Dead Man Waltzing

by Ella Barrick

  Tav stepped into the kitchen. “Stacy. I came as fast as I could. What is wrong?”

  I cut myself off in midscream.

  He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Were you saving that from an intruder or using it as a weapon?” He gestured to the rooster.

  Sobs of relief ripped through me, and my arms went numb. The rooster crashed to the floor, shattering into a couple hundred garish pieces. Oops.

  Sensing that I was incapable of making sense, Tav crossed the room in two strides and pulled me into a hug. “It is okay. You are okay, Stacy. Do not cry.”

  His arms were hard and comforting, his chest where my face pressed against it warm and reassuringly solid. His hand stroked my hair. “When I got your call and you did not say anything, I knew something was wrong. I heard you cry out and ran for my car.”

  I must have hit redial just before the intruder attacked me. I pulled back slightly so I could see Tav’s face. His brown eyes, clouded with concern, searched my face. Using one finger, he lifted my chin. “You are all right?”

  “Except for a headache.” I fingered the spot on my head where it had cracked into the wall. I wasn’t going to mention the pain in my derriere to Tav. “A couple aspirin will fix me right up.” I smiled wanly.

  “I think I should take you to the hospital to get you checked out.”

  “No.” I didn’t want to spend several hours sitting in an ER crowded with real sick people who might give me something a whole lot worse than a headache. I explained that to Tav and he half smiled.

  “Okay. Well, at least sit down.”

  I became aware of the fact that he still held me in a loose embrace, that I was pressed against him from thigh to chest, and that his hands through the thin silk of my nightie felt way too good as they absently stroked my back. I saw awareness hit him, too. His eyes darkened and his gaze dropped to my lips. “Stacy…”

  He pulled me closer, and the cedary scent of him made my head swim. When I didn’t break away, he bent his head. His lips had barely grazed mine when a harsh voice called, “Police! Put your hands where I can see them.”

  Releasing me instantly and holding his hands out to his sides, Tav smile ruefully. “I called the police on my way over here. I hoped they might get here before I did.” He turned to face the cop as I raised my hands to shoulder height, embarrassed at being caught in such an awkward position and almost overcome by an insane desire to giggle. My emotions had been on a roller coaster tonight.

  The officer motioned Tav to one side with his gun and addressed me. “Ma’am, we got a nine-one-one call that there was an intruder at this address. Are you all right?” A sturdy-looking black man in his mid-thirties, he was all business. His gaze swept me from the top of my tousled blond head, down the length of my body in the peach nightgown, to my gold-painted toenails. His wary expression never changed. He spoke quietly into the radio hooked near his shoulder, and I glimpsed his partner as he or she checked the house’s exterior.

  “I’m okay now,” I babbled. “There was someone… He knocked me over. Tav is my partner. He’s the one who called you. I don’t know why… he searched for…” I gestured toward the kitchen, knowing I wasn’t making sense.

  “You might want to get a robe, ma’am,” the cop said, lowering his gun. “Let me see some identification, sir,” he said to Tav as I scurried to my bedroom. The wispy robe that went with the nightgown was not going to give much extra coverage. I yanked Great-aunt Laurinda’s tatty flannel robe from the back of the closet, where it had been when I moved in, and shoved my arms into the sleeves. Tying the belt at the waist, I returned to the kitchen, comfortable but frumpy in the plaid robe that draped around my torso and puddled on the floor. Great-aunt Laurinda had been a tall woman.

  Tav bit back a smile at the sight. The officer had been joined by his partner, a competent-looking woman with sandy hair in a braid tucked down the back of her shirt. They questioned us for what seemed like hours, asking me to go over the night’s events several times. Showing me where the back door was splintered near the lock, they suggested the would-be thief had used a crowbar or something similar to pry it open. “Not a professional,” the female cop opined.

  When I led them into the front parlor, Tav following, I gasped to see that it, too, had been searched. I hadn’t noticed it in the dark. A stack of dance magazines had cascaded from a pile by the couch; I must have slipped on one of them. Great-aunt Laurinda’s papers from a small Oriental chest I kept meaning to sort through were strewn higgledy-piggledy around the room. “Any idea what the intruder might have been after?” the male cop asked.

