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phone number.
    “Why don’t you call him today, Binky,” I said, “and try to set up a meet for early next week. Please let me know how you make out.”
    “Sure thing, boss,” he said. “Thanks for the feed.”
    We parted in the parking lot and went our separate ways. I drove toward the McNally Building. But I changed my mind before I arrived and headed home instead, hoping mother had returned from her shopping trip.
    She had. I found her in our little greenhouse talking to her begonias, as usual. Mother’s plants have won several awards at flower shows and she is convinced speaking frequently to the begonias is the reason for their health and beauty. “They are happy plants,” she once told me—and I believe it. What living things could resist her TLC? Not me.
    Hobo was curled up on the floor in a patch of sunlight. He raised his head when I entered, gave me one tail thump, and resumed his snooze.
    “Mother,” I said, “could you spare a few minutes? I need your help again.”
    “Of course, Archy. What is it?”
    “You know Father is concerned about Mrs. Edythe Westmore’s dealings with her investment adviser. You heard him telling me to look into the matter but very discreetly. Mrs. Westmore is not to know of the inquiry.”
    “Well, I certainly won’t tell her,” mother said firmly. “If that’s what worries you.”
    “Not at all,” I assured her. “I know you don’t tattle. But I find myself temporarily stymied because I know so little about the Westmore family. I was hoping you could fill me in.”
    She continued watering the plants lightly with a bulb spray and I followed her down the narrow passages between rough wooden tables and racks.
    “As you know,” she started, “Edythe is a widow. Her husband died about five years ago, I think it was. I never met him but everyone says he was a very nice man. Always smiling. He fell out of a tree, broke his hip, and died of pneumonia. Isn’t that odd?”
    “Exceedingly,” I said. “What was he doing up a tree?”
    “Edythe says he just liked to climb trees. And of course he wasn’t a young man when he fell. I’ve heard gossip he was a heavy drinker and that might have had something to do with it.”
    “Quite possibly,” I said, making a silent vow never to climb a tree. “But I gather he left his widow well-off.”
    “Oh, yes. She has a beautiful home just south of us and drives a white Cadillac she trades in for the new model every year.”
    “What kind of a woman is she?”
    “Very outgoing. I do think she’s put on too much weight in the last few years but I must say it hasn’t slowed her down. She’s quite active in local charities, a little theater and music recitals.”
    “No shortcomings at all?”
    Mother paused to consider. “Well, sometimes I think she does brag too much.”
    “What does she brag about?”
    “All kinds of things. How much she paid for a new evening gown, the sale of one of her daughter’s paintings, a grant her son won—just a lot of different things.”
    “All relating to money,” I observed.
    Mother turned to look at me. “You know, Archy, I never thought of it. But you’re right; she does talk about money a good deal.”
    “What about her children? She has a son and daughter?”
    “Correct. I’ve only met them a few times, so I can’t tell you much. The daughter, Natalie, is in her middle twenties and single. She’s a strange young woman, very quiet and withdrawn. She does watercolors.”
    “Of what?”
    “Mostly flowers. But they’re not real flowers. They’re imaginary flowers, if you know what I mean. I saw a few of them. Some are pretty and some are just blah. In my opinion anyway.”
    “And Natalie—is she pretty or blah?”
    “Oh, Archy,” mother said reprovingly, “you shouldn’t talk that way. I wouldn’t call Natalie pretty but she has an interesting face. Almost foreign-looking. It’s hard to describe. I’m sorry I can’t be more exact.”
    “You’re doing fine,