Dead Man Waltzing (9 page)

“And Corinne was including the embezzlement story in her book?”

“She was never happy that Greta got away with it in the first place.”

Hm
. And if what Marco Ingelido said was right, Corinne would’ve made a point of “warning” Greta that she had a starring role in the upcoming book.

“There.” Lavinia thrust the sketchpad toward me.

The dress was perfect: tight through the bodice, with off-the-shoulder straps and a skirt that floated away from the body like mist. “It’s divine.”

“I’ll work something up for Vitaly.” The suggestion of a grin erased years from her face. “That man! Can you pick the pink dress up Sunday afternoon? I know you’re dancing on Monday, but I can’t have it any earlier.”

“Sure,” I said, straightening. “Thank you, Lavinia.”

“Of course, Stacy. Always a pleasure.”

I left, shutting the door carefully behind me to keep the air-conditioning in. Turning to wave as I passed the display window, I saw that the seat by the drawing table was empty.

Chapter 12

Danielle lived in a block of apartments west of me, in a quiet area off of Taney Road. The complex was spread over several tree-lined streets and consisted of rectangular, yellowy-tan brick buildings so alike that Danielle had once tried to get into her apartment well after midnight and found herself confronting a pissed-off man holding a baseball bat. She’d been in the wrong building. She never admitted it, but I thought too many margaritas might have been a factor. Parking in the lot outside her building and double-checking to make sure it
was
her building, I trotted up the stairs to her second-floor apartment and rang the bell.

“Come in!”

I pushed open the door, saying, “Good grief, Dani, this is D.C. Don’t you keep your door locked?” I stood in the two-foot-square foyer delineated by faux-wood flooring to distinguish it from the attached living room, which had the kind of pale brown carpet apartment managers think won’t show dirt or damage. There was a gaping hole where the sofa had sat against the far wall, and the walls themselves were a deep aqua green that made me think of mermaids for some reason, instead of the boring taupe they’d been last time I visited.

“This is a safe neighborhood.” Her voice came from the kitchen and I tracked her down. She sat on the vinyl floor surrounded by images torn from various decorating magazines and looked up when I came in. With her red hair in a ponytail and no makeup, she looked about fourteen.

“I am not, not, not going through home fashion magazines,” I said. I’ve never been much of one for obsessing over fabric swatches or room layouts or the kind of makeovers they show in such magazines. Dani, though, has always loved poring over the pages, even as a teenager, when the most she could hope to talk Dad into on the redecorating front was a new bedspread for the room we shared.

“Just look at this. . . .”

I scrunched my eyes closed as she held up a page with a jagged edge where she’d torn it out of some magazine.

“Fine.” She sounded disgruntled but not surprised. Rising from her cross-legged position, she preceded me back to the living room, nudging magazines out of her path as she went.

We spent forty-five minutes rearranging furniture and talking about possible color combinations before her phone rang and she trotted to the bedroom to answer it. I sat in the worn recliner I’d been urging her to get rid of so she didn’t have to match her new couch to its beige-and-maroon-striped upholstery—
ick
—and picked up an open photo album from the end table. It took me only a second to realize I was looking at pictures from our last family vacation to Jekyll Island. Mom’s invitation had obviously started Dani on a trek down memory lane.

Flipping through the pages, I paused at a photo of me and Dani and Nick crouched over a dead jellyfish on the beach, the backs of our legs covered with sand. We’d been arguing about whether the creature was dead or whether we should “rescue” it. Nick’s idea of rescuing it was to put it in the bucket and keep it forever, despite Mom telling him it would die in the car halfway home, and she wasn’t having a bucket of water sloshing around in the backseat, anyway. Dani wanted to return it to the ocean. I was convinced it was already dead and said so repeatedly. In the end, we scooped it up on a shovel and plopped it back in the water, on the off chance. As I looked at more photos, I saw signs of parental tension I hadn’t noticed at the time. In all the family photos, Mom and Dad were at opposite ends, with us three kids between them. We had plenty of photos of Dad reading on the beach or showing Nick how to snorkel, and Mom building sand castles with me or inspecting a butterfly with Dani, but no pictures of the two of them together. I hadn’t thought anything about it at the time, but Dad had slept in the hammock outside, saying he wanted to enjoy the stars, while Mom had the bedroom to herself.

I felt tears welling and sniffed them back. We’d gone through a couple of hard years after Mom left, but we were fine now. If this album proved anything, it proved that we weren’t by half as happy as I’d thought we were while Mom was still living with us.

“It was a great vacation, wasn’t it?” Dani said quietly from behind me.