  I hesitated a second before saying, “No,” and Tav shot me a suddenly suspicious look.

  “Strange he overlooked your purse,” the female officer said, her eyes narrowing as if she suspected there was more to the story than I was sharing.

  I met her gaze blandly, having no intention of regaling them with my theories about Corinne Blakely’s death and a mysterious manuscript no one could verify ever existed, but which the greater part of the ballroom dance community thought I had possession of.

  Finally, the police officers were ready to leave. They handed me a business card, suggested I contact my insurance agent and get my door repaired, and told me to call them if I thought of anything else or found something missing. “Thank you very much,” I said gratefully. As they pulled away in their squad car I noticed lights on in the windows of a couple of neighbors’ houses. Great, they probably thought they’d see me on the next installment of America’s Most Wanted.

  I returned to the kitchen to find Tav pouring the coffee I’d put on for the officers but which they’d declined. “Actually, I could use something stronger,” I said, pulling a bottle of lemon vodka from the freezer.

  Tav raised his brows.

  “It was for a party,” I explained, uncapping the bottle. “A hostess gift. I forgot to take it with me.” I poured a couple fingers into a juice glass and looked a question at Tav.

  He shook his head. “I am driving.”

  It crossed my mind that if the police hadn’t arrived when they did, he might not have been driving home, and I took too large a swallow of the vodka. The lemon and cold stung my throat and I coughed. Now I knew why I didn’t drink vodka. I set the half-full glass on the counter with a grimace and reached for the mug of coffee Tav held out.

  “So,” he said mildly after I’d had a couple of warming sips, “perhaps you will tell me what you think your intruder was after? Do you know who it was?”

  “No!” I saw doubt in his eyes. “No, really. I have a guess about what he-or she-was looking for, but I don’t know who it was. I would’ve told the cops if I did.”

  Tav nodded, his gaze steady on my face. “So he was looking for…?”

  “Corinne Blakely’s manuscript?”

  He raised his brows so they furrowed his forehead. “Why in the world would anyone expect to find it here?”

  I winced. “Because I told Greta Monk I had it,” I said in a small voice. Before he could interrupt, I hurried through my explanation.

  He didn’t call me a lying, deceitful, dishonest wretch, as I was afraid he might. Instead, he asked, exasperated, “Did you not realize you might be putting yourself in danger?”

  “Not until Danielle mentioned it,” I confessed. “And even then I didn’t think I’d be in real danger.”

  “Well, you must let everyone know that you do not, in fact, have Corinne’s manuscript or notes or anything else.”

  “I already tried. No one believed me.” There was probably a fairy tale that dealt with a girl who lied and was murdered or eaten by a monster as a result, but I couldn’t think of one. “I’m a moron.”

  “You are not a moron.” Tav set his mug on the counter and crossed to me. He put his hands on my shoulders and gave me a little shake. “You are merely too impulsive, querida.”

  “Don’t call me that.” The words were out before I could stop them.

  Tav stepped back, startled.


  “Rafe used to-”

  He nodded in instant understanding, but the gentle moment had passed as the specter of his dead half brother rose between us. “Of course. Let me help you secure this door and I will be on my way. We can discuss this in the morning, when we are not so tired.”

  I glanced at the kitchen clock, startled to see it was after four. I admitted I didn’t have a toolbox and didn’t know where the hammer I used to hang pictures was, so Tav and I scooted the heavy kitchen table across the floor so it blocked the back door. “That will have to do,” Tav said, clearly unsatisfied with the security arrangements. “I could stay-”

  “It’ll be fine,” I insisted, yawning. “I’ll get someone to fix it first thing.”

  Allowing me to convince him, Tav let me show him to the front door. As I swung it open to admit the chill breath of almost-dawn, he looked down at me, the expression in his deep-set eyes sending a tingle through me. “We will continue our other… discussion later.” Without waiting for me to answer-which was a good thing, because his comment flustered me and I would only have stuttered something stupid-he stepped into the darkness. I closed the door, shot the dead bolt, and watched through the narrow windows inset on either side of the door as Tav strode to his car.

