Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [28]
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