Dead Man Waltzing

by Ella Barrick

  The certainty in his tone took me aback. “What are you talking about?”

  His gaze mocked me. “Ask Maurice. I’m not one to tell tales out of school on another man. I’ve got a class to teach.” On that note, he stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and ushered me out of the office, leaving me in the entryway as he returned to the dance floor. I knew Solange, eyes bright with curiosity, watched me as I exited.

  I pointed my Beetle toward home, troubled by Marco’s insinuations about Maurice. I hoped to be able to talk to him about them when I got back to Graysin Motion, but an accident on the beltway had traffic backed up for miles, and by the time I reached Old Town ninety minutes later, he was gone for the day. I phoned his house, but got no answer. Reluctantly concluding I would get no answers that evening, I called Danielle and talked her into meeting me at the gym for a workout.

  * * *

  “Isn’t that Eulalia Pine something else?” Danielle whispered as we did vicious ab exercises in a Pilates class-Danielle’s choice, not mine.

  “She seems to know her stuff,” I said, crunching my body into a vee with my arms extended over my head and my legs almost perpendicular to the floor. “She’s in charge of an estate sale at Corinne Blakely’s house that starts tomorrow. I’m going to show up early to buy Corinne’s old typewriter.”

  “Why?”

  The women on either side of us shushed us, and Danielle and I exchanged guilty looks and then giggled. The instructor frowned at us, which only made us giggle more.

  “I’m not going to be able to walk upright for a week,” I complained to Dani as we straggled out of the class at nine p.m. I rubbed my abused abs.

  “You’re the professional athlete,” she said. “Suck it up.”

  “Hmph.”

  As we showered in the locker room, Danielle came back to the estate sale, and I told her about the typewriter and Maurice’s theory that the cartridge would reveal Corinne’s outline and provide more suspects for her murder.

  “An estate sale sounds like fun,” Dani said, squirting shampoo into her hand and massaging it through her thick curls. “I’ll come with you.”

  “I have to be there by eight tomorrow morning.”

  “Shoot. I’ve got to work.”

  I faced the shower spray, closing my eyes and lifting my face to the drumming water. “I’ll call you as soon as I get finished and let you know how it goes. Any luck finding a couch yet? I could keep an eye out for one at the estate sale.”

  “I’ve been to a couple more stores, but I haven’t settled on a couch yet. I’m making progress, though: I know I don’t want leather. Sure, let me know if you see something at the sale.”

  We toweled off, dressed, and left the gym as the last glimmers of sun faded from the sky. Before we separated outside the gym, I asked Dani whether she wanted to go swimsuit shopping with me on Saturday. “I need a new suit for Jekyll Island,” I said casually.

  She eyed me with affectionate scorn. “Is that your subtle way of trying to nudge me into a decision?”

  I don’t know why my subtlety was so obvious to everyone. “Maybe.”

  She laughed, punched my shoulder, and strode off with a toss of her red curls.

  “Is that a ‘yes’?” I called after her.

  * * *

  I arrived at the estate sale the next morning moments after it began, Tav, surprisingly, in tow. He’d shown up at Graysin Motion before heading to his business downtown, hoping to have the talk about our financial situation which we’d postponed from yesterday. He’d caught me shooing out the sweaty ballroom cardio students, anxious to get to Corinne’s house before someone snapped up the typewriter, and had decided to ride along when I told him where I was going.

  He let out a low whistle when he caught sight of the mansion. “Ballroom dancing pays better than I thought,” he said.

  “Marrying well pays better than ballroom dancing,” I said dryly, maneuvering the car down a side street where arrows indicated we should park.

  “Maybe I should try it,” he said with a sidelong look at me.

  “Great work if you can get it,” I said, refusing to take the bait.

  He laughed and freed himself from the seat belt. “Which way is the house now? I got lost two turns back-I have no sense of direction.”

  I put my hands on his shoulders and pointed him in the right direction. The number of cars parked on both sides of the street between here and Corinne’s filled me with dismay, and I found my pace quickening as we approached the house. “I hope it’s not gone,” I muttered, as we came within sight of the house, the lawn crawling with dozens of people pawing through goods set up on card tables outside, while a steady stream of buyers disappeared through the front doors or into the open garage.

