Dead Man Waltzing

by Ella Barrick

  I could see that being a criminal defense attorney gave one a cheery outlook on humanity.

  “So what do I do now?” Maurice asked, fingers twiddling with a loose button on his blazer sleeve. I gave him a sympathetic look.

  “Nothing,” Drake said. “Go to work, go home, don’t talk to the media, and absolutely don’t talk to the police unless I’m present. The ball’s in my court. I’m working on getting a copy of Ms. Blakely’s will so we can see who else might have had a financial motive. I’ve also got someone finagling the memoir outline from the literary agent. I don’t think you have much to worry about, Maurice.”

  Maurice crinkled his forehead. “But a jury-”

  “I don’t believe in juries,” Drake interrupted. “Nice people, most of ’em, I’m sure, but unpredictable. No, the best way to keep a client out of jail is to make sure he never sees a jury. And that’s what I aim to do in your case. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to meet up with the missus at the bar association shindig before she bids on a time-share in Fiji or some such at the silent auction.” Smoothing his vest over his considerable paunch, he ushered us from the conference room.

  Maurice had ridden the Metro to the meeting and was happy to accept a ride home with me. Rush-hour traffic still snarled the streets, and I resigned myself to a long commute. Glancing at Maurice’s profile, I asked, “Do you feel any better about the situation now?”

  His mouth twitched in a “not really” way. “I’m less concerned about ending up in the pokey with Drake on the case,” he conceded, “but Rinny’s still dead, isn’t she? And the murderer is still out there.” He gazed through the side window as if hoping to spot the killer in the semi idling beside us, or in the van leaking rap music in front of us.

  “Do you know Greta Monk?” I asked, giving him a brief account of my visit with Lavinia Fremont.

  “Poor Lavinia.” He sighed. “She was an amazing dancer… so light on her feet you’d have thought she was a piece of dandelion fluff tossed by the wind.”

  “Very poetic.”

  He reddened and said sheepishly, “Well, she was a born dancer. Maybe not as technically proficient as Corinne, but with a musicality that set her dancing apart. It was a crime-literally-when she lost her leg. Although she’s achieved a lot with her design business.”

  “She said Corinne and her husband helped her get set up.”

  Maurice nodded. “Indeed. I’ve often thought Corinne felt guilty about Lavinia.”

  I took my eyes off the road to look at him-no big deal, since I-395 more nearly resembled a parking lot than a highway. “Really? Why on earth?”

  “Because the trip to England was her idea. She’d had a bee in her bonnet for a long time about winning at Blackpool, and she’s the one who talked Lavinia and Ricky into accepting the invitation to compete. Lavinia was more of a homebody; I don’t think she’d have gone if it hadn’t been for Corinne.”

  “Corinne presumably didn’t force her to go at gunpoint. It sounded to me like Lavinia was pretty keen on competing at the dance festival.” Traffic stuttered forward a half block, and a motorcycle cut through the line of cars, making me wonder whether I shouldn’t trade my Beetle in for one of those cute scooters that came in fun colors, like pink. I looked down at the gown I was wearing and gave up on the scooter idea; exposure to wind, rain, and smog wouldn’t be good for my competition wardrobe.

  “As you say,” Maurice agreed. “As to Greta Monk… well, she’s a piece of work. I think she studied ballet once upon a time, but she didn’t have what it took to get on with a professional company. Then she took to ballroom dance, but…” He shrugged. “I will say this: She seemed aware of her limitations as a dancer and switched to ‘patronizing’ the arts, rather than trying to be a performer, not long after she married Conrad Monk. He encouraged her to chair fund-raising events and the like, and when she and Corinne started talking about putting together a foundation to award scholarships, he put up a big chunk of change.”

  “If her husband was well-off, why would she embezzle from the foundation, if she did?” I asked.

  “Don’t ask me,” Maurice said, a hint of asperity in his voice. “Why do those pretty, rich young actresses shoplift? It’s not always about the money.”

