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

wheedled. “Being seasick doesn’t kill you.”
    â€œYou’d be surprised.”
    â€œNo, really. There are things you can take for it these days. Patches you can wear. Wrist bands. Besides, it’s a perfectly good boat. An old forty-two-foot Chris-Craft. Three cabins. Blond mahogany. And the owner’s a blond, too. We thought we’d do just an overnight trip…”
    â€œHold it right there, Ralph. Did you say blond? Is this a blind date?”
    â€œWell, more or less,” Ralph admitted.
    â€œEnd of discussion,” I growled. “No cruises and no blind dates.”
    â€œIt doesn’t have to be a blind date,” Ralph said.
    â€œShe’s an old friend of Mary’s. They’ve been pals forever, since second grade. How about if you come over for dinner one evening this week and meet her. After that, you can decide whether or not you’re interested in the cruise. What about Wednesday? Mary doesn’t have to go into the restaurant that night.”
    At the prospect of one of Mary’s dinners, I could feel my resolve weakening. If Ralph Ames weren’t a lawyer, he could have made a fortune in sales. Come to think of it, maybe he is in sales.
    â€œWhat time Wednesday?”
    â€œSix,” he said. “If it isn’t raining, we’ll sit around out in the patio for a while before we eat.”
    â€œWhat’s her name?” I asked.
    At least Ralph had the good grace not to feign innocence. “Cassandra,” he said. “Cassandra Wolcott. Cassie for short.”
    â€œCassandra,” I repeated. “Wasn’t she the one who caused all the trouble by letting evil out of that box?”
    â€œNo, you’ve got Cassandra mixed up with Pandora,” Ralph said. “Cassandra was someone who could predict the future, but no one would believe her. I don’t think that’s the case here, by the way, because people did listen.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œCassie Wolcott is a retired stockbroker,” Ralph replied. “She’s also thirty-eight years old.”
    My ideas about the age and appearance of retired stockbrokers did some downward gyrations. “Isn’t she awfully young to be retired?”
    â€œShe made her money and got the hell out,” Ralph said. “I call that smart.”
    â€œI see,” I said at last. “All right. Wednesday at six, but remember, I’m not making any promises about the weekend.”
    â€œFair enough,” Ralph said.
    I put down the phone and then headed out to the kitchen to see if there was anything I could scare up for dinner. Without Ralph spending as much time here as he used to, I’m afraid my kitchen stores have fallen on hard times once more. There was still plenty of Seattle’s Best Coffee in the fridge, but not much else. At least nothing else edible.
    Giving up on the idea of eating at home, I put my shoes back on and headed outside once again.
    When I first moved to the Regrade, the neighborhood turned into a deserted village as soon as it got dark. The only people who hung out there at night were the homeless bums and the almost-homeless drunks who beat paths from one sleazy tavern or greasy spoon to another. They’re all pretty much gone now—the sleazy taverns and the drunks. For a while during the late eighties, drug dealers moved into the area in a big way. Finally, though, area merchants and residents went on the warpath. They fought back with an aggressive program that included a visible round-the-clock police presence of both beat and bicycle cops augmented by private security guards.
    Over time, increased patrols worked their magic. Most of the drug dealers and bums moved on. Businesses that once catered to a lowlife clientele gradually died out themselves, and a whole new set of entrepreneurs came flooding into the void. Within five blocks of Belltown Terrace there are now half a dozen trendy restaurants