Dead Man Waltzing

by Ella Barrick

  As my rear wheels spun onto the pavement of the main road, I flicked on my headlights. They grazed the burglar’s car, glinting off the Mercedes hood ornament. What kind of burglar drove a Mercedes? A really successful one? I didn’t have time to think about it as horns honked to complain about my precipitate arrival onto the Mount Vernon Parkway. I straightened the wheel and stomped on the gas, waving apologetically to the car behind me. I was halfway home before it crossed my mind to call the police and anonymously report a burglary in progress.

  Safely home, I poured myself a healthy glass of Chianti and eased my hand into my pocket to see what the burglar had dropped. Pulling it out with two fingers, I found one-third of a credit card, snapped off so the hard plastic formed a cutting edge. This was no professional burglar, I decided. Even I knew you couldn’t pop a dead bolt with a credit card. Holding the card under the counter light, I made out the last few letters of the burglar’s name: LIDO.

  I caught my breath. Putting together the voice I’d heard with those four letters gave me the man’s identity: Marco Ingelido. Why in the world was the man who owned the most successful chain of franchised ballroom dance studios in the business, Take the Lead with Ingelido, trying to break into Corinne Blakely’s house the day after she was murdered?

  Chapter 9

  I rose early Thursday morning to do a private lesson with a student who was preparing for his first ballroom dance competition. We would compete in the bronze division as a professional-amateur couple. He was a fiftyish, divorced man who initially signed up for a dance class to meet women, but found himself liking it so much he decided to try his hand at competition. He liked to practice early, before work, so we were finished shortly before eight o’clock. He left for a day in cubicle-ville and I went downstairs to shower and dress.

  The ringing phone yanked me out of the shower just as I turned off the taps. Grabbing a towel, I trotted to my bedside table to answer, hoping it was Maurice calling to say he had been released.

  “Stacy?”

  It was my mom’s voice, clear and a bit reserved, as always. Mom was not one to show a lot of emotion. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Have you talked to your sister?” She also wasn’t much of one for beating around the bush or wasting time with small talk. I conjured an image of her thin, angular body and graying red hair. From the whuffling horse sounds behind her, I knew she was standing at the wall phone in her small barn, probably wearing old jodhpurs and rubber boots for mucking out. Bird, her twenty-two-year-old gelding, whickered behind her; I’d learned to ride on him and would recognize his “voice” anywhere.

  “Hi, Bird. Yes. She told me about your invitation. Sounds like fun.”

  She sighed. “I’m glad you think so. Danielle clearly wasn’t enamored of the idea, even though it’ll be my treat.”

  “It’s the Jekyll Island thing. It’ll bring up a lot of memories of our last vacation, all of us together.”

  From her silence, I knew she hadn’t previously made the connection. “That was years ago,” she finally said, as if old memories didn’t carry much weight. In my experience, sometimes they carried the most weight.

  “Yeah, well.”

  Another silence fell. I finally broke it. “What dates did you have in mind?”

  She told me and I checked my mental calendar. “That should work. It’s the weekend after the Virginia State DanceSport Championships. Count me in.”

  “Thank you, Stacy.” She hesitated. “And if you could talk your sister into it, I’d be very grateful. I hate it that things are so awkward between us.”

  “Have you told her that?”

  “Of course not.”

  Of course not. I hung up a few minutes later, mentally shaking my head. My mom could practically read a horse’s mind, could communicate with the big beasts telepathically, but she had no clue what her own daughter was thinking. I’d do my best to talk Dani into the vacation, because it would be fun for all of us.

  I headed upstairs to work on choreography for a husband-and-wife amateur team who were competing at the Virginia state competition with the Graysin Motion team. I worked in the small studio at the back of the house, liking the view of my tiny courtyard from the studio’s window. I’d worked up most of a samba routine for the pair when someone knocked on the doorjamb and spun me around.

  Tav stood there, newspaper in hand, a less-than-thrilled expression on his face. “You did not think I would be interested in the fact that Maurice was arrested?”

  “It made the newspaper?”

  He flipped through a couple of pages and read, “‘Alexandria police announced the arrest of Maurice Goldberg, a ballroom dance instructor with Graysin Motion, for the murder of Corinne Blakely, his former wife and also a professional ballroom dancer.’ It goes on to give details about her career.”

  “Well, that sucks.”

