I gave him the slightest of smiles. “Thanks. Bye.”
He jogged across the lawn. I turned toward the parking lot behind the Arts Center.
“That was useless.” I fished my keys from my pocket. I wondered how much a kid paid to live in the frat. Eight kids in a room? And no privacy at all. They did have lockers, but the cops had searched the room. If the backpack was there, they would’ve found it.
I got in the van and drove past the fraternity house. A lot bothered me: how evasive Nate Ellis was. How Coop admitted to lying to the cops. I sighed. I knew they lied. Coop told me he was taking me to the freshman bullpen and Nate Ellis told me that Max Hempstead was a junior. Did these lies have anything to do with Madame? I was sure Nate and Coop were hiding something, but what?
A party in that beer-drenched frat house definitely did not appeal, but I knew I’d go back.
Chapter 18
At Mystic Bay Hospital, there was no longer a police officer at Madame Monachova’s door.
“Did the police leave?” I asked a passing nurse.
She shook her head. “Shift change. Though how they think a lovely woman like that could have anything to do with a murder…” she whispered, and continued down the hallway.
A man and a woman sat by Madame Monachova’s bed. Madame sat up against the raised head of the bed, a few gray hairs escaping from her braid.
As I entered the room, she reached out her hand to me. “Allie!” Her voice was heavy, indistinct.
I took her hand and kissed her cheeks. Her other hand rested on her stomach, curled, clawlike.
Madame took a deep breath. “My sister, Yulia, and her husband—” She hesitated, confusion and then fear playing across her face. She drew another deep breath. “Russ.”
I nodded to them. Madame’s voice was so strange, her words slurred. Fear quickened my breathing.
A nurse pushed a cart into the room. “Time to take your vitals and get you ready for bed. Would you all please give us some privacy for a few minutes?”
Russ, Yulia, and I stepped into the hallway.
“Coffee?” Russ asked.
I shook my head.
“Yes, please, darling,” Yulia said.
Russ walked down the hallway to the elevators. Yulia and I took seats on a couch in a lounge at the end of the hallway.
“Svetlana has spoken of you so often, Allie.” Yulia had Madame’s high cheekbones and petite build, but she was younger, her thick chestnut hair highlighted with just a few strands of silver at the temples. “So proud of you.” She took a breath. “We came from the city as fast as we could.” Her eyes welled with tears.
I handed her a box of tissues. She took one and dabbed her eyes.
“Thank you. The doctor spoke to us. The shock of finding herself wrapped in a bloody cape, being questioned by the police, it was too much.” Yulia shook her head “They think she had a stroke. They have to do more tests.” She took a deep, shuddering breath.
A stroke? “Can she…”
“She can walk but she has”—Yulia closed her eyes and tears spilled to her cheeks—“weakness in her right arm and leg.”
Tears pricked my eyes. Yulia squeezed my hand. “You understand. How difficult this is. How difficult it will be.”
I nodded, stricken. A woman who lived for dance, who moved through the world with such grace. I couldn’t imagine the road she’d have to travel now. I remembered how I felt when I was first injured. Not just the pain and rehab … The loss of identity. Madame was a dancer. She had to dance.
“What can I do to help?”
“The college has someone to cover her beginner class. Is there a way you can keep her advanced class going? I will stay at her house and watch her cats so I can be nearby. I think that would be something she’d want.”
The classes were evenings on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I could work that into my dance schedule and I knew that Aunt Gully would want me to help. We’d make it work at the shack.
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
“Thank you. I still cannot believe something so horrifying happened to her.”
I gave voice to the question that had been on my mind since Saturday night. “Did she say how blood got on her cape?”
Yulia shook her head. “She can barely speak and she has trouble remembering things. The police were here earlier, but the doctor told them that she must rest and can’t possibly be interrogated further until she’s come through this crisis.”
The nurse left the room. “She’s sleeping now.”
We nodded to her. I gave Yulia’s hand another squeeze. “I’ll come back tomorrow. Tell her not to worry about her class. I’ll take it from here.”
