Dead Man Waltzing (16 page)

“I’d better go. He might need me.” Mandy hurried away.

I was debating whether to change back into my jeans or drive home in my dress when a tap on my bare shoulder made me jump. I whirled and found myself staring into the cold gray eyes of Conrad Monk. His suit matched his eyes and crew-cut hair, and slimmed his stocky figure. A fat gold wedding band inset with tiny diamonds glittered where his hand rested on my shoulder.

“A word, Miss Graysin?”

“Uh, sure.” I looked around for Greta, but didn’t see her. Monk led me onto the dance floor so we were out of earshot of the crew cleaning up the dropped dishes.

“I trust you’ve recovered from your dip in the Potomac?”

“Good as new,” I said, trying to read his face. I couldn’t tell whether he was taunting me or genuinely concerned.

“Good. Let me get right to the point. My wife told me you have a copy of Corinne Blakely’s manuscript. I want to buy it from you.”

“It’s not— I don’t—” How did I get myself into these things?

“Corinne Blakely, although in many ways a wonderful woman, could be a bit irresponsible. Several people, my wife among them, tried to talk her out of publishing a memoir. She wouldn’t listen. Not even the knowledge that she might hurt people, innocent people, weighed with her. I hope you’re more reasonable.” Slightly lifted brows questioned me.

“I’m reasonable, but . . .” How to tell him I didn’t really have the manuscript? And, oh, yeah, I couldn’t sell it to him if I did, because it didn’t belong to me.

“Good.” He pulled out a checkbook. “I think ten thousand is reasonable, don’t you?”

“I don’t have it,” I burst out.

He stared at me measuringly from beneath bushy brows. “All right. Fifteen.”

“No, I really don’t have it.” What to do—lie some more by telling him I’d already given it to the publisher, or come clean? I decided to go, belatedly, for honesty. “I never—”

Tucking the checkbook back into his pocket, he said, “Remember, I gave you a chance to be reasonable.” He didn’t raise his voice, but a frigid, rigid undertone froze me. Before I could gasp another word, he turned and headed for an exit.

I was about to follow him, try to explain, when an itching between my shoulder blades gave me the eerie feeling that someone was watching me. I glanced behind me, trying to be casual, and saw Marco Ingelido mere yards away at the podium, apparently retrieving his notes. I had the sinking suspicion that he’d heard every word Monk and I exchanged. His lips curled back from white teeth in a snarl, and his glare bored a hole through me.

The phrase “if looks could kill” leaped into my mind.

Chapter 21

Dashing from the room would be undignified, so I went on the attack. Stalking over to Ingelido, my skirt billowing, I said, “You lied to me.”

“
You
lied to
me
. You said there was no manuscript.” He worked his jaw from side to side.

“You said you had an affair with Corinne. Her son says otherwise.”

“Randolph has been so ‘overmedicated’ for years that Corinne and I could have gone at it beside him on the couch and he wouldn’t have noticed.” Scorn coated his words.

“If you didn’t have an affair with Corinne, what were you afraid she’d put in the manuscript?” I asked, ignoring his last statement, although it instilled a small grain of doubt.

“Where is it?”

“As far as I know, there is no manuscript.”

He snorted his disbelief. “Right.”

“Greta Monk misunderstood something I said.”

His face looked like it had been carved from stone, a light olive-colored granite. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, or why you’re determined to dredge up old history—you weren’t even born!—but I’m telling you now that it’s a very, very dangerous game. No one can win. What happened to Corinne should tell you that.”

“Is that a threat?”

He leaned into my space and I fought the urge to step back. “Take it any way you like.” A change came over his face, the muscles around his eyes relaxing, and he said almost pleadingly, “Destroy the manuscript, Stacy. For everybody’s sake. Burn it.”

“I don’t have—”

“Stacy, I am leavings.” Vitaly bounded up, offered Ingelido a nod, and gave me a hug. “We will being first gold-medal winners in ballroom dance at Olympics. I am knowing this.”

I smiled at him, but my eyes followed Ingelido as he walked away. I’d rarely regretted a lie more.

* * *

The rest of Monday passed uneventfully. I stopped at an ATM for cash on my way home, then spent time in the ballroom working out new choreography for a couple who had recently turned pro and were paying for my help. I chatted with my mom and Danielle by phone. Neither mentioned Jekyll Island. I took a late-afternoon ballet class, ate a light dinner, and called Tav to see when we could get together to discuss our financials. We agreed on meeting up Tuesday for lunch. More tired than usual, I turned off the lights at ten and fell asleep immediately.

I’d dreamed about the night Rafe died several times in the months since he was shot, and tonight I was in the kitchen again, moments before I heard the thud of Rafe’s body landing on the ballroom floor. Usually my nightmare centered on the moment I flicked on the lights and saw Rafe lying in a pool of blood; tonight I kept hearing his body thump to the floor.
Thud. Thud.
I struggled awake and lay still a moment, trying to get oriented. It was just the dream, I told myself, breathing deeply to relax. Just a—

Click
.

