Until Proven Guilty Page 7

  Even now, thinking about that moment is enough to take my breath away. She was a slender woman, of indeterminate age, wearing a brilliant red dress topped by a short but magnificent fur jacket. Her hair fell in dark, lustrous waves that flowed and blended into the dark fur on her shoulders. Her finely chisled features might have been carved from tawny marble. Her eyes, gray in the changing sunlight, flashed with an interior storm. For all her beauty, it was plain to see she was very angry. She walked quickly, covering the ground with a long, well-booted gait. She stopped less than two feet from Sophie and bowed her head.

  If she was aware of the sensation her appearance caused, she gave no indication of it. She seemed to lose herself completely in the proceedings. Unchecked tears rolled down her cheeks and lost themselves in the deep pile of her coat. In one hand she held a single red rose, not a dark red one, but a bright red one that matched the striking hue of her dress.

  I noticed Maxwell Cole sidling toward her. When she raised her head and opened her eyes, he would be at her side. That offended me but I didn’t have much room to talk. I was fighting the urge to follow suit. Instead I contented myself with observing her from a distance of several feet. The sun had slipped behind a cloud. When it moved away, her hair came alive with burnished highlights. She was exquisite, beautiful beyond anything I had ever imagined.

  Pastor Michael Brodie was just getting into the swing of his message. I looked at him, only to find he too was riveted, his mouth moving mechanically as his eyes devoured every inch and curve of the newcomer’s body. I felt an almost uncontrollable urge to leap in front of her and shield her from his gaze. For him to be able to look at her seemed an unbearable violation. The impulse startled me even as it occurred. I am not someone who imagines bedding every piece of desirable flesh that passes in my direction. I’m a healthy, middle-aged, well-adjusted, reasonably disciplined, heterosexual male. This woman’s presence rang all my bells.

  Brodie droned on and on without my hearing a word of what he said. I thought he would never finish. On the other hand I dreaded the service coming to an end. That would mean she would leave, march back up over the hill and out of my life. My mind scrambled wildly, trying to think of what I could say to delay her, to make her stop so I could at least hear the sound of her voice.

  Suddenly there was a chorus of amens. The casket began sinking slowly from view. With the fluid grace of a dancer, the slender woman glided forward and tossed her single rose onto the descending casket. Only then did she brush away the tears that had fallen silently throughout the service.

  She turned to find Maxwell Cole directly in her path. The photographer hovered at his elbow. “Excuse me,” Max said, “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  “No,” she replied coldly, looking at his press badge. “I’m sure we haven’t. I see no reason to remedy that now.”

  She stepped to one side as if to walk past him, but he placed himself in her way once more. “I’m a columnist for the Post-Intelligencer,” he said lamely. “Would you mind telling me what brought you here?”

  “I would mind very much.” Her voice was sharp, impatient. Uninvited, I moved swiftly to her side.

  “I believe the lady has made it quite clear that she doesn’t want to talk to you, Maxey. If I were you I’d beat it.” Maxwell Cole looked as though he wanted to throttle me, not only for interfering, but also for bringing up a long-despised college nickname. He looked around, checking to see if anyone else had heard. There was too much potential for ridicule in the situation for him to want to hang around. He backed away, taking the photographer with him. Finally, he turned and followed the True Believers, who were trudging up the hill in a dreary single file that somehow reminded me of the seven dwarfs. All they needed were picks on their shoulders to complete the air of joyless drudgery.

  The woman turned to me then. “Thank you,” she said, extending her hand. “We certainly haven’t been introduced. My name is Anne Corley.” She smiled. I was entranced by the sound of her voice, low and vibrant. I almost forgot to take her hand. When I remembered myself and did, I was startled to find her grip surprisingly firm and sure.

  “My name is Beaumont, Detective J. P. Beaumont. My friends call me Beau.”

  “I’m glad to meet you, Detective Beaumont.”

  “I’m assigned to this case.” I continued motioning vaguely in the direction of Angela Barstogi’s grave. Some people are repulsed when they find out you’re a homicide detective. I more than half expected her to turn away from me in disgust. Instead she gave me a glorious smile.

  Sophie Czirski appeared at my elbow. She allowed herself to examine Anne Corley in minute detail before she spoke. “I certainly gave that Maxwell Cole fellow a piece of my mind.”

  “That you did,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Another smile played around the corners of Anne Corley’s lips. “Who, Maxey? I gave him a piece of my mind too. Don’t I get any thanks?”

  “Yes, of course you do,” I said. “Thank you.” And then the three of us stood there laughing uproariously as though we had just shared some outrageous joke. When we stopped laughing, Anne Corley introduced herself to Sophie.

  “Were you a friend of Angela’s too?” Sophie asked, her eyes suddenly filling with tears.

  “No,” Anne replied. “I never met her. I had a sister who died when I was eight. My mother wouldn’t let me attend the funeral. She thought it would upset me. To this day I go to the services whenever I hear of a child dying under unusual circumstances. I always cry. Part of me cries for the child who’s gone now, and part of me still cries for Patty.”