Chapter 19
The next morning I hurried downstairs, stuffing tights into my dance bag.
Aunt Gully flipped through my rehearsal calendar hanging near her ancient wall-mounted telephone. “Good thing Boston is only two hours away. Your schedule is crazy.”
“I just have to be there while Serge builds the dance for me, then for act 1 rehearsals. Things will really kick into high gear in a couple of weeks when we rehearse with the schoolkids.”
The Nutcracker was a huge production with a cast of over a hundred performers, many of them children from local dance schools and the conservatory. Traditionally, the ballet’s first act is set in the drawing room of an 1800s Austrian family. Serge wanted to update it with a 1930s Hollywood glamour look to the costumes, which meant even more to prepare with new sets and costumes.
“I’m happy that you’re back onstage. In your element. Where you belong.” Aunt Gully set a plate of scrambled eggs sprinkled with marjoram and thyme on the table, then a plate of still-sizzling bacon.
She nodded toward a bowl of fruit salad. “And we have plenty of fruit.”
The ridiculously large fruit basket sat in the center of the dining room table—it was too big to fit on the kitchen counters. “And that’s with me giving most of it to Hector and Hilda, and Bit’s family.”
“Thanks.” I grabbed a few pieces of bacon. “Today Serge is choreographing my solo in the party scene.” I knew my dance was a consolation prize for losing my role as Dewdrop in act 2, but Serge was so famous that I was buzzing with excitement.
“A dance by Serge Falco—what a feather in your cap!” Aunt Gully took her seat across from me.
“I’m sorry about not being able to help as much at the shack in the coming weeks, Aunt Gully.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “I’ve got the Gals. Business has slowed since it’s November already. And I’m so glad you can help Madame Monachova with her class.”
The Mystic Bay Mariner lay between us on the table. I could see the headline: FRATERNITY BROTHER KILLED IN GRUESOME HALLOWEEN MURDER. A photo of Royal Parish’s palatial home ran with the headline above the fold. I flipped it over to a smaller photo of Max, in suit and tie, grinning. Golden boy, I thought sadly. A patch on the jacket pocket, too small to make out, was probably from an exclusive private school. Next to the article was a photo of Lobzilla with Bertha on one side, Fred Nickerson on the other, each holding the beast by one of his massive claws. The caption read: “Giant crustacean, seen here at the dock of the Lazy Mermaid Lobster Shack, mysteriously appears at scene of death.”
Beneath that another headline read: “Giant Crustacean Returned to Graystone College Marine Biology Department.” The articles had nothing new to tell me about the death of Max Hempstead.
“Thank goodness Lobzilla made it. Losing him would’ve been another blow for Fred.”
Aunt Gully munched a piece of bacon. “He really wanted that grant from the Foundation to make repairs to his boat.”
I nodded. “He wasn’t alone. Madame Monachova had also applied for a grant.”
Aunt Gully’s mouth turned down. “Poor woman. Are you going to see her today?”
“Yes, after rehearsal, if that’s okay.”
“Of course, give her my best.” Aunt Gully sipped her tea. “I’m still giving tho
ught to Chowdaheads.”
“Really?”
She held up a hand, still holding a piece of bacon. “I know. I don’t want to be too hasty. Your sister’s right. I should be practical.” She sighed. “Sometimes I feel like I automatically dismiss what your sister wants me to do.”
“Because it’s always the opposite of what you want to do.”
Her eyes sparkled. “In a word, yes.”
We laughed.
“And now Don O’Neill’s wooing me with a fruit basket,” she said.
“It is an impressive fruit basket.”
The doorbell rang.
“Who could it be this early on a Monday?” Aunt Gully said.
“I’ll get it.” I opened the front door and took delivery of a beautiful white box tied with black and silver ribbon. I recognized the ribbon—it was the trademark of the most expensive florist in Mystic Bay.
I set the box on the kitchen counter.
“Well, what on earth?” Aunt Gully untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.
