft and catch her in the act, which I thought a bit odd. It wasn’t enough to make me pass on the job, but it did cause me to add an extra cushion of cash. If they were playing games with me, I’d at least be well compensated.

Blake agreed to the fee without hesitation and said, “I have one more detail for you unrelated to the terms.”

“Tell me.”

“A couple of weeks ago, I had lunch with a client and Melody was there, at the same restaurant.”

“So?”

“She was with a man. I didn’t recognize him, but their conversation struck me as intensely personal. You might want to check him out.”

“Duly noted.” His conspiratorial tone annoyed me but I let it slide. “Unless there’s anything else, I’m going to get to work.”

“Fine. Mr. Bancroft and I hope this can be wrapped up quick and clean.”

Melody Bancroft had her own separate checking account which was refreshed once a month with a sizable transfer from one of her husband’s multiple personal accounts. From my perspective, she was more than well-to-do—although, the “expensive” convertible her husband had referenced was, in fact, a basic Ford Mustang. Overall, she had access to a lot of money but managed to save as much or more than she spent most months. I admired that. Her basic finances revealed a sensible, responsible, and cautious woman with generous and frequent charitable giving.

Her three credit card accounts were always paid in full, but the total amounts due were not extravagant. She favored using her bank debit card—basically, paying in cash—over credit. She lunched out often, maintained a health club membership, and regularly scheduled yoga studio appointments. She took some tennis lessons but that expenditure vanished after a few months. She did not play golf, a choice of which I, who finds the game to be silly and an extravagant waste of time, approved.

Two facets of her finances made me curious. One was the total absence of grocery and household expenditures. A bit of searching uncovered a Bancroft household account maintained by a housekeeper and funded by Walter which paid for food and beverages as well as upkeep including maintenance and repairs. The other facet appeared when I dove into an even more detailed exam. Months before my meeting with her husband, Melody Bancroft started lunching at the same restaurant every Tuesday. I knew the restaurant, Pepino Paladino’s Bistro. It was a favorite of mine for occasional lunches or when I found myself working so late that preparing dinner at home was out of the question. Her bills at the place suggested that she was either eating a lot more than normal or regularly paying for somebody else’s lunch. The location aligned with James Blake’s tip so I called him and he confirmed that the Bistro was where he’d seen Melody in the company of a man.

I spent some time going over all the other financial documents Bancroft and Blake provided. They didn’t include Bancroft’s business records, an omission which Blake was willing to correct if, but only if, it became necessary. I scanned Bancroft’s several personal bank accounts, a fistful of credit cards, some personal investments, and a modest Bancroft Foundation which he funded annually. I learned that he was a member of The Squires, an exclusive men’s club which occupied two floors of a downtown high rise, he played golf once a week (phooey!), and he subscribed to an exclusive wine club. The big picture made it clear that on any given day, he was worth more than most families earn in a lifetime. Far more.

I didn’t give Bancroft’s accounts the same level of focus I’d invested in his wife’s, but I was satisfied in my analysis. I set his material aside and left my office, walking to a park not far away. I strolled the paths of the park for nearly an hour, reviewing what I’d seen and determining how best to use what I knew to accomplish the assignment Bancroft was paying me handsomely to fulfill. When the sun faded and the air grew chilly, I returned to my desk and picked up the phone.

“Pepino Paladino’s Bistro. How may I help you?”

“Good afternoon,” I said. “I’d like to make a reservation, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’d like a single seat at the end of the counter for Noon next Tuesday.”

“A counter seat?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, ma’am. Counter seating is first come, first served.”

“You’re the maître’d?”

“No, ma’am. I’m the hostess.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sarah.”

“Well, Sarah, It would mean a lot to me if you can find a way to hold just one counter seat. I’m working on an investigation. It’s hard enough being an investigator and let me tell you, it’s even harder when you’re a woman. You know how that goes, right? Women’s place is in the home and all that bullcrap. I’d be really grateful if you could use a little girl power to help me out.”

There was a pause and a brief giggle. “I know what you mean,” she said. “They told me I was a good waitress but they wanted a guy to host. Took me more than a year to show them I could handle it.”

“Men. What can we do? Would a twenty-dollar bill help smooth the way?”

“Tuesday’s usually a slow lunch day,” Sarah said, “I can’t promise, but I’ll do what I can.”

“I’m sure that will be good enough. Thank you.”

The man who joined Melody Bancroft was several years younger. He was fit, well dressed, and rather handsome. She was seated when he arrived but rose to greet him. It was a friendly but not especially romantic exchange. They sat opposite one another and ordered.

