Dead Man Waltzing

by Ella Barrick

She nodded. “I still have a couple of my favorites, but they’re in a storage unit. Why do you ask?”

  I explained, and she laughed, offering me a cup of herbal tea. I declined, saying I needed to get home, and she at once fetched my dress from the back. Unzipping the plastic cover, she revealed the luminous pink satin sparkling with rhinestones. “Did you want to try it again?”

  I shook my head. “No. I trust you.”

  Smiling, she rezipped the bag and accepted my credit card. Swiping it, she asked, “How is Maurice? I hope the police are not still bothering him about… I saw you both yesterday at the lawyer’s, and I meant to talk to Maurice, but after hearing about Corinne’s bequest, I… well… I hope Maurice doesn’t think I’m one of those who believe he could possibly…”

  “I understand completely.” I laid a sympathetic hand on her arm. “And I’m sure Maurice does, too. It’s hard for him, as you can imagine, but he’s got a really good lawyer. I’ve been talking to some people, too, hoping to uncover some information the police might have overlooked.”

  “You’re a good friend, Stacy,” Lavinia said. She gave me the receipt to sign. “It would be simply horrible if Maurice, or any innocent person, were convicted of murder.”

  “It’s horrible enough just being a suspect,” I said, speaking from experience. “But Maurice is holding up well. I’ll tell him you were asking after him.”

  “Do that. Tell him I’d love it if he could drop by so we could catch up. It’s been way too long.” Her thin face lit up and I promised her I’d tell Maurice.

  * * *

  My cell phone rang when I was halfway home, and I answered it to hear my mother’s voice. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come for dinner and maybe a ride?” she asked with none of the “How are you doing?” preliminaries that she thinks waste so much time. As she sees it, if someone close to you wants you to know how they’re doing, they’ll mention it. You don’t really care, Mom says, about how casual acquaintances are doing, so why ask?

  I hadn’t seen Mom in a couple of weeks, and an evening ride suddenly sounded like a fabulous idea. “I’d love to,” I said. “Let me stop home to change and I’ll come on out.”

  Mom’s idea of proper riding attire is jodhpurs, but that’s because she’s into competitive dressage. I settled for a pair of jeans and low-heeled boots and drove to Mom’s place in Aldie, Virginia, about a fifty-minute drive on a Sunday evening. Traffic and strip malls and overbuilding gradually gave way to housing areas with a little space between the homes, and then to tree-shaded pastures with grass so thick and green it looked like icing laid over the landscape with a trowel. Mom’s house might be smack in the middle of horse country, but she didn’t live on one of those multi-thousand-acre farms with miles of white fencing. Her place was small, a two-bedroom house on five acres with a fenced paddock, just enough room for her and her three horses: Carmelo, Kobe (a mare), and Bird. Mom’s other passion, besides horses, is basketball. Her barn is bigger and has more amenities than her house, and I knew I’d find her there.

  The barn, painted red with white trim, stood two hundred yards from the house. An old-fashioned water pump sprouted near the door, and from the shallow puddle of water underneath its spout, I deduced that Mom had recently filled a bucket to water the horses. I stepped inside, grateful for the barn’s cool shade. The barn had a center aisle with three stalls on either side, only half of which were currently occupied. Bird, the twenty-two-year-old bay gelding I’d learned to ride on, whickered when I walked into the barn, and stuck his handsome bay head into the aisle. Mom emerged from the tack room on the far end, wiping her hands on a cloth. I gave her a quick hug and got a whiff of saddle soap. She endured the hug patiently-she’s not much of one for physical affection-and waited while I patted Bird’s neck.

  “Let’s have dinner first,” Mom said, “so it’ll be cooler for our ride.” She led the way out of the barn to the house, moving with economy of motion and the slightly bowlegged gait earned from almost fifty years in a saddle. Her angular body still looked great in formfitting riding breeches. From behind, with her graying red hair covered by a riding helmet, you’d think she was thirty instead of in her mid-fifties.