An intoxicatingly sweet scent filled the room as pink roses, with cupped petals and ruffled edges, were revealed. Aunt Gully buried her nose in them.
I read the card and handed it to her.
A pleasure to meet you. Don O’Neill.
“Well, I must say these are some nice blooms.” She sighed.
“This is some serious wooing, Aunt Gully.”
She inhaled the roses’ scent again and smiled. “Maybe I’ll think about Chowdaheads a little longer.”
Chapter 20
Faces and thoughts jumbled together as I drove north on 95, hardly seeing the traffic. I pressed PLAY on the van’s ancient CD player.
Madame Monachova, so small in her hospital bed, hovered in my mind. How on earth had she ended up with blood on her cape? Had she brushed against the murderer? My hands tightened on the wheel. There’d been too much blood for the contact to be accidental.
Had there been any connection between her and Max? I thought of the note promising money that I’d found by Max’s body. Madame also needed money for her dance project, but I simply couldn’t believe she was connected to Max’s murder.
So much of what had happened at the party was unbelievable. What was wrong with Kathleen Parish? Her response to the news of Max Hempstead’s murder had been so extreme. Of course she would have been shocked, but she’d been panicked, afraid. No, terrified. Then it dawned on me. I’d seen Isobel fight with Max. Isobel, who from what I’d observed was governed by extreme emotions. Was Kathleen afraid Isobel had killed Max?
Kathleen had also mentioned Royal. Did Royal know about Isobel and Max, know that they had a relationship?
Max kept running through my mind. Max at the shack. Max with Isobel. Fighting with Isobel. Both times he’d worn a black backpack. It had been odd, at the shack, that he didn’t leave the backpack in the car even though it had gotten in the way.
Why?
Nate Ellis had also been upset, naturally. He and Max were friends, fraternity brothers. I remembered him dancing with Isobel at the party, so he knew her as well. He’d also reacted strangely when I asked about the backpack.
What was in the backpack?
Well, the cops would find it. Or would they? Coop’s words came back to me over the pounding eighties soundtrack of Aunt Gully’s CD.
On script. The fraternity brothers lied. Lied about Max, a junior, sleeping in the freshman bullpen. That meant they didn’t want the police to see his room.
My fingers tightened on the wheel. I had to find and search Max Hempstead’s room.
And more than anything, find out how Max’s blood had gotten on Madame’s cape.
* * *
At company class, everyone gathered around but I was relieved they weren’t asking about the murder. Everyone wanted to know about Madame Monachova. A hushed feeling spread throughout the company. She was beloved, an icon, and a stroke was a devastating blow that any dancer could relate to.
I was glad when Serge took me to a studio to work out my solo. I loved him because he pushed me hard, as hard as he had before my injury. The only difference was that I wouldn’t be dancing this role on pointe or do any difficult jumps. My ankle strength just wasn’t reliable yet. But Serge took that as a challenge and the dance he created for me was just as beautiful and satisfying as any I’d danced before.
After rehearsal, Serge gave me a quick kiss. “When you see her, give my love to Svetlana. Oh, and go see Virginia in the costume shop. She has surprise for you.”
As I left the studio, music seeped out of a practice room next door—the music for the Dewdrop’s dance—the role that was supposed to be mine.
I couldn’t help it. I peeked in the glass door.
Margot Kim spun past, her trademark ponytail whipping the air. Margot lived in the same group house where I’d lived with some dancer friends. Well, I wouldn’t call her a friend. Margot was phenomenally talented and phenomenally mean. The only time she’d really been nice to me was the day I’d fallen down the steps and broken my ankle. She’d called an ambulance and stayed with me as I lay, dazed, on the cement floor at the foot of the cellar stairs.
I watched the assistant artistic director coach her in the Dewdrop’s dance, which calls for incredibly quick and precise footwork.
“No, no, Margot. Quick, quick, quick.” She clapped her hands. “You’re behind the music.”
Margot, face red and sweaty, nodded, her chest heaving as she panted.
I stepped away from the door before she could see me. Margot was struggling.
