Her client, a lovely, soft-spoken woman in her mid-forties, had just described how her husband of six months had bilked her out of half a million dollars in an investment scam, and yet now she was weeping openly because he was such a wonderful man. Bev didn’t understand. “But Mrs. Covington,” she said gently, “he ran off with your money, a great deal of your money.” “Yes, I know,” Lydia whispered brokenly. “I know what Arthur’s done, but if you knew him, you’d understand.” A shudder moved through her delicate shoulders. “My husband was a saint, Ms. Brewster, I swear it. Sweet-natured and sensitive, not an unkind bone in his body. And so good with the dogs. They loved him, my golden retrievers did.” She looked up, damp-eyed and forlorn. “Animals are a better judge of character than humans, don’t you think? I keep wondering if there’s been some mistake. Maybe Arthur’s been taken hostage?” Bev sighed. Lydia Covington wasn’t being dramatic. She really loved Arthur Blankenship, the chiseler.