“It was fun. I’m not sure it was as fun as we thought it was, though, at least not for Mom and Dad.”

“What do you mean?” Danielle bristled.

I pointed out what I’d seen in the photos, the tension between our folks, but Dani wasn’t buying it. She was annoyed with me for daring to suggest that the vacation she had convinced herself was perfect in every respect hadn’t been. Taking the album from me, she slapped it closed and slotted it onto a bookshelf. There was a moment of awkward silence before I said, “So, I think a white sofa would really look good against that aqua wall.”

“Are you insane?” Dani asked, reverting to normal. “White? Do you know how hard that would be to keep clean?”

We spent the rest of the evening drinking strawberry daiquiris from a frozen mix Dani had left over from a party several months back, and discussing her sofa options. I even broke down and looked at some sofa photos in her decorating magazines. Jekyll Island didn’t come up again.

Chapter 13

Friday morning found Tav and me setting up a Graysin Motion table at the expo center for the bridal fair. There wasn’t much setting up for us to do, in truth, not compared to some of the other vendors. Florists had colorful, pungent displays of corsages, bouquets, and flower arrangements bursting with carnations, orchids, roses, lilies, and a host of blooms I couldn’t identify. Bakeries had multitiered cakes on display, some with layers canted at strange angles and iced in every color imaginable, although white predominated. My favorite stood twelve tiers high and looked like a sunset, with tangerine, pink, and yellow layers decked with fresh flowers in the same colors. Mannequins from wedding dress stores wore gowns with skirts wider than Marie Antoinette’s, slim sheaths, and mermaid-style skirts that belled at the bottom like an upside-down champagne glass. Jewelers displayed rings in glass cases. Deejays and bands played discs that showcased their talents and added a festive sound track to the buzz of a thousand brides-to-be, grooms, mothers, wedding planners, and heaven knew who else.

Dani and I had attended a bridal fair like this one soon after I got engaged to Rafe. Before I found out he was cheating on me. Before I broke it off. Before he died. I’d strolled from table to table, sampling cakes, sniffing bouquets, and generally brimming over with excitement that I was going to be a bride, a wife. Watching the excited brides-to-be flitting from display to display, I wondered sadly how many of them would never walk down the aisle, at least not with the man they were currently engaged to.

“Weddings are big business,” Tav observed as he fanned a handful of Graysin Motion brochures across the table.

“The biggest.” I propped up a life-size, 3-D cardboard image of Rafe and me that had been used to advertise our presence at a fund-raising exhibition a couple years back. “Have you ever been married?” I asked impulsively.

Tav straightened, looking handsome enough to pose for one of the tuxedo ads plastered in the space next to ours. “Once. A long time ago.”

“Really?” I don’t know why I was surprised. “What happened?”

“She decided she did not want to be married. It lasted seven months. We were both twenty, far too young to get married.”

“Are you still in touch with her?”

He shook his head. “Last I heard, she was working for a television producer in Australia. You?”

“Nope. Rafe’s as close as I ever got, and you know how that turned out.”

“My brother was a fool,” he said.

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I set the foot-shaped cutouts on the floor in front of our table in a simple waltz sequence. A young brunette who might have been of Indian or Pakistani extraction watched me. “Are you her?” she asked, pointing with her chin at the 3-D stand-up.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not that flexible,” she said dubiously.

In the photo, I had my left ankle on Rafe’s shoulder, right leg extended behind me as he dragged me. “That’s the paso doble,” I said. “Probably not what you had in mind for your wedding. The waltz is much easier. Want to try?”

She shook her head and hurried past.

“We will get clients from this,” Tav said, noting my disappointed expression. “That dress was an inspired choice.”

I smoothed the deep orange skirt of the gown I used to wear for international standard competitions. Cut almost to the waist in back, with crisscross straps, it was eye-catching. I’d worn my hair up, like for a competition, but gone easy on the makeup, skipping the false eyelashes that I wore to compete.

“Orange stands out,” I agreed.

We weren’t as mobbed as some of the bakery or wedding dress vendors, but a steady trickle of people stopped by to take brochures. Several couples actually signed up for lessons, prompted by Tav’s smooth patter. One or two embarrassed couples even gave it a go, using the cutouts on the floor and my encouragement to guide their first tentative steps.

Shortly before lunchtime, a bride who looked close to my age stopped in front of the table, dragging her fiancé to a halt beside her. “Drew, doesn’t this look like fun?”

His expression suggested he’d rather wrestle alligators. “I don’t know, Hailey. . . .”

“C’mon.” The woman laughed. “It can’t be that hard.”

“It’s easy,” I assured him, holding out my hand. “I’ll show you.”

