Free Until Proven Guilty by J. A. Jance Page B

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