  A fortyish woman and a man sat behind a six-foot-long folding table with a cash box in front of them and a professionally lettered sign proclaiming PINE ESTATE SALES propped to the side. The woman wasn’t Eulalia Pine, but I approached her anyway. She looked up from making change for a dealer apparently buying several pieces of furniture and gave me a harassed look over the tops of her reading glasses. When I introduced myself and told her I wanted to speak to Eulalia Pine, she shook her head of frizzy brown hair. “Mom tore a ligament in her ankle out appraising some antique farm equipment last evening,” she said with an exasperated sigh.

  “She was going to put a typewriter aside for me,” I said anxiously, scanning the boxes and items stacked behind and under the table.

  The woman threw open her hands in a “nothing I can do” gesture. “She didn’t say anything to me. Your best bet is to find it in the house. All I can say is we haven’t sold any typewriters today.” She turned her attention to a customer behind me.

  I grabbed Tav’s hand. “Come on. Thanks,” I threw over my shoulder to the woman, who was now haggling with a portly man about the price for a life-size ceramic tiger he towed on a child’s sled.

  Tav and I threaded our way through the throngs of shoppers; it felt as crowded as Christmas Eve at the mall. “Who knew a garage sale would draw so many people?” I said.

  “Estate sale,” corrected a thin woman holding a laundry basket full of what looked like antique linens. “Very different. I don’t do garage sales.”

  “You say tomahto, I say tomayto,” I whispered to Tav as we made our way into the high-ceilinged foyer. I thought of all Great-aunt Laurinda’s stuff I wanted to get rid of and wondered whether either an estate sale or a garage sale would net me enough to buy a few new pieces of furniture. Maybe if I combed garage sales for bargains, I thought. I hadn’t been to a garage sale in years; last time I’d purchased an Aladdin VCR tape with a quarter from my allowance. I started for the stairs.

  Midway up, a young couple, each toting one end of a rolled-up carpet, bumped into me. Tav’s arm clamped around me as I teetered on the stair. He drew me tight to his side.

  “This is more dangerous than playing football”-I knew he meant soccer-“on the highway.”

  “The possibility of bargains can drive even usually sane, calm people to hitherto unknown acts of violence,” I said, trying not to show how his closeness affected me. His warmth and the woodsy scent of his shampoo or deodorant made me lose focus for a moment.

  “Do you suppose that woman woke up this morning saying, ‘I must have a bronze planter engraved with scenes from an African village, because my life is incomplete without it’?” Tav asked in my ear as an elderly woman tottered past us with just such an item clutched to her chest.

  I stifled a laugh and continued up the stairs. On the landing, practically within sight of my goal, I bumped into Turner Blakely. A knowing smile oiled across his face when he recognized me, and I could tell he thought I’d come looking for him. He threw an arm across my shoulders. “Too many people around right now, Stacy,” he said. “But I’m free tonight.”

  I wiggled out from under his arm and drew Tav forward. “Tav, this is Turner Blakely, Corinne’s grandson. Turner, Tav Acosta, my part
ner.” I deliberately didn’t specify what kind of partner.

  The men eyed each other with instant, mutual dislike and shook hands briefly. “I am sorry about your grandmother’s death,” Tav said.

  “What are you doing here, then?” Turner asked me, suspicion darkening his eyes now that he knew I hadn’t come chasing after his hot bod.

  “The same as everyone else,” I said as casually as possible. “Looking for a bargain.”

  “They’re not charging enough for Grandmother’s treasures,” Turner said. His face wore an expression of discontent. “I tried to tell the woman in charge that she was pricing things too low, but she wouldn’t listen to me. Told me she knew her business and to butt out.”

  I grinned inwardly and wished I’d been present for the confrontation between Eulalia Pine and Turner Blakely.

  “I know Grandmother paid twenty times more for some of her things than that Pine woman is asking for them.”

  “Things always go cheap at a garage sale,” I said.

