Dead Man Waltzing

by Ella Barrick

  “It’s part of the estate,” I pointed out. “It must belong to Turner.”

  “Pish.”

  She turned back to her packing and I watched for a minute. “Corinne’s agent said they were working with someone to finish the book-that was you?”

  She nodded. “I got in touch with them immediately after learning Corinne was dead. I’ve added a chapter about her death-the editor says it’s quite moving-and I mailed off the completed manuscript Monday. That’s a copy.” She indicated the pages on the dresser.

  “The police should have this,” I said, laying a hand on the manuscript.

  “There’s nothing in there that will help them,” she said, “but by all means, take it to them if you want.”

  “What do you mean, there’s nothing that will help them? So many people were worried about what Corinne was saying and were angry at her for revealing their secrets.”

  “Maybe so, dear,” Mrs. Laughlin said with a world-weary air, “but do you really think Marco Ingelido would kill to keep his illegitimate daughter a secret?”

  I did, actually.

  “Or that Greta Monk would do murder to keep Corinne from spilling the beans about a spot of embezzlement twenty years ago?”

  Possibly. Or her husband might.

  “Or that one of her ex-husbands might do away with her in order to keep sexual inadequacies a secret-Lyle; or keep the world from hearing how he beat his son from his first marriage-the Reverend Hamish; or conceal his past as a gigolo accused of theft-your friend Maurice.” Her gaze gently mocked me. Giving me her back, she hauled on the suitcase, pulling the top half up and over so she could latch it. A gap of about eight inches made closing it unlikely. “Could you just press down on this, dear?” she asked.

  Obligingly, I moved to the bed and leaned all my weight onto the suitcase while she fumbled with the latches. They snapped shut after a moment’s struggle. Breathing heavily, Mrs. Laughlin sank onto the coverletted bed, and I swung the suitcase to the floor, nearly dislocating my shoulder. What was she taking back to England with her-her bowling ball collection?

  “People don’t kill out of embarrassment,” she said after catching her breath.

  Hm, wasn’t there more to it than shame? I wasn’t so sure that the prospect of humiliation, divorce, loss of income or prestige, or a prison sentence didn’t make good motives, but I let her continue.

  “People kill out of greed or for revenge,” she said with the air of a teacher instructing a student.

  Where had she gotten her degree in the psychology of murder? “If greed’s a motive, you stand to make a lot of money off of this,” I said.

  My near-accusation didn’t faze her; in fact, amusement bloomed on her face. “I didn’t kill Corinne.”

  “It would have been easy for you to tamper with her medication.”

  “Maybe so, but I didn’t do it. However, that doesn’t mean I was going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The manuscript,” she said when I looked confused. “Corinne left me enough to live on in her will, but do you have any idea what taxes are like in England? And the VAT?” She shook her head in disbelief. “Besides which, I don’t want to spend the rest of my days trapped in that cottage with Abigail. We didn’t get along so well as teenagers, and I doubt that old age has increased our tolerance for each other. I want to be able to get away, to travel. The advance for the book-I negotiated a new one when I explained to the publisher that they’d never get the manuscript if they didn’t deal with me-will pay for a little holiday in Majorca. And when the royalties start coming in, I expect I’ll be able to manage the safari in Botswana I’ve always dreamed of, and maybe a tour of Cambodia.” She gave me a serene smile.

  “Turner will sue you,” I predicted.

  “Let him try.” Steel threaded her tone. “I’ll claim the manuscript was one of the mementos I chose in accordance with dear Corinne’s will.”

  Whew. If she hadn’t been so thoroughly English, I’d’ve thought she had an ancestor named Machiavelli.

  Getting to her feet, she said, “Now, dear, I’m afraid I have to shoo you out. I need a nap before my dinner date this evening.”

  Date? This octogenarian on the verge of moving back to England had a date when I hadn’t had a date in over half a year, not since Rafe and I broke up?

  She primmed her mouth. “Mr. Jonathan Goudge has invited me to dine with him,” she said coyly.

