the slain child. This was a group Thanksgiving Service, I reminded myself, and Pastor Michael Brodie would not tolerate any individual outpourings of grief that might crack the shell of his little facade.
I had called Brodie earlier and jotted down the names of those he expected to be in attendance. Looking at his flock now, I was able to put some names with faces. Jeremiah, of course, Benjamin Mason/Jason, Ezra, Thomas. There was one more man, but I couldn’t recall his name. Other than Suzanne, the women eluded me. They were so drab and so alike, it was impossible to sort them out.
Sophie Czirski was there, her ramrod thinness totally at odds with the pudgy Faith Tabernacle women. She planted herself firmly at the foot of the coffin and glared at the kneeling pastor with open defiance, daring him to question her right to be there. The wind, blowing at her back, periodically made her red hair stand on end. It gave her a wild appearance. If I had been Brodie, I would have thought twice about picking a fight with her.
Maxwell Cole turned up with a long-haired photographer in tow. At Cole’s insistence, pictures of the kneeling congregation were taken from every possible angle. His taste is all in his mouth. Sophie watched the proceedings with a malevolent glare. When Cole unwisely asked her to move over so they could get one more picture, she told him in no uncertain words and with considerable volume what he could do with both the photographer and his camera. She didn’t budge an inch.
Scattered here and there were a few hangers-on, people who make a habit out of going to funerals, ones who get a kick out of watching as other people’s emotions go through a wringer. I looked at them closely, wondering if any of them were named Charlie. After the service I would request a copy of the guest register.
The service itself was just getting under way. The Faith Tabernacle group began singing a tuneless little hymn that no one else seemed to recognize. I moved closer so I could hear what was being said, taking up a position just to Sophie’s right at the end of the coffin.
I don’t know why I looked up, probably nothing more than good old-fashioned male instinct. Had I paid attention, I would have seen every man in the group staring unabashedly in the same direction. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen stepped over the crest of the hill and strode without hesitation toward Angela Barstogi’s coffin.
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
“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