Good.
* * *
Downstairs in the costume shop, a woman with gold curls and impish sea-green eyes looked up from a worktable, pins in her teeth. Virginia Aldous was our costume maven.
“There you are!” In her broad Boston accent, are came out as ah.
We hugged.
“Got something special for ya!” She led me to a mannequin wearing a floor-length gown. “Serge wants 1930s Hollywood glamour, so that’s what Serge will get. Based this on a Rita Hayworth number, copied the lines, don’t tell anyone. Top’s fitted, but the skirt’s pretty full so you can move. This gold silk’s gonna look great with your hair. Serge himself wanted gold. He never comes down here, but for you—”
She squeezed my arm. She knew how hard this was. I could see the Dewdrop costume hanging on a rack behind her, a pink and silver dream, with a tiny abbreviated tutu that wouldn’t get in the way of all the crazy difficult footwork.
I turned back and ran my fingers along the satiny fabric of my new costume.
“I love it.” It was the truth.
“Hope so, it was a royal bee yotch—excuse my French—took me three hours to get that beading right.” We laughed and I slipped it on. The costume fit perfectly but still my eyes strayed back to the Dewdrop costume.
Virginia tilted her head. “Here, look.”
She took down the bodice of the Dewdrop costume and flipped open the back. Ballet costumes are shared—several dancers will rotate through a role and the costume is cleaned after performances. The bodice is separate from the tutu. A row of hooks and eyes go down the back, so each ballerina can adjust the fit.
Name tags are sewn inside for each dancer taking the role.
Margot Kim. Kellye Garrett. Dawn Atkins. Allegra Larkin.
“I left your name in. I figure you’ll be back. Like a bad rash.”
I could barely get out the words. “Thanks, Virginia.”
Chapter 21
I drove to Mystic Bay Hospital. Inside, I waved to a group of dance students from the college as we passed each other in the hallway outside Madame’s room.
Yulia sat beside the bed as her sister slept. “So nice her students came. She could only speak for a few moments, then fell asleep,” Yulia whispered.
Under a thin white blanket, Madame lay so still.
“Should she be sleeping this much?” I whispered.
“The doctor says it’s how the brain heals.”
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I nodded. “When she wakes up tell her that everyone at the ballet sends their love. Especially Serge.”
Yulia’s lips curved in a small smile. “He’s still a devil?”
“Yes.”
“Your aunt came. She left that.” She nodded at a vase of pink roses and a bowl of fruit. “Such a generous lady.”
“Did the police say anything?”
Yulia shook her head. “A woman detective came. Very professional and businesslike, dark hair pulled back very tight, tailored suit. Very”—she searched for a word—“controlled.”
I’d met her before. Detective Rosato. Good grief.
I managed to smile and wish Yulia good night before slipping out, my mind whirling.
Detective Rosato was with the state police. Like many towns in Connecticut, Mystic Bay was too small to have its own expensive homicide squad or crime labs. I’d endured her probing, unblinking gaze, her emotionless, precise, almost robotic voice.
How on earth could anyone think Madame Monachova could kill a strong young man like Max Hempstead? He was a junior in college. A lacrosse player and a sailor.
But … she was a dancer. In her seventies, true, but in great shape. Maybe she’d surprised him. It was not probable, but possible … I hated to think this way about Madame, but I’d learned in the past summer that people could be capable of things you’d never expect.
Still, I’d never believe she was guilty.
Who’d want to kill Max Hempstead? Isobel Parish. I’d seen her fight with Max. I hate you, she’d screamed.
I swallowed—Isobel had been wearing a sword at the Halloween party.
Was that why Isobel’s mother Kathleen freaked out so badly when she heard Max was dead? Did she know that her daughter and Max had fought? That would explain her extreme reaction when she’d heard Max was killed. She’d totally lost it.
Kathleen had also asked about Royal. Old-fashioned Royal Parish. I couldn’t believe the way he’d pulled his daughter aside at a party to talk about the family honor.
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