  Her house was simply furnished with an eclectic mix of pieces that I was pretty sure had come with the place. It suddenly struck me as interesting that both of us were living with someone else’s furniture, with tables and chairs and beds that had been carefully chosen by other people. I wondered whether a happy young couple, newly married, had picked out the round oak table in Mom’s kitchen that she had set for dinner with cream-colored place mats and terra-cotta-colored stoneware. Had they eaten their first meal as a couple at this table? I shook off the fanciful imaginings and got myself a bottle of mineral water from the modern Whirlpool fridge Mom bought two years ago, when the one that came with the house gave up the ghost.

  We both watch our weight carefully-Mom to be fair to her horses, and me to be fair to my dance partners-so dinner was grilled chicken breasts over a romaine-and-roasted-pepper salad. A spritz of balsamic vinegar served as dressing. We splurged on a single glass of white wine each, and Mom filled me in on the latest happenings on the professional dressage circuit. I told her about visiting Randolph Blakely at the rehab center. “It’s a posh place,” I said. “If I ever develop an addiction to something other than dancing, send me there, okay?”

  “Do you think this Randolph had something to do with murdering his mother?” Mom asked, rising to clear our few dishes.

  “I hope not,” I said, “but it’s a little odd that, according to his neighbor, he was apparently visited by one of Corinne’s ex-husbands a few days before Corinne died. Of course, he-Hamish-didn’t inherit much, and neither did Randolph.”

  “His son got all the money, right?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Corinne’s grandson, Turner. He’s a piece of work. His dad thinks he did it.”

  Mom turned a shocked face toward me. “His own father accused him?”

  “Well, not to his face, I don’t think. He told Maurice and me that he figured Turner had poisoned Corinne for her money.”

  “That’s awful. How could a father say that about his own son?”

  I thought about the newspaper article I’d read earlier in the day about a teenager killing his mother and father with a hammer, and didn’t say anything. Sometimes one’s children did horrifyingly awful things, and it was probably to Randolph’s credit that he recognized that his son wasn’t a saint. “I’m more interested in the mysterious blonde who visits him,” I said.

  “Why?”

  Mom’s blunt question made me think. “I guess,” I said slowly, “it’s because she’s proof that there’s more going on in Randolph’s life than his mother or anyone knew about. They all think he’s moldering away, practically a hermit, and yet this woman comes to see him. Whether she’s a friend or a girlfriend or a Realtor, she’s a connection with the outside world-outside Hopeful Morning, that is-that no one knew he had. I guess she makes me wonder what else he might be hiding. That’s not fair.” I stopped myself. “We don’t know he was ‘hiding’ her. I guess I’m thinking that this is a case of ‘still waters run deep,’ or something of the sort.”

  “Very probably,” Mom agreed. I could tell by her tone that she’d lost interest in Corinne’s death and the search for her murderer. If there wasn’t a horse in the story, it didn’t hold Mom’s attention for too long. I was used to that, so I followed her out to the stable with no hard feelings and saddled Bird, my fingers moving with the ease of long practice to slot the leather strap through the buckle, and lengthen the stirrups two notches.

  We posted single file down a path that wandered through a patch of woods, and then emerged into an open pasture where we could ride side by side. Cantering on Bird, I felt myself truly relax for the first time in days, the wind sifting through my hair, the setting sun warming my face, the big, warm horse’s body rocking me gently. We pulled up as we neared a stream and Mom came alongside me.
“I don’t suppose your sister’s said anything about the trip to Georgia?”

  She gave me a look out of the sides of her eyes, and I could tell that the trip was important to her, that she really wanted Danielle to come. I wanted to say she should talk to Danielle, but I knew that was unlikely to happen. Mom knew she’d burned bridges when she left us, and she wouldn’t think it fair to “beg”-as she’d think of it-for attention or time from Danielle or me. “Dani’s… worried,” I said.

  “What’s there to worry about?”

  “I think she’s afraid that going to Jekyll Island again will drown out or erase all her good memories of our last trip there.”

  “Good memories?” Mom snorted, sounding a lot like one of her horses. “That trip ranks as one of my worst memories. Ronald was pressing me, trying to make me give up riding or, at least, competing. I think we fought from the moment we arrived at that little beach bungalow until the moment we left. He crowned the weekend by giving me his ultimatum: horses or him.”

