In Self Defense by Susan Sloan (phonics books .TXT) 📕

take my children to be tested, of course,” Clare told her.  “Thank God they were all right.  Then I went home and cleaned out my house.  I mean I threw out everything that wasn’t nailed down, not just any pesticides we had around, but anything that could even remotely have become contaminated.  I cleaned out the kitchen, the bathrooms, the garage, the shed.  I even got rid of things the doctor said wouldn’t have arsenic in them, just to be sure, and then I had the whole house scrubbed from floor to ceiling and fumigated.”

“What about your husband?”

“He was fine,” Clare said.  “And so was our housekeeper.  They were both tested.”

“And were you treated?”

“Of course,” Clare confirmed.  “I had to go in for a whole series of injections.  It was the middle of June before my doctor was satisfied I was poison-free.”

“Chelation therapy,” Dusty murmured.  “Did you ever find out what was contaminated?”

Clare reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out a bottle of spring water.  “We think this was the culprit,” she said.  “I must go through half a dozen of them a day, and I’m the only one in my family who does, which is probably why nobody else in the house got sick.   I have three or four cases delivered every week, and I guess I just must have gotten a bad run of it.  I didn’t know, but apparently it’s not uncommon to find arsenic in water, and I must be hypersensitive to it.  Of course, I switched brands immediately, and I’ve had no problems since.”

“You wouldn’t still happen to have one of those bottles lying around, would you?” Dusty inquired, knowing it was probably too much to hope for.

“Good heavens, no,” Clare replied with a shudder.  “Like I said, I got rid of everything.  So you see, Nina brought it all up for nothing.  It didn’t have anything to do with your stalker.” She stared at the detectives for a moment.  “That is, I mean . . . it couldn’t have . . . could it?”

***

“I think we should check with the water bottler, just to make sure,” Dusty said as he and Erin stepped into the antiquated elevator and waited for it to make its excruciatingly slow descent to the first floor.  “Cross the t’s and dot the i’s.”

Erin nodded.  “And if we can rule out any suspicious arsenic connection, then I think we should assume that these are two unrelated incidents and we really are dealing with the stalker.  Which means, if he’s sticking to the same pattern he’s used before, he’s going to be calling her at home for a couple of weeks or so, and then I think he’s going to try to grab her.”

“We should ask for a tap on her home phone,” Dusty said.  “After that, I think we should talk to the captain about getting enough people on her.”

“This is the first real chance we’ve had in six years to get this guy,” Erin said thoughtfully.  “And with those two other cases still sitting on the shelf, somehow I don’t think we’ll have much of a problem getting all the backup we need.”

“And another thing,” Dusty said as they exited the building and headed for their car, “She didn’t want us do it, but we’re going to have to talk to her husband.”

Erin nodded.  “I know.”

***

At three o’clock that afternoon, the detectives were shown into Richard Durant’s private office.  It was the same spacious corner of the seventeenth floor that once belonged to Gus Nicolaidis.  In Gus’s time, however, the place was filled with plain, serviceable furniture.  Now, it boasted an impressive collection of antiques.

It was Dusty who took note of the Elizabethan armoire and the Louis IV desk, while Erin focused on the man behind it.  He appeared somewhat younger than his forty-eight years, with perhaps only the slightest suggestion of a middle-aged paunch beginning to set in.  He was not exactly what she would consider handsome, at least not in the traditional sense of the word, but he did have a striking look, with angular features, dark hair that was only lightly frosted with gray, and intense blue eyes.  And those eyes were now staring at the two police officers from a face that had gone suddenly quite pale.

“What are you saying?” he gasped.  “That someone is stalking my wife?”

“Unfortunately, that’s the way it’s looking right now,” Dusty was forced to say.

“But why?  Why would anyone want to harm Clare?  It doesn’t make any sense.  She’s a wonderful woman, a perfect wife, and the best mother imaginable.  And she’s totally devoted to this community.  She hasn’t an enemy in the world.  Everyone loves her.”

“Maybe for all those reasons, and maybe for none of them,” Dusty told him.  “Stalkers, especially those like the one we believe we may be dealing with here, don’t always think the way normal people do.  Because of who they are and how their lives have shaped them, it might not be unusual at all for them to target someone specifically because that person is loved and admired by others.”

Richard got up from behind the desk and walked over to the wall of windows that looked out toward the Puget Sound.

“It’s terrible sometimes, isn’t it, how we tend to take people for granted?” he murmured, perhaps more to himself than to the two detectives.  “Clare’s just always been there . . . not just for me and the kids, but for everyone.  I’ve never thought of her not being there.”

“Well, we’ll do our best to make sure she doesn’t go anywhere,” Erin said gently.

“A few months ago, she had a terrible accident.  I was afraid we were going to lose her then.  I couldn’t go through that again.”

“What kind of accident was that, sir?” Dusty inquired, curious to hear his version.

“We were hiking up in the Olympics, on a trail we apparently should never have been on.  It was Father’s Day, of all things.  Clare slipped and fell off