  Corinne’s lawyer. I couldn’t help it: I laughed. “Well, have a nice evening,” I said, scooping up the typewritten pages. They weighed more than I anticipated.

  “You, too. I expect I’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow.”

  * * *

  I arrived back at the studio midway through the ballroom aerobics class and immediately took over for Vitaly, who was leading the class with verve. The students seemed to be enjoying him, even though he had them doing spins until they staggered around the room like drunks, since they didn’t know how to spot properly. I waved good-bye to Vitaly as I got the women started on some quickstep footwork sequences guaranteed to raise their pulses.

  As soon as class ended, I went downstairs to shower and change. Refreshed, and dressed in a minidress with a mod floral print straight out of the sixties, I tucked the manuscript in a tote and lugged it to a copy place. Once I’d made myself a copy, I drove to the police station and asked for Detective Lissy. A young admin type escorted me back to his office, and I looked around with curiosity while Lissy finished a phone conversation. My prior experience of the police station included only a grim interview room; it was interesting to scope out Lissy’s private space.

  As I would have expected, the place was scarily neat, with case folders stacked precisely, papers in his in-box aligned so their edges touched the top and right-hand sides of the box, white mug centered on a ceramic coaster. What caught my attention, though, were the photos. All in identical black frames, and all lined up with the front edge of the credenza behind his desk, they featured kids ranging in age from infanthood to adolescence, smiles on most of their faces. Somehow, I had never pictured the neat-freak Detective Lissy with children. Unless he had them trained to military standards, they must drive him insane with clothes dropped on the bedroom floor, makeup left on bathroom countertops, and mud tracked into the house.

  When Lissy hung up and gave me a long-suffering look, I asked, “Are they yours?”

  “You think I keep photos of someone else’s grandkids in my office?”

  “Grandkids?” Wow. My mind was busy processing this hitherto unknown side of the persnickety detective and I missed his next remark.

  “What do you have to show me, Miss Graysin?” he asked impatiently. “The desk sergeant said you had new information related to the Blakely murder.”

  “Oh, this.” I hefted the tote onto my lap and dug out the manuscript. Proudly, I deposited it on his desk. It looked out of place there with its dog-eared pages ever so slightly offset.

  Lissy poked at it with a stiff finger. “‘This’ would be…?”

  “The manuscript,” I said. “I discovered that Corinne had completed it after all, and I managed to retrieve it.” I waited for his words of praise.

  “Oh, that,” he said dismissively. “We’ve already got a copy. One of my officers is reading it, but I don’t expect any revelations.”

  “You’ve already got a copy?” My face fell.

  Sensing my disappointment, perhaps, he smiled maliciously. “Why, yes. Angela Rush, the agent, faxed it to us yesterday.”

  I bit back the words that sprang to mind. Damn. Double damn. I’d thought I could curry favor with Lissy by bringing him the manuscript, but it was old news to him.

  “I’ve been doing this job for twenty-seven years, Miss Graysin,” he said. “I’m better at it than you think.” He used the backs of his fingers to edge the manuscript closer to me.

  I wanted to point out that if he were really good at it, he wouldn’t have arrested the wrong man. However, I just stood, tucked the pages back i
nto the tote (instead of strewing them around his psychotically neat office, as I was tempted to), and said with as much dignity as I could muster, “Thanks for your time. I’ve got to hurry if I’m going to drop this at Phineas Drake’s office before they close for the day.” I gave him a sweet smile.

  The mention of Drake’s name gave Lissy a dyspeptic look, as if he had tummy troubles, but he didn’t say anything besides, “I’ve told you before: Stick-”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Stick to dancing.”

  * * *

  I dropped a copy of the manuscript off with Phineas Drake, getting a few minutes with the lawyer himself, even though I told his receptionist I didn’t need to see him. His smile was partly hidden by his beard as he came forward to greet me. When I told him what I had, he gave me all the praise Lissy had denied me, extolling my initiative and my cunning. He laughed, a sound like rolling timpani, when I told him about Mrs. Laughlin and Mr. Goudge.