The sound brought me upright. My hands clutched at the sheets.
What was that?
It was a barely audible sound, not the weighty thump Rafe’s body had made. Probably the wind bumping a branch against a window, or a raccoon on his nightly patrol. Nothing to worry—
Skree
. Every muscle tensed. It sounded like a door sighing open. I widened my eyes, trying to see better in the dark. Was someone in my room? No, the noise had come from farther away, maybe the living room or kitchen.

Should I cower here in my bed, hoping the intruder would steal something quickly and leave? He was welcome to the ceramic rooster Great-aunt Laurinda kept on the kitchen counter that I hadn’t been able to bring myself to toss or donate to Goodwill. But he’d better stay away from my purse. I couldn’t afford to lose the money I’d withdrawn from the ATM. Where was my purse? Not on my dresser where I frequently left it, I realized, not making out its shape. In the kitchen! I’d dropped it on the table when I came in because I’d been loaded down with my dress and my dance duffel.
Damn
.

I bit my lip. I could call 911. No, I wasn’t even sure someone had broken in. I hadn’t heard anything for the last minute or so. I was making myself all hysterical for nothing.
Shish
. A sound like fabric brushing against a screen convinced me I wasn’t hallucinating. Someone was trying to break in—or might already be in! Adrenaline flooded me and I fumbled for my cell phone on the nightstand as I swung my legs out of bed. I wished I had the gun Uncle Nico had given me, but it was now permanently locked in a police evidence bin, since it was the weapon used to kill Rafe. Maybe I needed to ask Uncle Nico for a new gun, or buy one myself. Even a baseball bat would make me feel more confident. Or . . .

The poker! I eased out of my bedroom and glided toward the front parlor, where a set of sturdy andirons stood near the fireplace I hadn’t used since moving in. My peach silk nightgown—I’m a sucker for slinky lingerie—rippled soundlessly around my thighs. Even though I couldn’t see much, I avoided the squeaky plank near the stairs, crossed through the foyer—the front door was still locked—and reached the parlor without encountering the intruder. I paused, listening. Nothing. Was I mistaken? I fingered the phone, reluctant to summon the police for what might be no more than a curious night critter or cat prowling around outside. I was spending too much time thinking about murder, and it was making me jumpier than usual.

Figuring better safe than sorry, I crept toward the fireplace. Halfway there, my foot slipped on something that slid out from under it and I almost went down. I couldn’t see what it was, so when I recovered my balance, I kept moving forward. Finally, I wrapped my fingers around the poker’s iron shaft, prying it free from the stand with a slight clank. I froze. Nothing. Feeling a bit like I’d let my imagination get the better of me, I started down the hall toward the kitchen, walking more easily, the poker clutched in my right hand and the phone in my left. Two steps from the kitchen, I registered that the air was cooler just as a draft plastered my nightie against me. The back door was open!

Gooseflesh sprang up on my arms and I caught my breath, feeling a lot less brave all of a sudden. It was definitely 911 time. I brought the phone closer to my face, trying to read the numbers. A scrambling sound behind me made me whirl. I had an impression of solid blackness rushing toward me and I raised the poker like a lance, not having time to slash downward with it. Something slammed into me and the poker flew out of my hand, landing with a clatter. My fingers clutched reflexively at the phone, but my hand banged open as I struck the ground and slid. I heard heavy breathing, maybe a curse, and then my head cracked against the wall and whorls of color exploded behind my eyes.

* * *

I regained consciousness what felt like moments later, but which could have been half an hour for all I knew. My head ached. Pain in my tailbone told me I’d landed on it—hard. Not the first time. The memory of a fall from a lift—at a competition, no less—came to me, and I remembered lying on my back as people jived around me, trying to catch my breath and wincing from the pains shooting from my tailbone. There’d been an especially pretty, sparkly chandelier over the dance floor. The music had been “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.” There was no light or music now. I blinked several times, trying to blink away the pain. Panic flashed through me suddenly as I remembered the intruder crashing into me. Was he still here? I scrambled to my feet, trying to ignore the bolts of pain zinging through my head and tailbone. One hand clutched at the wall for balance. Where was my phone? I didn’t see it. I tried to still my breathing. I didn’t hear anything. As the thudding of my heart slowed, I realized the house
felt
empty. He’d gone.

I drew a deep breath and then forced myself to walk toward the kitchen. With a trembling hand, I patted the wall for the switch and found it. Yellow light drenched the room. No one leaped at me. I was alone. Exhaling loudly, I felt tears burning my eyes, but blinked them away. Drawers and cabinets hung open. My purse was on the table where I’d left it, albeit tipped on its side. Hurrying to it, I groped for my wallet, not expecting to find it. My fingers closed over it and I drew it out. Untouched. Weird. I surveyed the chaos. Clearly, the burglar had searched the place. For what? Silver? I didn’t know what other valuables he could expect to find in a kitchen.

The manuscript.

The thought thudded into me with all the force of the intruder and I gasped. My nightgown fluttered, reminding me that the back door was still open, and I crossed to it. Reaching toward the knob, I jumped back as the door opened wider, pulled by an unseen hand. I screamed.

Chapter 22

Backpedaling, I kept screaming. I bumped into the counter and scrabbled for a weapon. The first thing my fingers contacted was the ceramic rooster. I hefted it and raised it over my head, ready to hurl it at the intruder.

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.