  “Estate sale.” Turner glared at me.

  I suddenly thought of Maurice’s painting. I knew he didn’t have possession of it yet. “Where are the items that Corinne willed to people?” I asked.

  “In storage,” Turner said. “Goudge’s staff collected the bequeathed items. They also removed all the good art, Grandmother’s jewelry, and pieces of furniture; it’ll be auctioned off later.” He looked a bit happier at the prospect of making more money.

  “Look, Verena, this chest of drawers is only one hundred dollars,” exclaimed a woman’s voice behind us.

  “That can’t be right!” Turner brushed past Tav and me and went to confront the women attempting to lift the chest.

  As soon as his back was turned, I grabbed Tav’s hand and pulled him down the hall to Corinne’s office. Only a couple of shoppers browsed in the small room. One was standing on tiptoe to take down a clock mounted on the wall. The desk had a “sold” sticker on it. Gaps in the bookshelves showed where buyers had removed books. The desk chair was gone.

  So was the typewriter.

  Chapter 26

  I must have gasped, because Tav turned to look at me. “Stacy?”

  “It’s gone,” I wailed. “But the woman said they hadn’t sold it yet.” I rushed to the desk, looking under it and around it, in case someone had moved the typewriter so they could examine the desk better. “It’s not here.”

  “Stacy.” Tav hauled me to my feet. “Someone must have just walked out with it. If we hurry, maybe we can catch up with them at the cashier and make them an offer for it.”

  “Good thinking.” I dashed out the door in front of him, saw the stairs clogged with people to my right, and headed left, hoping to find a lesser-used flight of stairs. Many of these old houses had servants’ stairs, I knew. This end of the hallway was quieter, empty bedrooms opening off to either side. I flung open a door at the end of the hall to find a narrow flight of stairs leading downward. With a triumphant smile at Tav, I took the stairs two at a time, erupting into what appeared to be a butler’s pantry near the kitchen.

  “Excuse me,” I said, squeezing between two couples squabbling over an ugly china tureen ornate enough to have graced the table of Queen Victoria or some such.

  Hoping Tav was still behind me, I threaded my way through the kitchen, its counters laden with stacks of china and serving dishes in three or four patterns, bins of silverware and stainless, glassware, small appliances, and all the other detritus that ends up in kitchen cabinets: linens, baskets, holiday-themed dishes, candlesticks, garlic presses and mandolins, and a George Foreman grill. A brief vision of the impeccable Corinne bent over a little grill on her patio flashed through my mind as I opened the back door to said patio and stepped outside with a sigh of relief. Fresh air! I hadn’t realized how confining the house felt with so many people panting for bargains.

  “Over there.” Tav grasped my arm and pointed toward a young man disappearing around the side of the house, our typewriter tucked under one arm while he struggled with a standard poodle on a leash. We took off after him. My kitten heels sank into the soft turf with every step. I finally paused to slip them off and sprinted barefoot to catch up with Tav as he rounded the corner of the house. The grass was crisp and cool, and I would’ve enjoyed the opportunity to stand and scrunch my toes in it, but our typewriter was getting away.

  “Sir, sir!” I called to the man, who had, luckily, stopped to examine a copper birdbath.

  The poodle barked and the man looked up, light brown hair the color of the poodle’s curly hair falling into his eyes. He was in his mid-twenties, with a soft look about him like he didn’t exercise much and spent most of his time indoors. “Quiet, Tammy,” he told the dog, resting a hand on her head.

  She curled her lip at us, but quieted. “Yes?” He looked from me to Tav inquiringly.

  “My name’s Stacy Graysin,” I said with a winning smile, “and I came here today specifically to buy that typewriter for a friend of mine.”

  The man’s arm tightened around the machine. “I’m buying this for my mother. She wants to write a book. A romance.”

  “Wouldn’t she rather have a computer?” I asked. “Much easier for editing and such.”

  “She doesn’t trust them.”

  Oh, boy. Tammy the poodle growled at me, and I wished Hoover were here to teach her a few manners.

  “How much are they asking for the typewriter?” Tav asked.