  When I saw the headlights come on, I made myself turn away, hoping our one half-kiss in the aftermath of danger would not make things awkward between us in the studio. We were business partners; that was all, I reminded myself as I headed to my bedroom. Anything romantic would only complicate matters. And my life had enough complications as it was.

  Chapter 23

  The morning brought some clarity of mind, but no insight into who had broken in last night. My headache had diminished, but I was achy and bruised in several places, probably because the intruder had knocked into me hard. Dressed in pink shorts and a tank top for my first class, I inhaled the steam from my first cup of coffee and made a mental list of intruder candidates. Greta Monk and her hubby topped the list, since not only did they think I had the manuscript, but they clearly wanted it badly-fifteen thousand dollars badly. Good thing I didn’t have it, I thought ruefully, because that sum would tempt me to sell it, even though it wasn’t mine. Fifteen thousand would keep Graysin Motion solvent for a couple of months, at least.

  Marco Ingelido also knew, because he’d overheard Monk. I thought about Marco. His reaction yesterday had surprised me. He was angry, yes, at discovering I had (as he thought) the manuscript. But in addition to the anger, he’d shown real fear, almost despair. And he’d been pleading with me to destroy the manuscript. I felt a pang of compassion. Whatever Corinne had planned to write about Marco, it was something much more damaging than an affair with an older woman.

  Besides Marco and the Monks, who might suspect I had the manuscript? Anyone they’d told, I decided after a moment. I had no way of knowing whether any of the three of them had passed the word along; if so, almost anyone in Corinne’s circle might have heard the rumor. Including, I realized, Ingelido’s niece, Sarah, who was due here at one to take pictures of Vitaly and me. Forcing myself to stop thinking about the break-in, I trotted up the interior stairs to the studio, where I saw with mingled relief and disappointment that Tav wasn’t there. After the drama of last night, I wasn’t up for going over our financials, anyway.

  Mildred Kensington greeted me with, “Any luck getting hold of that typewriter, Stacy?” and Hoover put his paws on my shoulders and gave me a lick when I walked into the ballroom. I told a disappointed Mildred that we hadn’t yet come up with a way to get Turner to give up the typewriter, and introduced the elderly class members to the foxtrot. Many of them had danced it socially in the 1940s and 1950s, and memories of fraternity dances and wedding receptions lit their faces as they relearned the steps. After they left, I practiced with a student I competed with in professional-amateur divisions at ballroom competitions. Most pros make the bulk of their money off students who pay them to compete as their partners at such competitions. This man was a self-employed plumber who particularly enjoyed the Latin dances. After we worked up a sweat with the jive-me reminding him to kick sharper and faster throughout-he left and I went downstairs to shower again. Some days I showered three or four times, depending on my schedule.

  The doorbell rang before I was fully dressed, and I scrambled into a tiered cotton skirt and matching knit top. I opened the door to find a strange woman on the doorstep. Sixty or so, and an inch or two under five feet tall, she had dark hair in a little Dutch-boy haircut, the kind that looks like someone put a bowl over your head and then cut around it. A blue shirtwaist dress topped with a red cardigan wrapped a wiry figure. Bright red Converse high-tops matched the sweater and made me blink. Dark eyes peered at me from behind fashionable glasses, assessing me. “Stacy, right?” Her voice was deep and gravelly, incongruous coming from her petite frame.

  I nodded, automatically taking the hand she held out. “Uh, yes.”

  “Good. I’m Eulalia Pine, as you must have guessed.” She handed me a business card that read, PINE ESTATE SALES AND APPRAISALS, EULALIA PINE, PROP. “Shall we get started?”

  “Started?”

  “With the furniture.” She arched her brows an inch above her glasses, which made her look like she had two sets of eyebrows. In the face of my continued incomprehension, she said impatiently, “Didn’t the other Miss Graysin tell you? She said you had some early to mid-twentieth-century pieces you wanted appraised.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes.” Danielle must have contacted this woman about Great-aunt Laurinda’s furniture. “I didn’t know today- Please come in.” Mentally blasting Danielle for not giving me a heads-up, I remembered I hadn’t checked my phone for messages last night or this morning.

