Breach of Duty (9780061739637) by Judith A. Jance Page A

little more than sticks—scrawny branches of nothing reaching up out of a layer of plain gray pavement and even grayer concrete. On this particular day, for some strange reason, it seemed as though they had all matured overnight. Miraculously, they had been transformed from gangly, adolescent twigs into full-fledged trees.
    Maybe the reason I noticed had something to do with what was going on with me; with the realization that, in the face of some things ending, it was good to see other things beginning again—to see those trees standing there tall and straight, green and healthy.
    Kevin Hotchkiss, Belltown Terrace’s latest doorman, greeted me at the building’s entrance with a happy grin. “Beautiful spring afternoon, isn’t it, Mr. Beaumont.”
    â€œBeautiful,” I agreed.
    I stopped in the mailbox room long enough to extract that day’s pound of bills and junk mail. One of the latter was an invitation to “get in touch with my family roots” by purchasing—for only $39.95, tax and shipping included—a copy of A Cavalcade of Beaumonts. Tossing the envelope into the recycling bin on my way past, I wondered how many of the folks who share my surname were, like me, named after a town in Texas rather than after their biological fathers. Unless that was the case, it didn’t seem likely that A Cavalcade of Beaumonts would lead me to any long-lost relatives.
    As I stepped into the apartment, my high-tech security system recognized my signal and turned on both the lights and the CD player. It wasn’t exactly like having someone there waiting for me, but it made the place feel less lonely. I had just kicked off my shoes and eased into the recliner when the phone rang.
    â€œBeau,” Ralph Ames said. “How did the Viking funeral go?”
    I had to be well into middle age before I learned the difference between drinking buddies and friends. Ralph Ames and my ex-partner, Ron Peters, both qualify as the latter. Ralph, who started out as Anne Corley’s aide-de-camp, is now mine. His insightful advice guides me through various legal, financial, and investment mazes. He’s also someone who knew exactly why my grandmother and I were going over to Lake Chelan.
    â€œThe trip went fine,” I said.
    When I first met Ralph, he was a full-time resident of Paradise Valley down in Arizona. The last year or so, due to the blandishments of his girlfriend—lovely Seattle-area restaurateur, Mary Greengo—he’s been spending more and more time in the Pacific Northwest. He used to stay with me whenever he was in town. Now he stays elsewhere.
    â€œSo what are you doing this weekend?” he asked.
    â€œCome on, Ralph. It’s only Monday. How would I know what I’m doing this weekend?”
    Some people hearing that comment might assume that my weekend was so packed with must-do events that I couldn’t possibly pencil anything more into the calendar. Ralph, on the other hand, understood full well that my personal calendar was most likely bird-bone bare.
    â€œHow would you like to take a little cruise up to Victoria?”
    Any mention of boats or boating, whether in little craft or on big ones, brings back painful memories of my ill-fated teenaged attempt at becoming a long-line fisherman. I barfed my guts out as soon as we set sail. An old-time sailor, under the guise of being helpful, offered me a chaw of tobacco. He told me if I chewed that and swallowed the juice, I’d be cured. Needless to say, I never made it as far as the Gulf of Alaska. That whole wretched and retching experience isn’t something I need to relive. Boating on Lake Chelan had been stretching my luck.
    â€œI don’t do cruises,” I said at once.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWe’ve gone over this before,” I told him. “Because most likely I’ll turn pea green the moment we’re out of Elliott Bay.”
    â€œCome on,” Ralph