  “That’s one way to create conflict of interest and ensure Goudge won’t be able to represent the estate if the grandson sues her for theft of the manuscript,” he said admiringly. “Sounds like my kind of gal.”

  I raised my brows, wondering whether Mrs. Laughlin’s liaison with the lawyer was as deliberate as Drake was suggesting, and decided it probably was.

  Drake riffled the manuscript’s pages and plunked it onto his massive desk. “I’ll get one of my associates on this right away. I have high hopes that it’ll provide me fodder for creating reasonable doubt, my two favorite words in the English language.” Still chuckling, he escorted me back to the elevators and I rode down, anxious to get home and read the book myself. I called Maurice on the way, telling him what Mrs. Laughlin had said and about giving the manuscript to Drake.

  “Good thinking, Anastasia,” he said. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed that you find something useful in the book.”

  “I can make another copy, if you want one,” I offered.

  “Thank you, but no. I’m sure I’ll read Corinne’s book one day, but I don’t think I can deal with the memories right now.”

  “I understand.” The melancholy in his voice subdued me. “I might have some questions for you, though, as I read.”

  “By all means.”

  I hung up, thinking about what a weird thing a memoir was. Was it possible, I wondered, for Corinne, or anyone, to write a wholly truthful memoir? Not, I decided, thinking about how Danielle’s and my memories of our last trip to Jekyll Island differed. Nothing told from one person’s perspective could be more than one facet of truth, if that. I amused myself the rest of the way home imagining how my life story would differ if written by me or Danielle or an “objective” author like a reporter.

  Chapter 29

  I couldn’t dive into the manuscript right when I got home, since I had back-to-back private sessions with two of my competitive students. As I said good-bye to the second one, Danielle breezed in, still in her work “uniform” of gray suit, pale blue blouse, and low-heeled black pumps. Dullsville. Only her red curls saved her from a blandness that would make Muzak look innovative. “I thought we’d get dinner somewhere first,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the sight of my sweaty, grubby self.

  “First?”

  “Aren’t you the one who invited me to go swimsuit shopping?”

  “You didn’t take me up on it,” I said, releasing my ponytail from its elastic.

  “Well, I must have, since I’m here.” She grinned unrepentantly.

  “Fine. Let me shower,” I said, resigned. I didn’t want to go swimsuit shopping now; I wanted to read the manuscript. However, if there was a chance of getting Danielle to agree to vacation with me and Mom, I had to take it. Sisters.

  An hour and a half later, me showered and both of us fed, we descended on the swimsuit department at T.J.Maxx. They had a large selection of suits and were relatively uncrowded in the early evening. Danielle and I each selected eight or ten suits and headed to the fitting room to try them on. We emerged from our dressing rooms simultaneously to inspect our first efforts in the three-way mirror. I wore a tomato red bikini with ruffles, and Danielle had on a black one-piece.

  Danielle glared at me balefully. “No woman in her right mind goes swimsuit shopping with a professional dancer.”

  I grinned and pirouetted, letting my hair fly. “Oh, come on. You’re in good shape, too; you’re just hiding your great bod under the world’s most hideous suit.”

  Looking down at her tank-style suit, Danielle said, “You don’t like it? It fits well.”

  I made a raspberry. “Let me pick one out for you.” Ducking into her dressing room, I sorted through the suits she’d selected. “Black tank, black tank with a zipper, navy tank-ooh, going out on a fashion limb there-another black tank, black tank with shirring,” I said, tossing them aside. “Boring, boring, boring! Stay here.” I marched out of the fitting area and back to the racks, forgetting I was still wearing the red bikini until I noticed people staring, especially a middle-aged man buying golf shirts who got tangled up in the spinning clothes rack. Ignoring the attention, I pulled three suits off the rack and took them to Danielle.

  “Here.”

  She took the suits reluctantly. “They’re so… unblack.”

  “They’re bright, colorful, happy. Try them on.”

  When Danielle came out in the first suit, a one-shoulder number in dark green with pink and coral flowers splashed across it, I gave her a wolf whistle. With her red hair tumbling over her shoulders, she looked like a tropical siren. Turning to and fro in front of the mirror, she gave a tentative smile. “You don’t think it’s too noticeable?”

