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  “Are you a shoplifter, Mrs. Jordan?” Meredith countered. “Is that what you are—a common, habitual shoplifter?” Before the woman could strike back verbally, Meredith softened her voice. “Female shoplifters of your age ordinarily take clothes for themselves, or perfume or jewelry. You took winter clothes for a child. The police have no record of any prior arrest on you. I prefer to think you’re a mother who acted out of desperation and a need to keep her baby warm.”

  The young woman, who evidently was more familiar with confronting adversity than compassion, seemed to crumple before Meredith’s eyes. Tears rose in her eyes and began to trace down her cheeks. “I seen on TV that you shouldn’t ever admit to doing anything unless your lawyer is present.”

  “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t admit you stole those things, you’re going to need one.”

  She swallowed audibly. “Before I admit it, would you put it in writing—legal like—that you won’t set the police after me if I do admit it?”

  That was a first for Meredith. Without consulting with the store’s attorneys, she couldn’t be certain that doing so might not later be construed as some sort of written “bribe,” or cause some other sort of ramifications. She shook her head. “You’re complicating this needlessly, Mrs. Jordan.”

  The young mother shuddered with fear and doubt, and then she drew a long, shaky breath. “Well, if I was to admit what I did, would you give me your word not to set the police after me?”

  “Would you take my word?” Meredith quietly asked.

  For a long moment the other woman searched Meredith’s face. “Should I?” she asked finally, her voice shaky with terror.

  Meredith nodded, her expression soft. “Yes.”

  Another hesitation, a long, strangled breath, and then a nod that she accepted Meredith’s word. “Okay—I—did steal those things.”

  Glancing over her shoulder at Mark Braden, who had silently opened the door and was watching the scenario, Meredith said, “Mrs. Jordan admits to taking the clothing.”

  “Fine,” he said tonelessly. In his hand was the statement of admission she’d have to sign and he handed it to the forlorn woman, along with a pen.

  “You didn’t say,” she told Meredith, “I’d have to sign a confession.”

  “When you’ve signed it, you may leave,” Meredith replied with quiet reassurance, and was subjected to another long, searching look by the young woman. Her hand shook, but she signed it and shoved it back at Mark.

  “You can leave, Mrs. Jordan,” he said.

  She grasped the back of her chair, looking on the verge of relieved collapse, her gaze riveted on Meredith. “Thank you, Miss Bancroft.”

  “You’re welcome.” Meredith was already walking down the hall and into the toy department when Sandra Jordan came rushing up behind her. “Miss Bancroft?” When Meredith stopped and turned, she blurted out, “I seen—I mean, I saw you on television news a few times—at fancy places, wearing furs and gowns, and I wanted to say you’re a lot prettier even than you look on TV.”

  “Thank you,” Meredith said with a slight, self-conscious smile.

  “And I—I wanted you to know, I’ve never tried to steal anything before either,” she added, her eyes pleading with Meredith to believe her. “Here, look,” she said, pulling her wallet out of her purse and removing a photograph from it. A baby’s tiny face with enormous blue eyes and an enchanting toothless smile gazed back at Meredith. “That’s my Jenny,” Sandra said, her voice turning somber and tender. “She got real sick last week. The doctor said I have to keep her warmer, but I can’t afford the electric bill now. So I figured if she just had warmer clothes—” Tears sprang to her eyes and she blinked fiercely. “Jenny’s father took off when I got pregnant, but that’s okay because me and Jenny—we got each other, and that’s all we need. But I couldn’t bear it if I—if I lost my Jenny.” She opened her mouth as if to say more, then she turned on her heel and fled. Meredith watched her rush down an aisle filled with hundreds of teddy bears, but what she saw was the baby in the photograph, a tiny pink bow in her hair and a cherub’s smile on her face.

  Minutes later Sandra Jordan was stopped by the security guard at the main door when she tried to leave the store. “Mr. Braden is coming down, Mrs. Jordan,” he informed her, and Sandra’s whole body began to quake at the horrible realization that she’d undoubtedly been tricked into signing a confession so they could turn her over to the police. She was sure of it when Braden walked up to her carrying a large Bancroft’s shopping bag, which she instantly realized contained the pink snowsuit, along with all the other evidence of her attempted theft—including a large teddy bear which she hadn’t even touched. “You lied,” she cried in a strangled voice as Braden held the bag out to her.

  “These things are for you to take home, Mrs. Jordan,” he interrupted, his smile brief and impersonal, his tone that of one who was making a speech he’d been told to make. In a daze of gratitude and disbelief, Sandra took the bag with Jenny’s warm clothes and a teddy bear in it and clutched it protectively to her chest. “Merry Christmas from all of us at Bancroft & Company,” he said flatly, but Sandra knew the gifts weren’t from him or a donation from the store either. Lifting her eyes to the mezzanine above, she searched through a blur of tears for a sign of the beautiful young woman who’d looked at Jenny’s picture with such poignant gentleness in her smile. She thought she saw her then—Meredith Bancroft standing in her white coat on the mezzanine, smiling down at her. She thought so, but she wasn’t sure because scalding tears were flooding her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. “Tell her,” she whispered chokily to Braden, “Jenny and I said thank you.”

  15

  The offices of the senior executives were on the fourteenth floor, situated on both sides of a long, wide, carpeted corridor that fanned out in opposite directions from the circular reception area. Portraits of all the Bancroft presidents hung in ornate gilt frames on the walls of the reception area above the Queen Anne sofas and chairs that were provided for visitors. To the left of the receptionist’s desk was the office and private conference room that had historically belonged to Bancroft’s president. To the right were the executive offices with secretaries seated outside them separated by functional as well as ornamental partitions of carved mahogany.

  Meredith stepped off the elevator and glanced at the portrait of James Bancroft, the founder of Bancroft & Company, her great-grandfather, twice removed. Good afternoon, Great-grandfather, she said silently. She’d been saying hello to him every day forever, and she knew it was silly, but there was something about the man with his thick blond hair, full beard, and stiff collar that filled her with affection. It was his eyes. Despite his pose of extreme dignity, there was daring and devilment in those bright blue eyes.

  And he had been daring—that and innovative as well. In 1891 James Bancroft had decided to break with tradition and offer the same price to all customers. Until that time, local customers everywhere paid lower prices than strangers, regardless of whether they came to a feed store or to Bancroft & Company. James Bancroft, however, had daringly placed a discreet sign in the window of his store for passers-by to see: ONE PRICE FOR EVERYONE. Sometime later, James Cash Penney, another enterprising storekeeper in Wyoming, had made the policy his own, and in the ensuing decades, it was J. C. Penney who got the credit for it. Nevertheless, Meredith knew, because she’d found it in an old diary, that James Bancroft’s decision to charge one price to all had predated J. C. Penney’s.

  Portraits of her other ancestors hung in identical frames along the walls, but Meredith paid them scarcely a glance. Her thoughts were already switching to the weekly executive staff meeting that lay ahead.

  The conference room was unusually silent when Meredith entered it, and the tension in the air was almost tangible. Like Meredith, everyone was hoping Philip Bancroft might give some clue today as to who his temporary successor was likely to be. Sliding into a chair near