  The cars in front of us shot forward like water from a pipe that was suddenly unclogged, and I stepped on the gas, thinking that Maurice might be right. The Lindsay Lohans of the world certainly let us know that some thefts must be motivated by the adrenaline rush that accompanied the risk, or the thrill of getting away with something. I’d never been that way myself, but I’d had a friend in high school who was constantly shoplifting a lip gloss here or a CD there. And it wasn’t because she couldn’t afford to pay for them. She used to bring the items to school and brag about how she stole them. I’d stopped hanging out with her after she stole a tank top from Target while I was with her. I’d been petrified when she pulled it out of her purse in the store parking lot, laughing about how easy it was.

  “If you want to talk to Greta,” Maurice said, “she’ll be at the Willow House battered-women’s shelter fund-raiser tomorrow. It’s a Mardi Gras-themed party on a Potomac cruise. Greta organized it.”

  “Isn’t Mardi Gras in February?”

  “Would you want to go on a river cruise here in February?” He gave an exaggerated shiver.

  There’d be ice on the river; temps would dip into the twenties; gusty winds would rock the boat. “I guess not.”

  “I’ve got tickets, if you want them. Greta strong-armed me into buying them. Corinne and I were going to go, but now… The Plantation Queen launches at four; she’s an old-fashioned paddleboat.”

  “I’ll still be at the bridal fair,” I said.

  “Let me man the booth at the fair,” Maurice said. “I’d welcome a day to sit and schmooze with brides-to-be and their lovely mothers. I’ll bet I can sign up more ballroom students than you did today; the key is charming the mothers. Everyone’s oohing and ahhing over the beautiful bride and her sparkly ring, and the mother gets less attention than the bride’s purse or hairdo. A few kind words, a graceful compliment, and voilà-the mother convinces the whole wedding party they need to learn to foxtrot.”

  “No bet,” I said with a laugh. “Okay. You’ve got it.”

  We pulled up in front of Maurice’s house and he opened the door. I put a hand on his arm. “You okay?”

  “Dandy,” he said.

  I eyed him with concern.

  “No, really, Anastasia.” His face grew serious. “I’m okay. Sad about Corinne’s death and not happy that I’m a suspect, but I’m not going to drink myself into a stupor or sit around and mope. I’ll make myself some dinner, maybe pop ’round to the Fox and Muskrat for a pint, and turn in early. Corinne’s lawyer is reading her will tomorrow at eight, and I’ve been asked to attend. Can’t think why. She can’t have left me more than a token.” His brows drew together briefly. “Want to come with me?”

  “I don’t know…” His request took me aback, but the eagerness in his eyes seemed to suggest he could use some moral support. “Would they let me?”

  “I don’t see why not. Good!” he said, as if it were settled. “It’ll be over and done with in time for me to get out to the bridal fair before the expo center doors open.”

  I agreed, reluctantly, to attend the reading of the will with him, and we arranged to meet in front of the lawyer’s office shortly before eight. “You’ll get a chance to meet Corinne’s other husbands,” he said with a hint of a mischievous smile. “Make sure you tell me that she went downhill after divorcing me.”

  “Not a doubt of it,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

  Chapter 15

  Corinne Blakely’s lawyer was a gentleman about Maurice’s age, with uniformly black, suspiciously stiff hair draped across his head. The toupee covered the tops of jutting ears and brushed his collar in the back. With his lined face, and dark-framed reading glasses perched at the tip of his nose, he looked a
little like the King of Rock and Roll might have looked if he were still alive. Elvis: the golden years. Fortunately, the lawyer wore a pin-striped suit and not a spangled white jumpsuit. Standing at the head of the conference room table, he shuffled papers in an expandable file, glancing at his watch and then the door approximately every forty-five seconds.

  Maurice and I stood in the back right-hand corner of the room, having arrived too late to get one of the twenty-four chairs drawn up to the oblong table. People lined the walls as well, and I guessed there must be eighty people present, mostly men. Interesting. I recognized only a few of them. Turner Blakely sat at the lawyer’s right hand, reclining in his leather chair, sunglasses obscuring his eyes. Hungover, maybe? Mrs. Laughlin sat midway down the table on the side opposite Turner, dabbing at her eyes with a utilitarian hankie. Lavinia Fremont sat beside her, occasionally patting the housekeeper’s hand. She looked tired, and older than when I’d seen her Thursday. Standing against the far wall, abreast of the lawyer, Marco Ingelido stood with his arm around a fiftyish blonde I took to be his wife. When he caught sight of me, he raised his brows and tried to stare me down, apparently not thinking I belonged there. I held his gaze until he looked away.