“I’ve never danced,” Drew said, backing away.

“Even someone who has never danced before can learn to waltz. Look.” I turned to Tav with a mischievous twinkle. “Tav will demonstrate.”

He looked taken aback but came around to the front of the table.

“But he’s a dancer,” the groom-to-be objected.

“Not even close,” Tav said. “Football is my game.”

“He’s my business partner,” I said, “not my dance partner. Here, we’ll show you.” I grabbed Tav’s left hand and raised it to the proper position, then laid my other hand across the back of his shoulder, arching my back.

“Did I not mention once that learning to dance in front of a crowd does not appeal to me?” he whispered. He didn’t sound angry, although the look in his eyes promised retribution. His breath against my ear made me shiver.

“Think of it as growing the business.” I smiled up at him and felt his hand tighten against my back. We hadn’t been this close since we agreed to be partners and I’d given him an impromptu lesson in my kitchen. With his nearness creating a fog in my brain, I remembered why I’d kept my distance. Dancing with Tav undermined my determination to keep our relationship strictly business.

Faking a composure I didn’t feel, I talked him through a few steps, for the benefit of the watching couple. He moved gracefully, with the balance of an athlete. That didn’t surprise me greatly, because I knew he had played soccer seriously in college and now played with a league in D.C. a couple of times a week. Too aware of the muscled strength in his chest and thighs where they touched mine, I whispered, “There’s supposed to be more space between us.”

“Where is the fun in that?” His smile was devilish, and his hold tightened.

Resisting the temptation to melt against him, I ended the “lesson.” The engaged couple applauded when I stepped back and dropped into a curtsy.

“See? Easy.” I smiled as they let Tav sign them up for a series of lessons. My stomach growled, and I motioned to Tav that I was going to grab something to eat in the concession area.
I’ll bring you something
, I mouthed.

Serpentining through the maze of tables, booths, and displays, I made for the concession area and the tantalizing aroma of hamburgers and onion rings. I couldn’t afford to eat either one—Vitaly would kill me if I gained an ounce—but I could bask in the smell without worrying about weight gain. In the row adjacent to the roped-off concession area, with its rickety tables and folding chairs, I spotted a photographer’s booth with a poster-sized photo of a bride and her father sharing a private moment before the ceremony. I stepped closer to examine it, and read the photographer’s sign:
SARAH LEWIS PHOTOGRAPHY
.

The name seemed familiar . . . with a start, I realized she must be Marco Ingelido’s niece, the one Maurice had mentioned. Curious, I studied her as she spoke with a potential customer and what looked to be the bride’s parents. I could see a faint resemblance to Ingelido in the sweep of her cheekbone, the aquiline nose, and something about the eyes. Dressed casually in jeans and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, her dark hair in a loose braid, she looked like she’d be more at home photographing wildlife in the Galapagos than persuading a wedding party of twenty to all smile at once.

On impulse, I crossed to her and introduced myself as the bride and family left. “Aren’t you Marco Ingelido’s niece?” I asked. “I was chatting with your uncle just yesterday.”

“Nice to meet you.” She smiled easily; she was attractive in an athletic, outdoorsy way. “You know, I’ve photographed you before.”

“You have? When?”

“I freelance for dance magazines at ballroom competitions. I also do a lot of publicity photos for people in the business, as well as recital photos for dance studios. In fact, I prefer that to this”—she gestured to the bridal fair chaos—“but weddings pay more bills. Let me know if you need photos—you’ve got a new partner, right? I heard your former partner died suddenly. He called me once, wanting to know my rates for doing recital photos. He never got back to me, and I didn’t understand why until I heard about his death. I’m very sorry.”

“Thanks.” I bit the word off, infuriated to think that Rafe had been going ahead with his plans to broaden the studio’s offerings and put on a recital behind my back. I’d wanted to build Graysin Motion’s reputation as a world-class ballroom dance studio; he’d wanted to rake in the bucks with tap for tots and beginning ballet classes, to become a recital mill like Li’l Twinkletoes. If he hadn’t already been dead, I’d’ve killed him.

Sarah gave me a funny look. “Sorry,” I apologized. “My mind drifted. Vitaly and I
do
need some publicity shots—do you have a card?”

She handed one over. “It seems strange,” she said. “Two prominent ballroom dancers dying so close together, and both murdered, from what I hear.”

I was pleased she’d brought up Corinne so I wouldn’t have to find a way to work her into the conversation. “It’s sad. The deaths aren’t related, but even so. Your uncle mentioned Corinne yesterday. I guess they used to be close?”

