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

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,