  “As you say.” His mouth quirked up on one side. “Have you talked to Maurice? Is he okay? Does he have legal representation?”

  I smiled, wanting to hug Tav. Even though he was worried about the studio’s reputation, he was concerned about Maurice, a man he barely knew. “I got hold of Phineas Drake and he took Maurice’s case.”

  “Do I need to worry that Drake will frame me for the Blakely woman’s murder?” He looked over his shoulder in an exaggerated way and I laughed. He was well aware that Drake had offered to set someone up for Rafe’s murder when the police thought I did it.

  “I don’t think so. As I understand it, Corinne had five other husbands; I’d think any of them would make a better murderer candidate than you, well, except the one who died. And she was apparently writing a tell-all memoir that was making a variety of people nervous, according to her housekeeper.”

  “When did you talk to her housekeeper?” Tav asked.

  “Last night.” I bent to grab my water bottle and my notes, hoping he wouldn’t dig any deeper.

  “She happened to drop by the studio?” he asked in a politely skeptical voice.

  “I might have stopped by Corinne’s house,” I muttered.

  “Stacy-”

  “Okay, I got the key from Maurice’s house and went to Corinne’s to find the manuscript,” I said all in a rush. “Maurice thinks someone murdered her to keep her book from getting published. I thought I’d find it and…” What had I planned to do if I’d come across the manuscript? “… and turn it over to the police.” Well, I might’ve.

  He didn’t berate me for my stupidity. “Did you find it?”

  I shook my head. “No. Mrs. Laughlin-the housekeeper-thinks she hadn’t written it yet, that all she had was an outline.”

  “Can one get a contract on a book that is not even written?”

  “How would I know?” I remembered that I had the names of Corinne Blakely’s agent and editor. “But I know how we can find out.” I ran downstairs to retrieve the phone numbers from my dresser. I didn’t realize Tav had followed me until I turned and saw him standing in the doorway, surveying the rumpled pink sheets-I wasn’t much of one for making my bed-the litter of jewelry and cosmetics on the dresser, and a periwinkle bra draped over the chair. Something in his eyes made me sure the thought uppermost in his mind didn’t have to do with my untidiness.

  Blushing slightly, I brushed past him, too aware of his warm male scent, saying a bit breathlessly, “Here’s the number.”

  I thought for a moment he was going to reach for me, but then he stepped aside with a quiet, “Pardon,” and followed me to the kitchen-much safer territory-where I picked up the phone and dialed a New York City number, holding the phone out a little so Tav could hear. I had to wade through two layers of assistants before the agent picked up the phone. “Angela Rush,” she said with a brisk New York accent.

  When I asked my question, she laughed. “We sell nonfiction books all the time off no more than a chapter outline and a marketing plan. It’s all about the platform.”

  “Platform?”

  “The author’s credentials. Her fame, or not
oriety as the case may be. How hot is her topic? How likely is media attention? And, darling, Corinne Blakely was hot. What with the popularity of Ballroom with the B-Listers and the International Olympic Committee about to vote on ballroom dancing-excuse me, DanceSport-as an Olympic event, and her charisma, well, let’s just say we had a major deal in place. Her death is a tragedy for the arts community in America.”

  And a tragedy for Angela Rush’s pocketbook, I suspected. “So you don’t even have an outline?”

  “Oh, I have one of those.” Ms. Rush’s voice turned cagey.

  “You do? Can you fax it to me?”

  “I’m afraid not.” She didn’t sound remotely sorry. “We’re still going forward with the project, and I don’t want any details leaking before publication. This book is going to be an NYT bestseller. I have an instinct for these things.”

  Excuse me? How could she go forward with a memoir when the memoirist was dead? “How-”

  “We’ve been in contact with someone we’re sure can do justice to the book,” Ms. Rush said coyly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting at FSG.”

  Tav and I stared at each other for a moment after Ms. Rush rang off. “Well, that raised more questions than it answered,” I finally said.

  “Indeed.”

  Conscious that Tav was still standing close enough to listen in, close enough to make my skin flush with a desire I had no intention of giving in to, I moved toward the sink and poured myself a glass of water, adding a couple ice cubes for good measure.

  “Perhaps if you shared this information with the authorities…” Tav suggested.

  “Detective Lissy could chisel the outline out of Ms. Rush. My thought exactly. Great minds think alike.” I smiled.

