Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [29]
“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