  Mom’s thin face looked almost gaunt as she relived the painful memories. “I didn’t know,” I said inadequately.

  She gave a half laugh. “Why would you? Even at our worst, we tried not to fight in front of you kids. I guess I’m pleased that Danielle has good memories of the trip. I wonder what Nick remembers?” We fell quiet for a moment, trying to envision what my brother’s memories of that final family vacation would be.

  “That snake,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he remembers the way you and I screeched when he brought that garter snake in and it got loose in the living room. Danielle thought it was cool and helped him look for it while you and I hid in the bedroom. As if a snake couldn’t have slithered under the door! I wonder where Dad was?”

  “Probably down on the beach with a book. I think he read every Tom Clancy novel ever written on that vacation.”

  We smiled at each other and started back toward the barn, the horses eager to return to their hay. Dusk had deepened, and the earliest fireflies glowed at knee level, flitting above the deep grass and at the edge of the woods. Back at the barn, I helped Mom put the horses up, gave her a hug, and left, envying, in part, her quiet country life and her relationship with the horses. I was pretty sure the Old Town Alexandria historical-preservation Nazis and/or the home owners’ association would object if I turned my carport into a stable and installed an Appaloosa. Maybe I should get a gerbil. Somehow, I didn’t think that would be the same.

  Chapter 20

  Monday, the day of the DanceSport exhibition and luncheon for the Olympics organizers and voters, dawned with overcast skies and high humidity. My morning Cheerios were limp even before I put milk on them. I spooned them up, then went upstairs, still in my nightgown-no students this morning- to do some paperwork before it was time to get ready. Zipping through my e-mails, I studied the report of our quarterly earnings and expenses that Tav had left. Tiring of the details, I skipped to the bottom line and sighed; if things didn’t pick up soon, I didn’t know how much longer I could continue to operate the studio. The thought of going back to working for someone else depressed me, and I brainstormed a few ideas for attracting students. Maybe if the first lesson were free?

  I hadn’t come up with anything brilliant by midmorning, when it was time to get ready for the exhibition. Vitaly and I were dancing the international standard dances, so I pulled my blond hair back from my face and twirled it into an elaborate chignon, anchoring it with numerous hairpins and hair spray. Makeup came next. I started with my false eyelashes. When I’d first applied them as a young teen, it used to take me forty-five minutes and a lot of glue and tears to get them on right. Now I accomplished the task in less than five minutes. Full makeup followed, as heavy and defined as if I were doing a stage play. If the judges and audience couldn’t see a dancer’s expressions, they were missing a significant part of the performance. I finished by curling my lashes and layering on black mascara, then slicking a dark crimson lipstick onto my mouth. I leaned toward the bathroom mirror and inspected the result. Perfecto. Plum-colored liner made my green eyes “pop,” and the way I’d pulled my hair back enhanced my cheekbones and showed off the line of my neck.

  Satisfied with my appearance, I checked the dress bag that held the gown and my shoes; grabbed the dance duffel that held my bling, sewing kit for repairs on the fly, extra makeup for midcompetition (or exhibition, in this case) touchups, extra shoes, and miscellaneous other things; and lugged it all out to my Volkswagen. Vitaly and I had agreed to meet at the exhibition site, a hotel in Crystal City, and I made the drive without holdup, happy to hand my car over to the valet when I arrived, since the dancers’ expenses were being paid.

  Changing into my exhibition dress in a public restroom, to the bemusement of a couple of “women who lunch” who watched me disappear into the stall in my jeans and T-shirt and emerge, Cinderella-like, in the pink satin gown with its hip-high slit emphasized by a deep ruffle, I headed for the ballroom. The reception area outside the ballroom was crowded with ticket holders drinking prelunch aperitifs and waiting for the doors to open. I threaded my way through them and slipped through the doors. The first person I saw upon entering the vast, echoing space was Marco Ingelido, doing a mike check at a podium near the dance floor. I’d forgotten he was to emcee the event. His eyes met mine for a moment, and he beckoned to me, but then one of the organizers claimed his attention. Other dancers milled around, some warming up on the dance floor set up in the middle of the room. Tables, set for lunch, ringed the floor, and the hotel’s catering staff bustled about filling water glasses and setting out bread baskets.