  With a sniff, Eulalia Pine stepped into the foyer, her gaze darting immediately to the grandfather clock and then into the parlor. A clipboard appeared from the tote she carried and she began taking notes.

  “Would you like some coffee, Miss Pine?” I asked.

  She declined with a single jerk of her head and moved into the parlor. A sharp exhalation through her nose let me know what she thought of the papers and magazines littering the room. She made to tuck her pen under the clipboard’s clamp. “If this chaos is indicative of the care you give your pieces-”

  “I had a break-in last night,” I explained, feeling like I was failing an inspection of some sort. I straightened my spine. I didn’t need to apologize to Ms. Eulalia Pine for my inadequate housekeeping. “In fact, today’s not a good-”

  “No need to get pissy,” Eulalia Pine said, grasping the pen again. “I’m the best appraiser in northern Virginia, and I’m booked solid for the next month-I’ve got a major estate sale starting later this week-so it’s now or never.” She ran a hand over the sofa’s arched back and grimaced. “Dust.” She reminded me of Detective Lissy.

  After that last syllable, she was all business as I trailed her through the house. She studied the matched chairs in the living room, the ones with the periwinkle blue upholstery and the arched backs I’d always thought were hideously uncomfortable. “Art moderne,” she pronounced. “Textured wool frisée upholstery in excellent condition. Solid maple frames.” She peered underneath them, rattled them gently, and examined a scratch on one leg. She jotted notes and took several photos before moving on to a lamp on the end table. “Hm.” I could sense excitement under her noncommittal “hm” and wondered what there was about the ceramic lamp with its green and white jagged stripes to interest her. It was ugly with a capital U.

  “Hedwig Bollhagen,” she said in an awed voice after carefully lifting the lamp to examine the base. “With an original paper shade. Pity about the watermarks, but still.” More notes and photos. She seemed less interested in the three-tiered mahogany table the lamp sat on, and muttered something about “Michigan Furniture Company” and “post-1950.” We moved into the dining room, a room I’d barely set foot in, and she was dismissive about the table, but said she could have a buyer in minutes for th
e “art deco oak sideboard” with its low backsplash and brass hinges. “It’s French.” I couldn’t tell whether she thought that enhanced its appeal or cut its price by half. I ran a hand over the silky wood as Ms. Pine marched back into the hall, wondering whether Great-aunt Laurinda had acquired the piece in France, and whether she’d bought it on a whim or saved for months to afford it. I suddenly wondered whether I wanted to sell this furniture steeped in memories and history.

  “Miss Graysin!” The appraiser’s impatient call cut through my thoughts, and I joined her by the staircase. She seemed disappointed when I told her nothing upstairs needed appraising. “It’s my ballroom dance studio,” I said.

  “Ballroom dancing? Really?” Her mobile brows flew up again. “How bizarre. The estate sale I mentioned is for the heirs of a woman who used to be a ballroom dancer. Maybe you knew her? Colleen Blakely.”

  “Corinne,” I corrected her, a little shiver running through me. “Her grandson told me he was selling the house. I didn’t realize he was getting rid of all her stuff.”

  “A feckless young man,” Eulalia Pine said, apparently having no qualms about dissing her employer. “When Mr. Goudge hired me-I’ve worked many an estate sale for his firm-he warned me about him.”

  Ah, so she was working for the lawyer, not Turner Blakely. A brilliant idea lit up my mind. “Are they selling everything?”

  “As I understand it.”

  “I happen to know that Corinne owned a Smith Corona electric typewriter. I’m most interested in acquiring it for a friend.”

  “Collects typewriters, does he?” She nodded as if she ran across typewriter collectors every day. Maybe she did.

  Conscious of the consequences of my last lie, I hedged. “He wants this particular typewriter pretty badly. If you are conducting the sale, would it be possible to put that aside for me?”

  She eyed me shrewdly. “Perhaps. The sale starts Wednesday at eight. The dealers’ll line up early and get a number for entry, but I’ll let you in. Stop by early and I’ll have it for you.”