Mrs. Elizabeth Hartwell Pays the Price
Capturing human vulnerability is a true craft. When my pen touches the exquisite Italian paper of my personal ledger, it’s not just ink that transfers; it’s the entirety of a life observed, analyzed, and ultimately evaluated. On that particular afternoon, the first autumn rain began to cascade down the windows of my study, distorting the view outside as if seen through the sleepy eye of a drowsy deity. I had just settled into my chair, with the day’s letters neatly arranged in stacks on the desk in front of me, when the phone rang.
The voice on the other end was the cool, modulated contralto of Constance Malloy, proprietress of the high-end boutique which caters to the city’s more discerning women. Constance and I have a professional understanding: when a client of social standing finds herself in an awkward situation, particularly the sort of indiscretion that would unravel reputations if subjected to public view,
Constance serves as the guide, while I function as the tool.
“Mr. Masters,” she said, “I wonder if you might have availability this week for a rather urgent matter. It involves one of our longstanding clients, Mrs. Elizabeth Hartwell. Perhaps you know of her.”
I did, as it happened. Libby Hartwell: wife of the banking magnate, mother of two perpetually unimpressed adults, philanthropist, socialite, and a regular on the charity gala circuit.
Age: fifty, yet her disciplined makeup routine and meticulous skincare would make it difficult to find a single wrinkle. Standing at 5’7” when wearing flats, she always donned at least a kitten heel. Her hair was styled into a luxurious caramel bob, appearing both costly and enduring. Her upright and firm posture hinted at a childhood shaped by the refined settings of parlors and boarding schools along the Eastern Seaboard.
“I am at your disposal, Mrs. Malloy,” I said, scribbling a note in the margin of my ledger. “What precisely has occurred?”
She hesitated. “Mrs. Hartwell was discovered today with a silk scarf she had, ah, neglected to present at the counter. Our policy, as you know, is to address these things discreetly, given the clientele. Mrs. Hartwell herself suggested, indeed, requested, your particular intervention.”
There are two sorts of shoplifters: the desperate and the cultivated. The desperate are predictable, a matter of economic need, adrenaline, and bad impulse control. The cultivated, by contrast, intrigues me. For them, theft is rarely about the object. It is about the small spike of transgression, the calculated risk, the flex of power and privilege. It is, one might say, a hobby of the over-entitled. Or, in Mrs. Hartwell’s case, perhaps a late-blooming cry for rescue from a life spent in the stifling cocoon of expectation.
“Of course,” I said. “Send her to me at two o’clock tomorrow. I assume you have explained the process?”