  “Stacy!” Vitaly sailed toward me, arms open, wide grin showing off his expensive teeth. “You are here.” He wore a tux with tails over a white vest and shirt, with a bow tie and cummerbund that matched my dress. Gel slicked his stick-straight, straw-colored hair off his high forehead. “You are looking spectacularly.”

  I dropped him a curtsy. “Thank you, kind sir.”

  A photographer’s flash went off and I turned, startled, to see Sarah Lewis grinning at us. “Hello again,” she said in a friendly way. I introduced her to Vitaly, thinking that I couldn’t go anywhere without bumping into her these days. We set a date for her to do publicity stills of me and Vitaly, and she strode off to get pictures of the other couples as a bell dinged. The doors opened and the diners and donors streamed in, making for their tables.

  “Are we dancings or eatings first?” Vitaly asked.

  I looked past him to where one of the coordinators was giving us urgent “get over here” gestures. “Dancing.”

  We gathered in a space the coordinator insisted on calling the green room and chatted with the other pros assembled to dance. Vitaly’s former partner, Anya, was there in a sizzling gold lamé Latin costume that showed off her rock-hard abs, and he caught up with her while I chatted with a couple of friends I hadn’t seen in a while. This exhibition had none of the tension of a high-profile competition, and we were laughing together until someone turned up the volume on the closed-circuit TV in the corner and we heard Marco Ingelido asking the crowd for a moment of silence to honor “our recently deceased colleague and the force behind getting DanceSport accepted as an Olympic event, Corinne Blakely.” In the green room, conversation dribbled to a stop as some dancers bowed their heads and others stood quietly.

  When conversation resumed, I overheard someone mention Maurice’s name and caught a sideways glance or two aimed at me. I flushed, certain that many of these people had heard about Maurice’s arrest and were wondering whether he was guilty. Squelching my impulse to stand on a chair and declaim Maurice’s innocence, I let Vitaly lead me from the room as a harried coordinator summoned us for our performance. We crossed an expanse of carpet to the dance floor as Ingelido finished reciting some of our accomplishments and led a round of applause. We began with a Viennese waltz, with Marco supplying a bit of the dance’s history and describing some of the steps in an attempt to communicate to the Olympics’ d
ecision makers how complicated and technical DanceSport is.

  “It’s not unlike gymnastics and ice-skating,” he said, “in that it requires both tremendous athletic ability and fitness, in addition to an artistic element that makes it eminently watchable.” In other words, he was telling folks that TV viewership might go up if ballroom dance made it into the Olympics. It was a good spiel, I had to admit, and I wondered whether he had written the script or Corinne had.

  The music transitioned to a tango, and we segued easily into the slow, slow, quick-quick-slow rhythm. The carnation pink skirt flowed around me as we promenaded. When I snapped my head frontward to give Vitaly a smoldering look, I caught sight of Greta and Conrad Monk at a ringside table. I shouldn’t have been surprised, given Greta’s connection with fund-raising and with dance, but I was. It didn’t show on my face, however, as I hooked my leg high on Vitaly’s thigh from behind and let him drag me across the floor, my face pressed to his back. Spontaneous applause broke out. We finished the set with a jaunty quickstep that left us breathless as we waved good-bye to the crowd and traded places with Anya and her new partner, who were set to demo some of the Latin dances.

  The exhibition ended the better part of an hour later with all the professional dancers on the floor at the same time to take a bow. We were a glittering rainbow of greens, blues, reds, and pinks. The crowd applauded loudly, most of them getting to their feet to give us an ovation. We were each invited to join a table as dessert was served, and I was guided to a table directly in front of the podium. I knew we were supposed to talk up DanceSport as an Olympic event, and I’d prepared a couple of comments. They went out of my mind, though, as I smoothed my gown under my hips and sat, looking up to see Turner Blakely across the table. His nostrils flared and he looked distinctly unhappy to see me, although that didn’t keep him from checking out my cleavage.