  I was about to mention it to Maurice when a tan man in his mid-sixties squeezed in beside me, all heavy gold jewelry and expensive golf attire.

  “Goldberg,” the newcomer greeted Maurice. He had an unfortunately high-pitched voice that made him sound like a munchkin, and wore a salmon pink shirt that clashed viciously with raspberry trousers.

  “Lyle,” Maurice said in a resigned way.

  “I’m Stacy,” I said, offering my hand.

  Lyle shook it, looking from me to Maurice, brown eyes sparking with curiosity. “Lyle Debenham,” he said. “It looks like they’ve been selling tickets to this shindig,” he observed. “It’s a packed house.”

  “How did you know Corinne?” I asked when Maurice didn’t say anything.

  “I was Mo’s replacement.” Lyle chuckled.

  It took me a minute to realize “Mo” was Maurice.

  “Husband number three,” Maurice said dryly.

  “She always said she was going to leave each of us something to remember her by,” Lyle said, apparently unperturbed by Maurice’s cool manner. “What do you suppose it’ll be? Old Goudge”-he tilted his head toward the lawyer-“wouldn’t even give me a hint. I thought about not coming, but I had nothing better to do this early-tee time’s not till nine forty-two, so here I am. You’re not related to Corinne, are you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “For what it’s worth, old man,” Lyle said, leaning across me to address Maurice directly, “I know you didn’t have anything to do with offing our mutual ex-wife. Not your style.”

  “Decent of you,” Maurice said, a bit more warmth in his voice.

  “Wasn’t me either,” Lyle volunteered. “I was at my grandson’s graduation in Alabama this past weekend. He’s going on to med school so he can take care of his old grandpop in my declining years. Didn’t get back here until Thursday. Hamish, though…”

  I followed his gaze to where a cadaverously thin man sat at the table, arms crossed over his chest.

  “A little bird told me he never gave up on getting Corinne back, that he continued to send her a bouquet of tulips-”

  “Her favorite flowers,” Maurice put in.

  “-every week of her life. He made a total ass of himself at the wedding when she married the count.”

  “He’s a baron,” Maurice said. He scanned the crowd. “I don’t see him here.”

  “Not worth making the transatlantic trip,” Lyle said. “I heard he’s close to bankruptcy, that his shipping business has taken some big losses the past couple of years.”

  Before Maurice could respond, the lawyer cleared his throat with a loud “Ahem.”

  My watch showed exactly eight o’clock. A sense of anticipation upped the energy level in the room. Peering over his glasses at us, the old lawyer said, “It is a relief to see that so many of you could avail yourself of the invitation I extended to be here this morning, in accordance with Corinne Blakely’s expressed wishes. There appear to be quite a few people here whom I did not invite and who are not mentioned in the will…” He scanned the room with a disapproving gaze.

  I squirmed as his eyes seemed to linger on me. Was he going to kick me out?

  “But we shall get on with it, regardless.”

  A communal exhalation told me I wasn’t the only noninvitee here.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, I am Jonathan Goudge, and I had the honor of Mrs. Blakely’s trust and confidence for nearly half a century. It is my privilege to carry out the last task she entrusted to me, the reading of her will and the distribution of her assets.”

  Goudge had a sonorous voice that almost put me to sleep as he read through the opening paragraphs of legal mumbo jumbo in a measured way. Corinne seemed to have left mementos-a letter opener, a brooch, a sterling tea set, and the like-to many, many people. Some recipients teared up, some frowned, and some left the conference room after their inheritances were announced. Lavinia Fremont started to sob when the lawyer read that she was to receive all of Corinne Blakely’s clothes, including a collection of vintage evening wear and competition gowns, plus one hundred thousand dollars to preserve and display the gowns as she saw fit. The bequest was “in memory of the friendship that has meant more to me than any other during my life.” I shivered at the naked loss on Lavinia’s face and said a prayer of thanks for my sister, who was my dearest friend. Lavinia rose, with the help of the man behind her, and made her way out of the room, face buried in the handkerchief Mrs. Laughlin had handed her.