  The young man righted the typewriter and checked a sticker. “Twenty-five dollars.”

  “I’ll give you forty,” Tav said. Tammy nosed at his hand until he stroked her head.

  “Done.” The man handed me the Smith Corona while Tav pulled two twenties out of his wallet.

  “Thanks.” I tossed the word to Tav and the young man as I beelined for the cashier’s desk before anything else could happen. The way the morning had been going, I expected Turner to pop up and rip the typewriter out of my hands, telling me it wasn’t for sale, or for a sinkhole to open up and swallow the machine.

  “I see you found it.” The woman we’d talked to earlier smiled when I reached the front of the line.

  “You know,” I said, clunking the typewriter and my shoes down on the folding table, “I really only need the cartridge, and I think that man”-I pointed to the man with his poodle, still talking to Tav-“would like to buy the typewriter.” Popping the cartridge out, I wished I’d thought of it before we’d paid Poodle Guy the forty dollars.

  “Two bucks.”

  Handing her a fiver, I turned to look for Tav, waving the cartridge triumphantly.

  Tav and the poodle guy were inspecting a display of framed movie posters, some of which looked like they were from the 1940s and 1950s, and I started toward them, tucking the cartridge and my shoes into my purse. Before I had taken two steps, though, I caught sight of a tall, skeletally thin man clad in a trench coat skulking at the edge of the property, half-hidden by a spiky-leafed hedge. Hamish MacLeod! What was he doing here? On impulse, I headed toward him, pretending to glance at the tables of knickknacks and pieces of furniture on the way. When I got to within hailing distance, I looked up-artistically, I thought-and pretended to spot him for the first time.

  “Why, aren’t you Hamish MacLeod?” I said, heading toward him with a big smile. “I saw you at the will reading. You were husband number four, right? I work with Maurice, who was husband two.” I beamed at him.

  He shrank back, practically wedging himself into the hedge, and his eyes darted from side to side. I got the distinct impression he wasn’t happy to see me. Too bad. “It’s sad, isn’t it,” I babbled on, gesturing to the crowds of people trampling the grass and making off with Corinne’s treasures. “Sad to see it all go.”

  “It’s sacrilegious,” he muttered, his Scottish accent blurring the words. If I’d closed my eyes, I could have been listening to Scotty from Star Trek. “It’s like desecrating a saint’s resting place.”

  I didn’t quite see the pa
rallels: Corinne was no saint, and this wasn’t her resting place.

  “These ghouls don’t appreciate who Corinne was,” he said, a bit louder. He inched out of the hedge with a rattle of branches and glared down his beaky nose at me. He must have been sweltering in the trench coat, because sweat beaded his forehead and slid down his temple.

  “Were you here to get a memento?” I asked.

  “Why would you ask that?” he shot at me, one hand sliding into his coat pocket. Only then did I notice the way the pockets bulged.

  Hm. Perhaps the Reverend MacLeod was helping himself to mementos without paying for them. I said soothingly, “I’m sure it must be hard to see the things that were special to you and Corinne sold off like… like…” I couldn’t think of a comparison.

  “They have no right! That vase there.” He pointed to a huge cut-crystal vase a heavyset woman was carrying in both hands. “That held the first offering of tulips I ever made to my gorgeous Corinne. It was the night after we met. She had told me tulips were her favorite flower, and I rounded up every one I could find in the city and gave them to her in that vase.” He turned away, as if the sight of the vase being sold was too much for him.

  “Very romantic.” Clearly, the man had been gaga over Corinne. Completely unbalanced about the woman, in my humble opinion. If he had felt slighted by her, if she’d told him she was going to write something that dissed their relationship, how would he have reacted? Of course, I reminded myself, she’d divorced him and married twice more, and slights didn’t get much more “in your face” than that. The divorce hadn’t prompted him to harm her, so why would he poison her now? He hadn’t had the opportunity, either, as far as I knew.

  “When did you last see Corinne?” I asked.

  “I went to every competition and exhibition she participated in.” He straightened and threw his shoulders back, clearly waiting for me to applaud his devotion.