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.”
“I do,” she said simply. “I called from Phoenix when I knew I’d be coming up for a few weeks. I ate here with friends when I was here a few years ago and fell in love with it. I plan to have dinner here every Sunday afternoon as long as I’m in the area. It’s possible to have a standing reservation, you know, if the price is right.”
It was my turn to be offended. At least I did an adequate job of faking it. “In other words, when you asked me to choose where I wanted to eat, it was a put-up deal.”
“That’s right,” she agreed mildly just as the waitress arrived. “Although, if you’d come up with a brilliant suggestion, we could have canceled. Look at that line. I don’t think they’d fine me.”
Anne ordered a glass of white wine with ice and I ordered MacNaughton’s and water. Anne picked up her menu, clasping it with long, well-manicured fingers. She wore scarlet nail polish that matched her dress. She gave the menu a cursory glance, then lay it back down.
“You already know what you want?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Why don’t you order for both of us then.”
She did. Prime rib, baked potatoes, steamed broccoli, and carrots julienne. The food was served elegantly, and it was masterfully prepared. Anne ate with a gusto that seemed at odds with her trim figure. I spent the entire salad course trying to think of something intelligent to say. If I’d had any illusions of turning this into a romantic conversation, she squelched them completely when she asked, “Just who was Angela Barstogi?”
The question stunned me. The pleasure of Anne Corley’s company had removed all thought of the dead child, of the case, of time itself. It took me a moment to pull my scrambled thoughts together. “Just a kid who ended up living in the wrong time and place,” I said lamely.
Anne leveled serious gray eyes on mine, looking at me with the unblinking steadiness of a skilled inquisitor. “Tell me about her,” she said.
“You ask that in a very professional manner,” I responded. “Are you a reporter?”
“Well, of sorts. I’m a sociologist. I’m working on a book about young victims of violent crimes. I’m not interested in them from the criminological or sensational point of view. I study them in terms of psychosocial considerations.”
She was a far cry from the mousy, passive image of a sociologist that I’d formed, more from fiction than from experience. She was like a breath of fresh air. I guessed rich people could decide to do anything they damned well pleased with their lives. She sure didn’t live on a sociologist’s salary.
I started out to tell her only a little of the Angela Barstogi story, but somehow it all rolled out, from Sophie Czirski’s unproved allegations to a Jesus Loves Me poster that had hung above Angela’s bed. I hadn’t talked about a case that way since Karen left, and never to someone I didn’t know. It was a serious breach of discipline in the loose-lips-sink-ships tradition, yet I was unable to check myself. Anne Corley listened quietly, nodding encouragement from time to time.
I finished. We were sipping coffee. She stirred the strong black liquid thoughtfully. “If that’s what she had to live with, no matter how she died, she’s probably better off.”
I don’t know what I had expected Anne to say, but that wasn’t it. She’d lost her professional demeanor and seemed to be weeping inwardly for Angela Barstogi. Her sadness didn’t seem weak, however. There was strength and resilience under Anne Corley’s veneer of graceful beauty. It was like finding real wood when you expected particle board.
We left the restaurant within minutes after that. There was no question of lingering over a conversational after-dinner drink. Once more I felt oddly responsible for her abrupt change of mood. It was somehow my fault. That wasn’t the only thing that made me uncomfortable. Anne Corley bought my dinner. That had never happened to me before, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.
We drove back to Seattle in a subdued mood. I wanted to redeem the evening, but it was obviously beyond recall. She had moved away from me, was grieving for a child she’d never met. No banter, no small talk could bring her back. I congratulated myself for being a social failure. Who goes to dinner with a gorgeous woman and squanders the conversation on murder, child abuse, and other such scintillating stuff? J. P. Beaumont, that’s who.
When Anne stopped to let me out in front of the Royal Crest, I halfheartedly asked her up for a drink. She gave me a wilted smile and said, “Some other time,” in a voice totally empty of enthusiasm. Dejectedly I watched her drive away. It was clear that whatever interest I had held for her was gone. There was no sense in calling the Four Seasons. I had had one shot at her, and missed. Whatever it was I had lost, it was something I suspected I wanted.
Chapter 8
The phone was ringing as I stepped off the elevator. I didn’t rush to answer it. I figured whoever it was would call back later. It was still yelling at me after I unlocked the door and turned on the lights.
“Where the hell have you been?” Peters growled before I had a chance to say hello.
“It’s none of your goddamned business, actually. It is Sunday, you know.”
“I’ve been trying to get you for a couple of hours. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”