  “There’s no such thing,” I said with all the positivity of almost twenty years of dancing in skintight outfits spattered with sequins or rhinestones, or slit up to here and down to there, or with sheer illusion panels that skirted the FCC’s decency guidelines, or all of the above. “You look hot. Buy it.”

  “Okay.” She giggled and tried on the other suits, and we walked out of the discount house an hour later, the happy owners of two new suits each. Deep dusk had settled over the parking lot, but plenty of traffic still zipped by on Highway 50. Late rush hour-the commuters who worked late to avoid the worst crush of traffic. With the possible exception of midnight until three a.m., every hour of the day in the greater D.C. area was rush hour of some kind.

  “Does this mean you’re coming to Jekyll Island?” I asked.

  She gave me a “don’t push me” look. “It means I’m planning for all eventualities, keeping my options open.”

  “Spoken like a true union negotiator.”

  * * *

  Tucked up in bed an hour later, I started in on the first page of the manuscript, even though my eyelids were drooping. The first chapter consisted mainly of introductory-type comments-why Corinne was writing the memoir and a bit of ballroom dance history. The second and third chapters concerned her childhood and I skimmed those, even though her accounts of her father’s harshness (verging on abuse, it seemed to me) and her younger brother’s death from pneumonia at age four were riveting. The following chapters dealt with the way she fell in love with ballroom dance by watching all the old musicals in the local theater on Saturday afternoons, and her earliest dance lessons, paid for by the money her mother made sewing for neighbors in the evenings after her day’s work was done.

  Corinne had just moved to New York City when I must have drifted off, because I awoke the next morning, one manuscript page crumpled under my cheek, the rest of them scattered on the floor where they’d fallen during the night. Great. A glance at the clock told me I didn’t have time to sort them out; Maurice would be here in half an hour to pick me up for the funeral. Hastily scooting the pages together, I stuck them in my bedside table and dashed for my closet. I didn’t have a single outfit anyone would call “solemn,” so I had to settle for a zebra-striped sheath dress that went almost to my knees, with black hose and strappy black sandals. I twisted my hair into a simple chignon and, t
hinking it was kind of Corinne-ish, added a small black hat with a wisp of veil that I’d worn when Rafe and I performed a foxtrot on the Ballroom with the B-Listers results show a couple years back. A slick of light makeup and I was waiting in the front hall when Maurice pulled up.

  When we arrived at the Presbyterian church, Maurice deserted me with an apology to join the other ex-husbands in a front pew, across the aisle from Randolph and Turner Blakely. “Corinne drew up the seating charts,” Maurice explained in a low voice before he headed toward the altar, “and selected the music and the scripture passages for reading, and the flowers. It looks like Turner’s done a nice job of fulfilling her wishes.”

  I gave Turner a silent apology for assuming he’d been the one determined to turn Corinne’s funeral into a spectacle; rather, it was Corinne orchestrating the drama from beyond the grave. I shivered and slotted myself into a pew near the back, where the scent of lilies and carnations wasn’t too overwhelming. I could just glimpse the oiled mahogany of the casket. I didn’t think I’d feel compelled to draw up a script for my funeral when the time came.

  We were a few minutes early, and I watched as other mourners trickled in. Mrs. Laughlin entered on the arm of Jonathan Goudge, and they were ushered to the pew behind the ex-husbands. Marco Ingelido and his wife arrived and followed an usher to a pew only two in front of where I sat. I guessed they hadn’t made Corinne’s A-list. Lavinia Fremont arrived soon after in a beautifully cut black linen suit and a wide-brimmed hat with enough veil to hide Jimmy Hoffa. I recognized her by her limp, and by the fact that she was shown to the pew Mrs. Laughlin occupied.

  I recognized many, many of the other mourners, dancers I’d competed against, or ballroom dance legends I’d revered-Corinne’s contemporaries. My pew was filling up, and I looked up in semiannoyance when a newcomer squeezed in beside me. My annoyance turned to pleasure when I recognized Tav.