Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [67]
“Ready to call it a day?” I asked Peters.
“How about stopping by for a drink on the way home. I’ll buy.”
I glanced surreptitiously at the clock, trying to remember exactly when I had told Anne I’d be home.
“Come on,” Peters insisted. “You’re not married yet.”
I took the bait. “All right,” I agreed. “I guess I can stop off for a while.”
Chapter 18
We went down to F. X. McRory’s on Occidental Street. Peters got off on the right foot by buying a bottle of champagne. “All right, you closemouthed bastard,” he said, raising his glass, “now that I’m a party to this little romance, you’d better tell me about her.”
I didn’t need to be asked twice. I hadn’t had a chance to tell anyone about Anne. I’m afraid I waxed eloquent. I told him how she had looked at the funeral and about our first dinner at Snoqualmie Falls afterward. I told him about the Porsche and the fur jacket and the Doghouse and the depth and the laughter and the wit and the sudden darknesses, all the things that seemed so contradictory in Anne, and all the things that made me love her.
About that time Captain Powell showed up and, uninvited, took a chair at our table. “What’s this I hear about you getting married?”
I looked to Peters for help, but he stared off into space, as innocent as the day is long. “Who is she?” Powell continued.
Taking a deep breath, I said, “her name’s Anne Corley. She’s the Lady in Red from Maxwell Cole’s column.”
“Are you shitting me? You said you met her at Angela Barstogi’s funeral, last Sunday. What is this, love at first sight? That only happens in the movies.”
“It’s a shotgun wedding,” Peters interjected snidely. I aimed a swift kick at him under the table, but I missed. He grinned at me and motioned to the waitress for what I thought would be our bill. Instead, a second bottle of champagne was delivered, Eastern Onion Style.
It consisted of a singing telegram complete with a down-and-dirty stripper. Only afterward, amid hoots of laughter, did I realize that while we’d been talking, the bar had quietly filled with people from the department. They were all there. Not only Powell, whose frown of disapproval had been replaced by a wide grin, but also the rest of the guys from homicide, Hamilton from public information, and the women from word-processing.
They had a wild assortment of off-color cards, congratulating me for lechery despite my advanced years. It was a rowdy party by any standards. I don’t know how Peters managed to arrange it. He must have done it while Anne and I were having lunch.
I had a good time. It was getting late, though, and no one seemed to be in any hurry to leave. I was trying to think of a polite way to abandon ship, when there was a flurry of activity near the front door. My reason for going home early strode toward me, a dazzling smile on her lips. Anne’s very presence brightened the room, and it became an engagement party to remember.
Captain Powell came up to be introduced. “Now that I see the lady in question,” he grinned, “maybe love at first sight isn’t out of the question after all.”
Well-wishers came forward for introductions and congratulations. The guests milled around for some time before they gradually began to disappear. At last only the three of us remained—Anne, Peters, and me. Peters looked enormously pleased with himself.
“You sure put one over on me,” I said to him. “Thanks.”
Anne added her thanks to mine and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“You’re welcome,” Peters replied.
We left Pioneer Square on foot. Peters said he was going back to the department, while Anne, after producing her pair of Nikes from the ubiquitous Adidas bag, set a swift pace up First Avenue. I found myself hurrying to keep up, wanting to shield her from the human debris around