J. Jance - Until Proven Guilty

“Patty was retarded. I loved her and I didn’t mind taking care of her, but she didn’t have any control over her bowels. My father hated her for it.” Anne stopped abruptly and stood by the coffee table, staring at me as though she expected me to say something. I didn’t know what. I reached out and took her hand, drawing her toward the couch.

“I’m sorry,” I said. Her body was like a strung bow. I pulled her down beside me, a question formulating itself as I did so. “Who killed Patty?” I asked. I expected her to rebel, to shy away from my hand.

“My father,” she whispered. “I saw him do it, but no one would believe me. The coroner ruled it an accident. I tried to tell people, but that’s when they started saying I was crazy.”

“Who said that, the people you told?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “My mother, her friends.”

“And that’s when they wouldn’t let you go to the funeral?”

A single tear brimmed over the top of her lower lash and started down her cheek. “Yes,” she answered. “She wouldn’t let me go.”

She turned to me for comfort from an old but open wound, burying her head in my chest. Wracking sobs filled the room, the kind of sobs that leave you exhausted without bringing relief. I held her, imagining a helpless eight- or nine-year-old battling alone against injustices perpetrated by adults. Injustice is hard enough to handle as a full-grown man, as a homicide detective. To a child it must have been overwhelming.

I let her cry. There was no point in my saying anything or in attempting to stop her tears before the pent-up emotion had run its course.

At last the sobs subsided and she pulled herself away from me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I never can talk about it without that happening.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not necessary.”

She leaned her head back against my arm and closed her eyes. “I wanted to tell you this morning, but I couldn’t. It took me all afternoon to work up to it.”

“Thank you,” I said, and meant it. I looked at her as she lay with her head thrown back, the strain of the last few hours and moments still painfully etched on her face. She had opened the door a crack and let me see what was inside. It helped me understand her complexity a little and her reticence. I leaned down and kissed away a smudge of tear-stained mascara from her cheek. “Stick with me, kid. We’ll make it.”

She lifted her head and looked at me. “What makes you say that?”

“I love you, Anne. That’s what makes me say it.”

The kiss I gave her then was not a brotherly, comforting kind of kiss. I felt the exhilaration you feel after you step off a roller coaster and know you haven’t died of it. I wanted to affirm our loving and our living. I wanted to put the ghosts from her past to rest once and for all, and she did too. She responded willingly, hungrily.

The gown was fastened by a single tie. She was naked beneath it, naked, supple, and ready. I slipped out of my own clothes and fell to my knees before her, letting my hands roam freely across her body, letting my tongue pleasure her with promise and torment her with denial. I reveled in the power of control, the feel of her body’s aching need awakened at my touch. Several times I brought her to the brink, only to back off, pulling away before she crossed the edge, leaving her writhing, pleading for satisfaction.

“Please, Beau,” she begged. “Please.”

I drew her to the floor and onto me, my own need no longer held at bay. Her body folded around me and I was home. She gave a muffled moan of pleasure and release. I was complete and so was she.

We napped. There on the floor. Much later, nearly ten, she stirred and awakened me. She snuggled close to me for warmth.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“Where would you like to go?” I asked. “I have Peters’ car parked downstairs. For a change, wheels come with the invitation.”

She laughed. “Uptown, huh?”

“Not exactly, it’s a Datsun.” She laughed again and got up, picking up the gown from where it had fallen on the couch and tying it deftly around her. It was lovely, but I preferred her without it. I too scrambled to my feet. She stood looking up at me, her eyes momentarily uncertain. I held her close, hoping to stifle all doubt. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “It’ll be all right.”

That seemed to give her the reassurance she needed. I followed her into the bedroom. A set of suitcases sat in one corner. She lifted one onto the bed and opened it. “I didn’t know if I was moving in or moving out.”

The suitcase was filled with clothes on hangers. I picked them up, all of them, and swept them into one end of the closet.

“Moving in,” I said.

She unpacked quickly with the practiced hand of one who has done it many times. I had never learned to use all the drawers in the obligatory six-drawer dresser, so there was room for her to unpack without my having to shove things around. It seemed as though I had been saving a place for her in my life.

While she showered, I took a lesson from the lady and called for a dinner reservation. Most people who live in Seattle regard the Space Needle as a place visited only by tourists. Not me. It’s special enough for a meal there to be an occasion, and it has the added attraction of being within walking distance. I take my kids there for Christmas dinner when they’re home for the holidays. The Emerald Suite, the gourmet part of the restaurant on top of the Space Needle, had a last-minute cancellation, so they were able to take us.

When Anne emerged from the shower, I was tying my tie and humming a little tune. I was starting to feel as though the two of us might be on somewhat equal footing. I was conscious of being terrifically happy, and for right then, at least, I was wise enough not to question it.

I had dressed while she unpacked. Now it was my turn to lie on the bed and watch her. She stood indecisively at the closet door for a moment. “What should I wear?”

“We’re not going to the Doghouse,” I replied.

She chose a muted red dress of delicate silk. Red was her color on any occasion, in any light. Before I met her I had no idea red came in so many different shades. Maxwell Cole had been more correct than he knew when he called her the Lady in Red.

Carefully she selected underwear and put it on. It was a quiet, intimate time together, with her doing things she would usually do alone. She didn’t seem disturbed by my presence or by my watching her. In the short period we had been together a bonding had occurred. I had experienced that bonding only once before, with Karen, and then I’d lost it. I was grateful to have it back. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it.

Anne came to me to zip the dress and to fasten the diamond pendant. “From Milton?” I asked, surprised that there was no pang of jealousy as I asked the question.

“Yes,” she said, turning to kiss me. “Thanks.”

“Where’s your car?” I asked. “Did you bring it along with your clothes?”

She nodded. “It’s down on the street.”

“We’ll have to move it to a lot in the morning, or we’ll spend all day feeding parking meters.”

“Would you like to take it?” she asked.

I tossed Peters’ Datsun keys into the air. “Not on a bet. I don’t think I’d better press my luck. I’m just barely qualified for a Datsun. A Porsche would be overkill.”

Of course we could have walked, but I drove up to the valet parking attendant. He opened the door with a slight bow in Anne’s direction, diplomatically concealing most of his disdain for the battered Datsun.

The old Anne Corley was back. She was delighted and delightful. Everything about the evening pleased her. As the restaurant rotated she asked questions about various landmarks. She ate like a famished puppy and joked with the waiter, who regarded her with a certain awe. We drank champagne and toasted our future. It was a festive, joyous occasion.