“I didn’t think it had anything to do with the firm,” Clare replied, acutely uncomfortable. “That’s why I didn’t mention it.”
“Well, I hope you’re right, and I hope this whole thing can be cleared up quickly and quietly,” Thornburgh said. “You’re far too valuable an employee here, you know, and I wouldn’t want anything to interfere with your excellent work.”
Glenn Thornburgh was a rather formal man, and this was the first time in a long time that Clare could remember him ever saying anything to her about the quality of her performance.
“I appreciate that, and I’m sure this will all go away soon,” she murmured. “But even so, I promise that I won’t let it interfere in any way with my doing my job.”
“That goes without saying,” Thornburgh assured her kindly enough.
Clare currently handled six writers. They were not necessarily the high visibility authors that the bigwig editors liked to keep for themselves, perhaps, but they were among what were called the bread-and-butter writers, the ones who churned out mid-list books on a regular basis and whose earnings could be counted on to pay the bills, month in and month out. And Clare had been keeping them happy for four years now.
“I thought Thorny was going to fire me on the spot for causing trouble,” she told Nina later, using the nickname some of the employees had for the head of the company.
“Now why would he do that?” Nina responded. “You didn’t start this.”
“Maybe not,” Clare conceded, “but I feel as though it’s my fault.”
“Poppycock!” Nina was adamant. “Whatever is going on here, this guy is preying on you -- not the other way around -- and don’t you forget that.”
“I know,” Clare said. “But you really shouldn’t have called the police, you know.”
“Why not?” Nina responded with a shrug. “You weren’t going to do it, and someone had to.”
“You’re a good friend, you really are,” Clare said sincerely. “But by making my private life public, you’ve exposed my family to what is probably going to be a lot of unpleasant gossip.”
“That was certainly not my intention,” Nina assured her.
“I know it wasn’t,” Clare allowed. “And I know you didn’t mean to cause me any embarrassment. But you acted without thinking things through, and now I’m stuck with having to go home and deal with the consequences.”
“If I’ve caused you any embarrassment, or if I’ve made things awkward between you and Richard in any way, I’m certainly sorry,” Nina said. “You’re right, I wasn’t thinking about that. Frankly, I was thinking about your safety.”
“I know you were,” Clare acknowledged with a little smile. “And that’s why we’re going to go right on being good friends.”
“In that case,” Nina said, “you should have told them.”
“Who? What?”
“Those two detectives.”
“I should have told them what?”
“About the water.”
“The water?” Clare looked at her friend with a puzzled frown. “Why should I have told them about the water? That was last spring. How could it possibly have anything to do with what’s going on now.”
“How do you know it doesn’t?” Nina countered.
“Well, I guess I don’t know for sure,” Clare had to admit. “But I don’t see how it could.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Nina told her. “You should tell the police everything. Isn’t that what Detective Hall said? You should tell them everything, and then it’s their job to figure out what has to do with what, and what doesn’t.”
***
“Clare, where’s my blue pinstripe?” Richard called over the intercom from the master bedroom of their spacious home, a little after nine o’clock that evening.
Clare was in Peter’s room, at the other end of the second floor, reading to the ten-year-old. The children had long since outgrown bedtime stories, but the ritual had hung on, Rumpelstiltskin having given way to the likes of Harry Potter, and the half hour she spent with each of them at the end of the day had become a pleasant little interlude that all three of them looked forward to.
“It went to the cleaner’s last week, but it should be back by now,” she responded to her husband, pressing the little button on the wall-mounted gadget he had insisted on installing in every room of the house. “Have you looked in the closet?”
“Of course I looked in the closet, and it isn’t there,” he replied. “That’s why I’m asking you.”
Clare gave Peter a quick hug. “You remember where we were, and I’ll be right back,” she told him.
She stood up, set the book on the nightstand, and padded down the carpeted hallway of the fifteen-room Laurelhurst dwelling that had been her home for the past ten years.
North of downtown and east of the University district, the lakeside part of Laurelhurst was a quiet and relatively crime-free enclave of elegance. It may not have been The Highlands, but it nevertheless offered rolling hills and winding roads and well-tended gardens and estate-sized lakefront homes, occupied by families who didn’t mind parting with some of their wealth if it brought them peace of mind, a good investment, and the neighbors of their choice.
The Durant home was no exception. The timbered stucco and stone structure sat graciously amidst two-plus acres of velvet lawns, dotted with flowering gardens, sculptured hedges, and splendid conifers, that rose ever so slightly from the road, and then sloped gently down to the lake. The house was reached by means of a long circular driveway, and featured a three-car garage and a swimming pool.
It was not Clare’s style to live like this, in such lavish surroundings, separated from neighbors by high privacy hedges, and privy to the awe-inspiring backdrop of Lake Washington and the Cascade Mountains beyond. She had been raised in a modest area of Ballard, by parents who taught her the value of saving money rather than spending it. But it was Richard’s style. Or rather, it was the style to which he had long aspired and then rapidly become accustomed.
Entering the mauve and gray bedroom suite, she turned right and walked into the room-sized closet, reached to her left,