  Sophie took Anne’s hand and held it for a moment, her rheumy old eyes behind cat’s-eye glasses studying Anne Corley’s young gray ones. “There were so few flowers.” Sophie said. “Your rose was beautiful and so are you.” Sophie turned and walked away with surprising speed for someone her age, her back stiffly unbowed as she climbed the steep hillside.

  Anne Corley moved slightly downwind. For the first time I was aware of the delicate scent of her perfume, expensive and intoxicating. She stood next to me, saying nothing but driving my heightened senses into overload.

  “Are you still on duty, Mr. Beaumont?” she asked.

  I glanced around, dumbfounded to find that the entire funeral party had disappeared. Only Anne Corley and I remained on the windswept hillside. “I guess not, except I need to stop by the cemetery office to pick up a copy of the guest register.”

  “Do you mind if I tag along? I have a feeling that Maxey may very well be waiting for me in the parking lot.”

  I looked down at her in absolute amazement. “No,” I managed. “I don’t mind at all.” She took my arm with the calm assurance of someone used to getting whatever she wants. I’d like to pretend that I had the presence of mind to offer my arm to her, but that’s not the case. She reached out and rested a featherweight hand on my forearm; then the two of us walked up the hill through the Mount Pleasant Cemetery as though it were the most natural thing in the whole world.

  It’s ironic to think that Maxwell Cole, a man who had been the bane of my existence for some twenty-odd years, was the catalyst that caused her hand to take my arm. I have a lot to thank Maxwell Cole for. Maybe someday I’ll get around to telling him.

  Chapter 7

  Anne Corley stood quietly near the door while an attendant photocopied the guest register for me. I tried not to stare at her while I waited. She smiled as I returned with the copy in hand. “Should I have signed that too?” she asked.

  “Shouldn’t be necessary,” I told her. “I already know you were here.”

  “What about you? Why are you here?” she demanded.

  I explained briefly how killers often present themselves at the funerals of their victims.

  “And do you think that’s true in this case?”

  I shrugged. I thought of Pastor Michael Brodie piously intoning biblical passages over a small casket, of Benjamin Mason/Jason kneeling with his hands clasped i
n prayer under the flowing beard. “It could be,” I answered.

  “Oh,” she said under her breath. Quickly I folded the piece of paper the attendant had given me and stuffed it into an inside jacket pocket. Out of sight is out of mind.

  Back outside, walking toward the tiny parking lot. I noticed a rust-colored Volvo still very much in evidence. Maxwell Cole was observing us over the roof of it. I couldn’t help but feel just a little smug. “Where’s your car?” I asked Anne.

  She nodded in the direction of a bright red Porsche parked at the far end of the lot. “What about yours?”

  “I don’t have a car,” I said, suddenly feeling embarrassed about it. “I walked.”

  “I probably should have,” she said unexpectedly, “but these boots aren’t built for walking. Why don’t I give you a lift?” The invitation caught me off guard, but not so much that I didn’t accept.

  We reached her car. She unlocked the door, and I opened it for her. Maxwell Cole followed us at a wary distance. He was approaching the driver’s side, jotting down the numbers from the temporary license in the back window. The Porsche was evidently brand-new.

  Anne saw him out of the corner of her eye as she turned to ease her way into the leather interior. She smiled again. “Well? Are you coming or not?”

  I closed the door behind her and hurried to the rider’s side. I came around behind the car, walking directly in front of Maxwell Cole, and climbed into the rider’s seat. Max was still standing there, a little to one side, when Anne fired up the powerful engine and rammed the car into reverse. He must have executed a pretty quick sidestep to be sure he was out of the way. I didn’t wave to him as we drove by, but I sure as hell wanted to.

  I liked this lady, liked her instincts about people and her ability to handle them. She was a lot more than a pretty box of candy.

  Anne Corley held the powerful Porsche well in check as she maneuvered the grades, curves, and angles that make Queen Anne Hill an incomprehensible maze for most outsiders. It’s a course lots of sports car drivers regard as a Grand Prix training ground. She drove with a confident skill that was careful but hardly sedate.

  The fire that had made her gray eyes smolder as she approached Angela Barstogi’s grave site had been banked. When she paused at a stop sign and looked at me, they sparkled with intelligence and humor. “Where to?” she asked.

  “I live downtown,” I said. “Corner of Third and Lenora. How about you?”

  “I’m just visiting. I’m staying at the Four Seasons Olympic.” That put me in my place. The Four Seasons is absolutely first-class, but then so was the lady.

  “Do you have to go home?” she asked after a pause. “Wife and kiddies, or major league baseball on television?”

  “Wrong on all counts,” I replied. “No wife and kiddies at home. I’ve got a twelve-inch black and white that I only use to keep tabs on how the media gets things ass-backward. I don’t like baseball. I wouldn’t go to a live game, to say nothing of watching one on TV.”

  “You sound like an endangered species to me,” she grinned, and we both laughed. “Then what you’re saying is that you don’t have any pressing reason to go straight home?”

  “No.”