A mirror hung behind the counter where I sat, so I could nibble at my sandwich and keep an eye on them without being conspicuous. What intrigued me was what they didn’t do. The two were comfortable and relaxed, but they didn’t hold hands, didn’t whisper, and there wasn’t much laughter. They appeared to be engaged in a serious conversation. Nothing suggested a tryst was on their agenda.

When they finished, they stood and walked toward the hostess station. I set my sandwich down and swung around on my stool to watch as Melody paid the bill. When they moved toward the door, I slid off my seat and followed. At the door, she shook her companion’s hand. I walked past, headed to the restrooms just inside the entrance, moving slowly enough to hear him say, “Thanks for lunch. You’re doing well and making progress. Keep it up.”

She smiled and said “Thanks. If I’m making progress, it’s because of you. Take care of yourself, okay? I’ll see you next week.”

A familial hug? A handshake? Making progress? If Melody was having an affair, it had nothing to do with her Tuesday lunches. And while I know all too well that anybody’s financial data will inevitably yield a complete look at who they are and what they do—after all, a checkbook is a personal diary with numbers—I hadn’t seen anything in her records which suggested a romantic involvement. She didn’t book hotel rooms. She didn’t spend money on lavish gifts. She didn’t pay rent on a studio apartment or some other suitable love nest.

All that led me to wonder exactly what Bancroft and Blake expected me to uncover. With the sole exception of Blake’s “lead” about the restaurant, neither man said anything to support their suspicions, yet both seemed quite confident that something was going on. Why?

After I finished my lunch and paid the bill, slipping Sarah a twenty as promised, I headed back to my office at a leisurely pace. I analyzed what I’d seen in Melody’s finances and wondered if, somehow, I missed something.

Back at my desk, I opened the Bancroft pre-nup document and read it again, carefully examining the two clauses governing the consequences of infidelity. Nothing jumped out, but I had an unsettling, persistent sense that I was, indeed, missing something. I sat back and sipped a tepid cup of coffee, letting my thoughts drift.

Eventually, a light dawned. Although my door was closed and my secretary was still on his lunch break, I spoke to myself aloud: “Alice Abigail, I believe you’ve been played.”

********************

I searched for one specific item in Melody’s checking account. Then, I pulled out the summaries of Walter Bancroft’s finances and spent the entire afternoon (and a good portion of the evening) studying them. Before I quit for the night, I affixed a neon green Post-It on my computer screen. It displayed two phone numbers.

I returned to my desk very early the next morning, went back over the accounts I’d studied, and took copious notes. At about ten o’clock, I made the first call. “Mrs. Bancroft, my name is Alice Anderson. I’m a forensic accountant, and though I understand I’m a stranger to you, I can assure you that what I wish to discuss is of considerable interest to you. Do you have a few moments to chat with me?”

It turned out to be more than just a chat; we talked for more than an hour. As soon as we were done, I dialed the second number. “Mr. Blake, Ali Anderson here. I believe I’ve found some evidence that you and your client will want to know about. Is there a chance the three of us can meet today?”

“I’ll set it up,” he said, sounding pleased.

We sat as we had during our initial meeting, Blake and I in chairs facing Bancroft’s desk.

Bancroft said, “Well, Ms. Anderson, what can you tell us?”

I smiled and opened the notebook which contained my extensive notes. “Well, there is certainly something going on which, as you originally told me, involves a great deal of money.”

Blake smiled and relaxed back in his chair. Bancroft folded his hands on his desk and raised both eyebrows. “Details, please,” he said.

“Yes, sir. Let’s begin with the tip Mr. Blake provided.”

Bancroft frowned and shot a look at his lawyer. “What tip?”

“Mr. Blake told me that he’d seen your wife engaged in an intense conversation with a man. They met at a restaurant.”

“Ah-ha!” Bancroft nodded vigorously. “Great. Who is he?”

“He’s her therapist,” I said.

“What?”

“He’s a psychotherapist, Mr. Bancroft. They meet once a week over lunch. She pays by check. She also buys his lunch.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“I’m not surprised to hear that,” I said. “For quite some time, your wife has been very despondent about your marriage. Several things are troubling her, but chief among them is the fact that you mostly ignore her. She tells me she’s tried on several occasions to discuss her unhappiness, but you always brush her aside. She hasn’t told you she’s in therapy because she’s also afraid that you’ll use her therapy as an excuse to dump her. That’s why the payments are identified as ‘healthcare’ in her checking account, just in case you went snooping. Mainly, she feels abandoned in her own home and she’s been seeing a therapist to learn how to cope with that.”