  The lawyer paused momentarily in his reading, until Lavinia had cleared the door and attention returned to him, and then read that Mrs. Laughlin was to receive a pension from the estate for the duration of her life, and was to be allowed to select such mementos as she pleased from the house where she had served so long, excepting only those items specifically left to other people.

  Turner Blakely jerked his head up. “Anything she wants?”

  Leveling a reproving look at Turner over the top of his glasses, the lawyer reiterated, “‘Any such mementos as she pleases.’”

  “A memento would be something small, right? Something valued under, say, a hundred bucks?” Turner refused to give up, and seemed unaware of the disgusted looks aimed his way.

  “The term ‘memento’ has no specific definition as to size or value,” Goudge said.

  I grinned inwardly, thinking of the items Mrs. Laughlin had already spirited from the house. She hadn’t been greedy; she’d selected things for their sentimental value, not their money value. I smiled at her and she lowered her right eyelid in the suggestion of a wink as Turner subsided into sulky silence.

  Maurice gripped my arm tightly when the lawyer began. “‘And to my former husbands, I bequeath…’”

  I stood up straighter, feeling Lyle come to attention, too.

  “‘To Baron Klaus von Heffner, my sixth husband, I leave my collection of classical albums, because music soothes the savage beast.’”

  A few titters rose from the crowd and I arched my brows at Maurice in a “what does that mean?” way. He shrugged, looking as puzzled as I was.

  “‘To Jeffrey Washington, my fifth husband and dear friend, I leave the 1953 Packard Caribbean, in memory of our road trips.’”

  A good-looking African-American man who seemed to be in his early fifties smiled and raised a hand. “Thank you, Coco, wherever you are,” he said. “We had some good times.”

  “He looks a lot younger than Corinne,” I whispered to Maurice.

  “Her husbands got successively younger,” he said. “I believe there was a twenty-two-year gap between Corinne and Washington.”

  The lawyer continued, his voice a bit louder, to be heard over the hum of low-voiced conversations. “‘And to my fourth husband, Hamish MacLeod, I leave five thousand doll
ars with the hope that he will spend it on tulip bulbs to replenish the earth’s supply of tulips, since he lavished so many of them on me.’”

  The thin man at the table stiffened. Was Corinne making fun of him or thanking him? I wondered. MacLeod seemed equally uncertain as he pressed his lips into a thin line, shoved his chair back from the table, smacking into the knees of the people standing behind him, and lurched to his feet. “I was intended by God as Corinne’s only true husband,” he said with a soft Scottish burr. His gaze swept the room as if daring anyone to dispute it. The man and woman sitting on either side of him inched their chairs away. “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”

  “Didn’t he realize several men had already been sundered from Corinne before he married her?” I asked in a low voice.

  Maurice snorted and, when he got control of himself, said, “He’s a minister, originally from Edinburgh. He relocated to California years ago, and Corinne met him when he officiated at a friend’s wedding.”

  “That was the end of me,” Lyle put in, unabashed about eavesdropping and apparently bearing Corinne no ill will for dumping him for the skeletal pastor. “She took one look at him and wham! Of course, he had a bit more meat on him back then. Looks like he’s been starving himself since Corinne left him.”

  I was about to reply when I noticed a latecomer sidle through the door to stand against the wall, slightly behind Mr. Goudge. Detective Lissy! Uh-oh. What was he doing here?

  MacLeod sank back into his seat, the crowd quieted again, and Goudge resumed reading. Corinne had left Lyle a share in a country club, news he greeted with a fist pump. “That’s my gal!” Beaming, he said good-bye to Maurice and me, then scooted out the door in a flash of salmon and raspberry.

  As the lawyer intoned, “‘And to my second husband, Maurice Goldberg…’” I looked at Lissy. He stood yardstick straight, too-red lips pressed together, something in his bearing making me think of a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.