  Her face darkened slightly. I might not have noticed it if my eyes hadn’t been glued to her face, drinking in her finely carved profile that could easily have graced the cover of any fashion magazine. A slight frown creased her forehead, then disappeared in far less time than it takes to tell.

  “They had a huge potluck after Patty’s funeral,” she said somberly. “I couldn’t go to that, either, so whenever I attend a funeral in Patty’s honor, I always treat myself afterward. Care to join me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where, then?” she asked.

  How do you answer that question when you’ve just met someone and haven’t the slightest idea of their likes or dislikes?

  “I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”

  She looked at me and laughed. I felt stupid, inadequate, as though I had somehow failed to measure up to her expectations. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I’ll choose this time and you choose next time, deal?”

  I nodded but I didn’t feel any better. My wires were all crossed. I was a gawky kid on his first blind date, which turns out to be with the head cheerleader. I wanted to impress her, although there was nothing to indicate she was in need of being impressed. Like someone who has always lusted after fine china, once he is faced with a Wedgwood plate, does he eat off it or put it away on a shelf? Here I was in a Porsche with the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and I didn’t know what to say or what to do with my hands and feet. I hadn’t been that ill at ease in a long time.

  She hit Lower Queen Anne, turned left at Mercer, and headed for the freeway, driving easily but purposefully. I didn’t ask where we were going. She bypassed downtown and took the exit that put us on Interstate 90. There had been a long silence in the car. I was content to leave it at that.

  She had tossed her jacket carelessly in the half-baked backseat they put in Porsches to evade sports car insurance premiums. Her dress was made from some soft fabric that clung to the gentle curves of her body. The neckline, a long V, accentuated her slenderness. In the hollow of her throat lay a pendant, a single jewel suspended on a delicate gold chain. I’m not much of an expert, but real diamonds, especially ones that size, have a way of letting you know they’re not fake.

  Despite the diamond, despite the fur jacket, despite the car, gradually I stopped being so self-conscious and started enjoying myself.

  First Seattle, then the suburban sprawl of Bellevue disappeared behind us. Forested hills rolled by as we climbed toward the Cascades. “Washington is really beautiful,” she said while the car sped effortlessly up the wide, curving roadway. We had been quiet for so many minutes that the sound of her voice startled me.

  “Have you been here long?” I queried.

  “No,” she answered. “Not long at all. I just flew into town yesterday.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I laughed. “You couldn’t have been around Seattle very long without my knowing it.”

  She took the Fall City exit and shot me a sidelong glance. “I take that to be a compliment?”

  “That’s how it was intended.”

  She said nothing. Somehow I seemed to have offended her. I reverted to adolescence and kept my mouth shut. I was still wondering how to make amends when we pulled into the parking lot at Snoqualmie Falls. Spring runoff was well under way. A thunderous roar of cascading water assailed our ears as we got out of the car.

  “This is one of my favorite places,” she said. She set off in her long-legged stride toward the viewpoint that overlooks the water, while I followed at a distance.

  Snoqualmie in spring is spectacular. Rushing water surges over a sheer basalt cliff into a swirling pool nearly three hundred feet below. The plunging torrent sends a cloud of misty spray back up the wall of the canyon. Mist settled around Anne Corley as she stood on the observation deck. It seemed to bathe her in an otherworldly essence.

  The viewpoint was filled with Sunday afternoon tourists, the bermuda-shorted, knobby-kneed, see-America-first variety. The hesitant sunshine of that spring afternoon had brought them out in droves. I didn’t miss the contrast between Anne Corley and them, nor did I miss the appreciative men and the covertly wary women. Her delicate beauty swathed in the flowing red dress commanded attention, although she was too engrossed in the water to be aware of it.

  When she finally turned away from the falls, she seemed almost surprised to find me standing at her side, as though she had forgotten my existence in her total concentration on the water. She recovered quickly. “Let’s eat,” she said. “I’m starved.”

  We followed a flower-lined pathway up to the lodge. Snoqualmie Lodge boasts a fine restaurant, and I certainly couldn’t quarrel with the choice. The place does land-office business, however. When I saw the jammed tables and crowded entry, I was sure we would have
a long wait. Purposefully, Anne made her way through the crowd and spoke quietly to the hostess. “Why certainly, Mrs. Corley. It will only take a moment,” the hostess said.

  I stationed myself near the door, hoping we could spend part of the enforced wait outside rather than in the crowded vestibule. Anne made her way back through the crowd. I marveled at the grace and clarity of her movement. People simply melted out of her way. Heads turned to follow her progress. If she had noticed it, acknowledged it, I probably wouldn’t have been so impressed, but she was oblivious.

  She reached me, took my arm, and guided us back through the crush. By the time we reached the cashier’s desk, the hostess was waiting for us, menus in hand. “Right this way, Mrs. Corley.”

  “How’d you do that?” I asked in whispered admiration as we followed the hostess to a corner table set for two. Her answer was a shrug that told me nothing. Once seated, I pursued it. “Look here, I heard some of the men talking out there. You have to have reservations three weeks in advance to get in this place.”