Bancroft went through a range of emotions in a matter of seconds. He glowered at me, stared angrily at Blake, and then showed, very briefly, a flash of fear. “How do you know this?”

“Well, I analyzed her financials, of course. But I also spoke with your wife at length. She confided in me.”

Blake sat bolt upright. “You spoke with her? How dare you? That’s a direct violation of the non-disclosure agreement.”

I smiled. “Of course it isn’t. It’s not possible to violate the NDA if the person I spoke with already knows about the pre-nup. I didn’t disclose anything to Mrs. Bancroft which she didn’t already know. If you need proof, check your copy of the pre-nup. She signed it.”

Blake looked like he wanted to respond but didn’t; he had no grounds to challenge me. Bancroft pointed at me and raised his voice. “What the hell does this have to do with what we asked you to investigate? My wife’s attitude about our marriage—if what you say is true, and I’m not sure I believe you—has nothing to do with infidelity.”

I flipped a page in my notes and met his angry stare. “Of course. Infidelity. I’ll gladly explain that.”

“You better,” he said. “Right now.”

“Let’s begin with The Squires Club.”

“What? You’re not making any sense.”

“It will all make sense soon enough. I assume you’re aware of how The Squires Club handles its membership accounts?”

“Of course I am. I’m a founder.”

“I know that. But, since I don’t believe Mr. Blake is a member, I’ll explain it for him.” I turned to face Blake. “There’s an annual membership fee, due and payable in January. After that, all charges—drinks, meals, use of meeting rooms or the board room—are billed to the members monthly. When Mr. Bancroft dines at the club, all he does is sign the tab; the club bills him for all charges at the end of the month. He pays on time.”

Blake nodded, but he looked very puzzled. “So what?”

“Well, the records you provided indicate that Mr. Bancroft dined at the club at least once a week, and his end-of-month statements confirm that.”

Blake frowned. “Again, so what?”

“So, starting roughly three months ago, Mr. Bancroft stopped his weekly dinners—he hasn’t had a meal there since.”

Bancroft lunged forward and leveled a finger at me. “That’s enough. This is outrageous. You’re fired.”

“I agree, more or less. When this meeting ends, I won’t be working for you any longer. But our agreement requires that I share what I learned with both of you, so I’m honor-bound to do that. Do you want to tell Mr. Blake what’s going on, or does he already know?”

“Get out,” said Bancroft.

“Not quite yet,” I said. I turned to face Blake. “Do you know? I’m just curious.”

Blake stared at me, his jaw slack, and then looked at his client. If he was seeking direction, he wasn’t going to get it. Bancroft glared at both of us and said nothing.

“It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other,” I said. “But, for the record, at about the same time Walt here stopped dining at his club, he started dining somewhere else.”

Bancroft sank back in his chair and groaned.

“The King’s Castle. It’s a hotel. They have a restaurant, but Mr. Bancroft orders room service. The charges for his room and the meals appear on one of his credit cards and they always include two dinners, not one.”

Bancroft swore aloud. Blake slowly shook his head and, for a moment, I thought he might faint.

“You boys hired me to prove that Melody was having an affair so you could beat her to the punch. If I found what you wanted, she’d get nothing. If he divorced her, Mr. Bancroft wouldn’t have to honor the clause covering his own infidelity. But you underestimated me. I told you when we first met I’m good at what I do, and I wasn’t lying. The proof is all in your own accounts, Mr. Bancroft, and once I figured out what you two were doing, all I had to do was find the numbers to back it up. You’re playing around and paying room and board for it. The bottom line is that Mrs. Bancroft isn’t having an affair, but her husband certainly is.”

Neither man spoke. I gently closed my notebook.

“You can’t fire me, Mr. Bancroft. I’m resigning. I have a clear conflict of interest. The good news is, I won’t be submitting an invoice and you won’t have to pay a dime for my services.”

“I don’t understand,” said Blake.

“I do,” said Bancroft.

I stood and walked toward the door. “Mr. Bancroft’s a step ahead of you, James. He can’t fire me because Melody has retained my services. I now work for her. She’s about to come into a lot of money, an extensive wardrobe, a lot of high-priced jewelry, and a Mustang with very low mileage. She’ll have no trouble covering my fee.” I pulled the door open before I turned and smiled at the two stunned men. “I’m want you both to know that Mrs. Bancroft will pay me less than half of the fee I quoted you. On the other hand, helping Mrs. Bancroft start a new life is worth far more than the money I was going to get from you boys.”