Clare didn’t bother to object. The Harvard MBA was bright and quite presentable, and he could carry on a conversation almost as well as Richard. And, whether her husband knew it or not, it just so happened that he owned his own tuxedo.
“As long as you know it won’t be the same without you,” she said lightly.
“I know,” Richard responded with a grin. “And I am sorry. But it’s the best I can do.”
“Well, if it’s your best,” she said, her warm brown eyes showing both reproach and forgiveness, “that doesn’t leave me with much of an argument, now does it?”
“That was the whole idea,” he agreed. “Oh, yes, and will you have Doreen iron me a blue shirt for the morning? I couldn’t find one.”
“Of course,” she said, which meant that she would be ironing the shirt herself, because the housekeeper, who got up at dawn to make Richard his breakfast, was already in bed.
When Richard came home too late to have dinner with the family, which in recent months had been as often as three to four times a week, the two women had an arrangement. Doreen would cook, and Clare would clean up the kitchen afterwards. And take care of any extras that happened to pop up. Like ironing a blue shirt, when an already ironed white or gray one would do just as nicely.
After fourteen years of marriage, she had learned that Richard had his peculiarities. But then, everyone has peculiarities, she knew, and since she also knew that he carried the enormous responsibility of running Nicolaidis Industries on his shoulders, she had always tried her best to accommodate him.
Except that she had hoped to get to sleep early tonight. She had an important meeting of her own, first thing in the morning, and she quite naturally wanted to be at her best. Clare sighed. Life used to be a whole lot easier. They used to use a laundry service over by the university that did excellent work, until Richard complained one day that they put too much starch in his collars.
“And be sure to tell her not to put too much starch in the collar,” he added, as he downed his last gulp of coffee, got up from the table, and headed for a little room at the end of the house that he used as his office away from his office.
Three
Erin finished checking out the last of her half of the Thornburgh employees on Tuesday afternoon. While there was nothing that turned up in the background checks of the people on her list to suggest that any of them would engage in the kind of harassment Clare Durant was experiencing, there was nothing that definitively told her they would not.
“I may have something,” Dusty said, hanging up the telephone at his desk across from hers. “Seems that one of Thornburgh’s own has a bit of a history.”
His partner looked up. “What?” she asked.
“A sexual assault charge.”
“Really?” Erin said eagerly, even as she was thinking that it couldn’t possibly be this easy.
Dusty nodded. “Allen Pinkus, twenty-eight years old, works as a graphic designer. Four years ago, a woman filed charges against him for attempted rape and harassing phone calls. He pled down. Did some counseling and some community service, but no time.”
Erin stood up. “Well then, why don’t we go have ourselves a talk with the gentleman,” she suggested.
***
Allen Pinkus was an engaging young man in his late twenties, with a ready smile and a scar that obliterated half of his right eyebrow. The detectives found him on the second floor of Thornburgh House.
“Despite what you think, it wasn’t rape,” he told them wearily when they inquired. “She was my girlfriend at the time, and she caught me making out with someone else, and she was just trying to get back at me for it, that’s all it was. But my lawyer told me I could go to jail if it went to trial, so I made a deal. I know it’s on my record and all that, but I didn’t think it would ever come up again.”
“What about the harassing phone calls?” Dusty inquired, referring to the file in his hands.
“I wasn’t trying to harass her,” he explained. “I was just trying to get her to tell the truth.”
“Well, would you mind if we put your story to the test?” Erin asked him.
Pinkus shrugged. “How do you mean?”
“No big deal,” she told him. “We’re just going to try a little experiment.”
***
The telephone rang in Clare’s office at a little after four o’clock. He had already called twice today, not counting how many calls were among those she had let go through to voicemail rather than answer, and although he rarely bothered her this late in the day, Clare found herself hesitating a moment before picking up.
“Hello, Clare,” the caller said.
“Allen, is that you?” Clare replied with obvious relief. “Your voice sounds funny. What’s up?”
“Not much,” the caller said. “I was just wondering when you were going to need the new layout for Bowman.”
Clare frowned. “Not until next week. Didn’t we already talk about that?”
“Oh that’s right, I’m sorry, I guess I forgot,” the caller said and hung up.
“I guess we can eliminate him,” Erin concluded, as Clare replaced the receiver.
“Allen Pinkus?” Clare questioned.
“On a voice changer,” Erin admitted.
“Good heavens, you didn’t have to go through all that nonsense. I talk to Allen at least once a day. I know his voice, changed or not. He isn’t the one.”
Erin shrugged. “Well, we had to check.”
“You know, if you’re going to be checking out all the people I work with, this could get awfully complicated,” Clare said thoughtfully, and with more than just a little concern. “And if anything happens that reflects badly on the company, it could also cost
