In Self Defense Susan Sloan (summer reads .txt) 📖

mouth a bit too wide, but the cameras loved her, and were never far behind her, wherever she went.

Dusty Grissom didn’t have to read the society pages to know who she was.  Her name was Stephanie Burdick.  The great-granddaughter of a governor, the granddaughter of a senator, the daughter of a noted philanthropist, her family’s blood was as blue as it got around Seattle.  It was generally acknowledged that her lineage dated back to the first landing on Alki Point.  By the time she turned twenty-seven, she had already been publicly married and privately divorced twice.  When she walked into Police Headquarters on the first Monday in November, Dusty’s eyes nearly popped right out of his head.

              “I’d like to see the detectives in charge of the Richard Durant case,” she said, her voice soft and melodious.

Dusty and Erin escorted her into one of the interview rooms, took her coat, brought her coffee.  Rain pelted the windows, the kind of hard, driving rain that normally ushered in the month, but the socialite didn’t have a hair out of place.

“What can we do for you, Ms. Burdick?” Erin inquired politely.

“For obvious reasons, I don’t want to be involved, you understand,” Stephanie said, and the reluctance was evident in her voice.  “I thought I could just forget it, and it wouldn’t matter.  But foolishly or not, I find that I can’t forget it, and that it does matter.”

“What is it that matters?” Dusty asked.

The woman reached into her handbag and pulled out a small digital recorder.  “This is a telephone message that was left for me on the afternoon of the day that Richard Durant . . . died.”

She pushed the start button.  After a digital pronouncement of the time and date, corroborating her statement, a voice that, to Erin’s ears anyway, sounded a lot like she recalled Richard Durant’s voice sounding said, “Hi darling.  I was right last night -- things did get wrapped up here sooner than expected.  So I’m on my way home.  I have to call Clare to let her know, but I’ll tell her I’m taking the late plane and won’t be home until around midnight.  Which, assuming this plane gets in on time, means I should get to your place by seven.  Can’t wait.  Miss you.  Love you.  See you soon.”

The message ended and Stephanie Burdick pressed the stop button.  “I know you’ve ruled Richard’s death an accident,” she said.  “But I didn’t know if you had all the facts at the time.”

Erin let out a long breath.  “You and Richard Durant had a relationship?”

Stephanie nodded.  “For a little more than two years,” she replied, a bit of a catch in her voice.  “Few people knew.  We were very discreet.  We were planning to marry.”

“Durant was going to divorce his wife?” Dusty inquired.

Stephanie nodded.  “Yes.”

“You’re sure this wasn’t just . . . well, just wishful thinking on your part?”

The socialite managed a bit of a smile at that.  “It wasn’t my idea, Detective,” she replied.  “It was Richard’s.  There would have been no reason for him to lead me on.  I was quite content with our relationship as it was.  As you may or may not already know, I haven’t exactly been a stellar success story in the marriage department.”

“May we keep this recording, Ms. Burdick?” Dusty asked, not sure why yet.

“Yes,” Stephanie replied, handing the machine over.  “Keep it as long as you like.”  She hesitated for a second or two.  “But then I’d like to have it back, if you don't mind” she added.  “And I’d appreciate if your people were careful with it.”

“Of course,” Erin murmured.  The woman wanted a keepsake.  They would do their best to make sure it was returned in the condition that it was received.

“I assume we can contact you, should it become necessary?” Dusty inquired.

The woman sighed.  “If you mean, will I make a formal statement or testify at a trial, if it comes to that -- the answer is yes.  I wouldn’t have come to you in the first place if I hadn’t been prepared for that.”  She stood up and turned to leave.  “Thank you for your time.  I trust you’ll do the right thing with this.”

“We’ll look into it,” Dusty assured her.

They watched her go.  Then they looked at each other.

“What’s going on here?” Erin wondered, a baseball-sized rock beginning to form in the pit of her stomach.

“Maybe more than we thought,” Dusty replied.

“But it doesn’t make any sense.  The stalker is real.  We know he is.  We’ve got him on tape.  And we know he ran Clare off that road and almost killed her.”

              “True,” Dusty said with a sigh.  “But now we know something else, don’t we?”

Erin frowned.  “Do you think she knew about Stephanie Burdick?  Do you think she knew her husband was planning to divorce her?”

Dusty shrugged.  “I think we’d better find out.”

***

              “Detective Hall,” Clare said, her face lighting up as she opened the door to find Erin standing on the other side.

“Hello,” Erin acknowledged.

“It’s so nice to see you,” Clare said.  “Come on in out of that miserable rain, and let’s get you warmed up.  I have a good fire going in the library.”  She led her visitor into the well-used room.

“I was about to take a little break and have some tea.  Let me just go tell Doreen to make it a tray for two.”

She disappeared down the hall in the direction of the kitchen before Erin could say a word.  The library was inviting, with built-in bookcases and rich wood paneling and luxurious leather furniture that all glowed in the firelight.  The detective stood in front of the crackling blaze, warming her fingers and toes.  It felt wonderful.  Erin loved everything about the Pacific Northwest except the November rains.

“Heating systems are fine, but there’s nothing like a warm fire on a wet day,” Clare said coming back.  “Tea is on its way.”  She sat down in one of two leather chairs that were drawn up close to