Dead Man Waltzing (15 page)

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’ decision 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.

His presence was immediately explained by Marco Ingelido, still emceeing, when he thanked the corporate sponsors who contributed to the event and introduced Turner Blakely as Corinne’s grandson: “Here today in memory of his grandmother, who conceived of this event and whose dearest wish was to see ballroom dancing get recognized as an Olympic event.”

He invited Turner to the podium with a gesture, and the young man rose, took a swallow of his beer, and walked forward to shake Marco’s hand. Pulling a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket, Turner leaned into the mike and said, “I have here a copy of the remarks my dearest grandmother intended to make at this occasion. With your permission, I’ll read them to you.”

Without waiting for a response, he began to read in a clear voice. His diction and pacing were excellent, and I wondered whether he’d been studying theater before getting kicked out of college. Corinne’s words were, as I’d have suspected, to the point, laced with humor, and persuasive. They were also brief. Turner finished by slowly refolding the page and saying, “Let’s all honor my grandmother by making her dream a reality.”

We surged to our feet, applauding Corinne rather than Turner, and I heard more than a couple of sniffles from the people beside me and behind me. My own eyes stung a bit. “That was very well done,” I told Turner in all sincerity as he returned to the table. “You did Corinne proud.”

“I don’t need you to tell me so,” he said, sinking into his chair.

“You were so good,” cooed the dark-haired girl sitting beside him. She was his age, or a bit younger, and wore a hot-pink bandage dress that left little to the imagination. She planted a kiss on him that went on so long the other diners at our table, mostly couples in their sixties, rustled uncomfortably and greeted the arrival of dessert with relief.

Allowing myself one spoonful of the delicious chocolate mousse, I chatted with the folks at the table, extolling the glories of ballroom dance. Most of my mind, however, was busy trying to figure out how to ask Turner a few pointed questions. I’d about decided there was no way to do it in the current forum, with strangers seated around us and his girlfriend clinging to him like a limpet, when the other couples at the table—who seemed to know one another well—rose and said they had to be going, since they were catching a train to New York at Union Station. “Tickets to
The Book of Mormon
,” one man said cheerfully.

Turner’s girlfriend took their departure as the opportunity to say, “I’ve got to visit the little girls’ room. Right back, baby.” She kissed him again and I rolled my eyes.

Turner and I were alone at the table. I accepted a cup of coffee from the waiter, and Turner ordered another beer. He slumped casually, one hand dug into a pocket, a lock of black hair draped carelessly across his forehead. When the waiter had left, Turner looked at me, a calculating look in his eyes. “So.”

“So.” This conversation was going nowhere fast.

“You’ve got some moves. Hot.” Lust flickered in his eyes, the same blue as his father’s.

Gag me.
I was about to say that I didn’t need him to tell me so, when it crossed my mind that letting him think I was interested in him might yield more information than if I told him spoiled little cheaters didn’t turn me on. “Thanks,” I choked out.

“We could hook up sometime.” He tilted his beer to his lips, his eyes never leaving my face.

“What about your girlfriend?”

“Mandy?” He shrugged. “She doesn’t have to know.”

So he cheated both in and out of the classroom. “I guess you have women throwing themselves at you, now that you’re a millionaire.”

A smug smile made me want to smack him. “The bitches are hot for me. Always have been.”

I desperately wanted to prick his self-satisfaction. “I guess you were angry that Corinne didn’t leave you the Warhol painting.”

Turner scowled. “It should be mine. Goldberg has no right to it. They were only married for a few months, for crap’s sake. I’ve got my lawyers on it.”

“And I suppose you’ll be spending big bucks on your dad, too.” I sipped my coffee, noticing more people leaving. Turner would be out of here as soon as Mandy finished powdering her nose.

I thought my reminder would further anger Turner, but he laughed. “Not so much. His days in that addict resort are numbered. The will said I had to support him . . . it didn’t specify where he got to live.”

If Randolph had murdered Corinne with an eye toward making up with his son, or sharing the spoils with him, he was in for a rude awakening. “He could move in with you,” I suggested. “There’s plenty of room.”

“When hell freezes over.” He drained the last of his beer and thunked the bottle onto the table. “I’m putting that place on the market next week.”

“If you don’t like it, why did you move in there?” I asked, pleased that the conversation had come around to where I wanted it.

“Grandmother invited me. I felt sorry for her, living all alone with no one but that housekeeper woman, so I moved in.”

“Aren’t you the model grandson?” I drawled, unable to hold back the sarcasm. “It’s terribly sad that she died so soon—mere minutes, really—after you got there. Some people might think it was a strange coincidence.”

Turner’s eyes narrowed. “That’s all it was: coincidence. I didn’t know where she kept her medicine, and I’ve never bought any of that epi-whatever stuff. Where do you get off—”

“Why did the police want to talk to you Saturday?”

Fury and a hint of fear blazed in Turner’s eyes. Shoving his chair back, he clipped a waiter with a loaded tray and the man stumbled. Dirty dishes clattered to the floor with bangs and crashes and clinks that brought all eyes our way. White lines bracketed Turner’s mouth, and he hesitated half a second before stalking out of the dining room.

Mandy shimmied up moments later, confusion clouding her pretty features. “Where’d Turner go?”

“Out.” I pointed to the door he’d used. “He seemed upset about something the police said Saturday.”

She heaved a sigh, making her boobs rise and fall in a way that caught the attention of the three waiters putting broken china in a plastic tub. “That is just so unfair. I mean, there weren’t any witnesses. It’s a case of ‘he said, she said,’ and
of course
she only said it hoping to get money out of Turner. She’s a stripper, for heaven’s sake! He’s the sweetest man
ever
. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Absolutely not,” I agreed, wondering whether it was possible that some woman had accused Turner Blakely of assaulting her. He’d gone to a bachelor party on Wednesday night, and Detective Lissy came looking for him at the will reading on Saturday. . . .