“So family rumor has it,” Sarah said, her face closing down a bit. “It was before he married Aunt Marian—at least thirty years ago—so I don’t know much about it. I heard him and my mom going at it once, and Corinne’s name came up, but I didn’t pay much attention. One doesn’t think of older relatives
that
way, does one?”

My mind flashed to Uncle Nico and conversations I’d heard between my mom and dad about Nico’s womanizing.
Ew
. One certainly didn’t want to think of one’s relatives that way, especially not the Uncle Nicos. Trying to blot from my mind the image of Uncle Nico with one of his much younger model-type girlfriends, I blurted, “Marco seemed okay with Corinne’s memoir not getting published, now that she’s dead, I mean.”

“I didn’t know she had a book coming out.” Sarah looked no more than mildly interested. “I’d’ve thought he’d be pushing for it if he was in it. He’s always looking for publicity, especially for Take the Lead with Ingelido. He’s become a workaholic in his old age, my mom says.”

Her mom must be Ingelido’s sister. Sarah certainly didn’t sound as if she cared about what Corinne might have had to say. Well, why would she? She was single, if her ringless finger was anything to go by, and even though the uncle-niece thing was a bit icky, they were both consenting adults. It looked to me like Ingelido had a lot more to lose if the affair became public than Sarah Lewis did. “So, you never wanted to be a ballroom dancer yourself?” I asked. “Even with a ballroom dance champion in the family?”

She laughed. “Uncle Marco tried hard to turn me into a dancer, as a matter of fact. But I’ve got the proverbial two left feet. My sister was better than I was, and our brother was better than both of us. Now she’s a stay-at-home mom of four kids who complains she hasn’t been out dancing since her first pregnancy, and Zach married a born-again type who doesn’t approve of dancing, among other things. Poor Uncle Marco.” She shook her head in mock sadness.

“I’m sure he got over it.” She seemed completely unself-conscious talking about him, not guilty or furtive, like I’d have thought if she’d had an affair with him. Still, many and many an affair started on the dance floor. Stories of pros and students hooking up, or pros with other pros (regardless of marital status), abounded in ballroom circles. “Well, thanks,” I said, pinging her card. “I’ll give you a call.”

“Nice to meet you, Stacy.” She turned to greet an engaged couple in their fifties, hovering nearby as they waited for us to finish.

Still thinking about Ingelido’s relationship with his niece, I bought a limp Caesar salad for me, with fat-free dressing and sans croutons, which really made it a heap of Romaine lettuce leaves, and a burger and fries for Tav. I snitched two of the fries on my way back to our table.

Tav was seated at our table, checking e-mails on his phone. “Thanks,” he said when I handed him the burger.

Between bites of salad, I told him about talking to Sarah Lewis, then backed up and filled him in on my conversations with Marco Ingelido and Lavinia Fremont. “I was hoping Lavinia could point me toward someone in Corinne’s past who might really have something to lose if the book got published, and she named Greta Monk.” I explained.

He eyed me thoughtfully. “Avoiding prosecution for a crime would be a strong motive. But is there not a statute of limitations?”

“I don’t know. I also don’t know how long ago the embezzlement—alleged embezzlement—happened. I can ask Phineas Drake about the statute of limitations. Maurice is supposed to meet with him this afternoon and he wanted me to go with him.” I realized I still hadn’t talked to Detective Lissy about what Angela Rush had said. “Oh, and I need to call Detective Lissy.”

Since no bridal couples were fighting for the opportunity to sign up for ballroom dancing lessons just then, I whipped out my phone and dialed Detective Lissy’s number. It was still in my cell’s memory from when he’d been trying to pin a murder on me.

He came on the line with a weary, “Yes, Miss Graysin?”

I told him about locating Corinne’s literary agent, Angela Rush (although I didn’t mention searching the Blakely house), and suggested that he might want to get a copy of whatever the literary agent had of Corinne’s book.

There was a lengthy pause when I stopped talking. “Detective Lissy?”

“Miss Graysin—”

I imagined him folding in those too-red lips.

“I’ve been doing this job for—”

“Yes, I know, twenty-seven years.” He might have mentioned that two or eight times while investigating Rafe’s murder.

“—and I assure you that I don’t need your help. In fact, if you wanted to help, you could have refrained from aiding and abetting a suspect.”

“I let a friend sleep at my place for a night. That’s hardly aiding and abetting,” I said, rising to pace around our tiny display area. I bumped the stand-up of Rafe and me and we teetered. I steadied us. I realized that arguing with Lissy was not going to help Maurice’s case. “Look, Detective Lissy, I know you know how to do your job. It’s just that I’ve talked to a few people—”