  Tav’s answering smile suggested that our two great minds were thinking alike on an entirely different topic. “Stacy-”

  The doorbell rang. I started, jolting cold water onto my shirt. “Coming!” I headed toward the front door and opened it to see Maurice.

  “Maurice!” I hugged him hard. After a startled moment, he returned the hug. “You’re free.”

  “For the time being,” he said. He looked as immaculate as ever in a crisply ironed button-down shirt and tan slacks, and smelled like he’d just stepped out of the shower. I remembered spending a half hour in the shower after being hauled down to the police station for an interview. It must be a thousand times worse to actually spend the night in jail.

  “That very competent young lady you sent got me released on bail first thing this morning. Then she and her father-he seems like a force to be reckoned with-grilled me more intensely than the police.” A faint smile showed he appreciated their thoroughness. “I’m meeting with them again Friday evening, after they’ve had a chance to check on a few things. Will you come with me?”

  “Of course,” I said, dragging him into the hall. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Food would be appreciated,” he said.

  Tav walked in from the kitchen and Maurice’s white brows soared as he looked from me to Tav. “We just called Corinne Blakely’s literary agent,” I said.

  Tav shook hands with Maurice. “I am glad the police released you,” he said. “I would like to talk more, but I have an appointment I cannot miss. Please be assured that I will do whatever I can to help prove your innocence. Although Stacy has a head start on that task.” With a grin, he left, saying he’d catch up with us later in the day, and reminding me about the bridal fair that started tomorrow.

  Dragging Maurice into the kitchen, I started putting together some French toast while I told him about looking for the manuscript, talking to Mrs. Laughlin, avoiding Marco Ingelido, and tracking down Angela Rush. As the egg-soaked bread sizzled on the griddle, Maurice poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table. “You’re amazing, Anastasia,” he said. “I can’t believe you searched Rinny’s house last night alone.”

  I shrugged. “What are friends for? I’m only sorry I didn’t get anything useful.”

  “Maybe you did,” he said. “Didn’t you say she had an electric typewriter?”

  “Yes, a Smith Corona. So?”

  “So, you wouldn’t realize this, probably never having operated anything as antiquated as a typewriter, but those typewriters had cartridges that snapped into the machine to provide ink. The keys struck the tape and transferred letters to the paper.”

  My interest in typewriter mechanics was limited at best. I put a plate of French toast in front of Maurice and set a syrup bottle beside him. “So?”

  “So, the keys leave an impression on the ribbon. The last… I don’t know-twenty? fifty?-pages Corinne wrote will be on the cartridge.”

  “We could reconstruct her most recent outlines,” I said, finally catching on. “But how do we get the typewriter? Turner’s probably back from his stag party by now.”

  “I’ll think of something,” Maurice said. He ate breakfast with appreciative murmurs and looked at his watch. “Don’t you have the Ballroom Aerobics class to teach?”

  My gaze flew to the clock over the stove. Ten to eleven. “See you later,” I said, racing toward the stairs and taking them two at a time up to the studio.

  Chapter 10

  Students were already starting to trickle in, and I greeted them as they lined up in the ballroom. The hour flew by and I felt invigorated by the exercise. The tension of the last couple days drained out of me as I led the class.

  Vitaly came in as the students left and immediately asked about Maurice. “Has he breaked out of the jails?”

  “They let him go, yes.”

  “Vitaly is glad. I will helping prove his innocence.” He thrust his chin up, looking like a gladiator about to enter the arena.

  “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that, Vitaly,” I said. “Tav said he’d help, too, so between us we ought to be able to come up with something.” I told him about Marco Ingelido breaking into the mansion, sure that Vitaly had come across Ingelido at some point during his career.

  Vitaly wrinkled his nose and sniffed. “Ingelido is asking me if I want to own a Taking the Lead with Ingelido studio. I laugh in his face.”

  “Tactful.”

  “His methods is a joke… is only fitting for the sociable dancers, not for competing.”

  “Well,” I said, “ballroom dancing is becoming a much more popular social activity. The numbers of dancers have grown a lot in the last five years.” I bent to pick up a stainless-steel water bottle one of the women had left. “If Ingelido’s methods help-”

  Vitaly, facing the door, drew in his breath with a hiss. “Speaking of the devils-”

  I spun around to see Marco Ingelido on the threshold, surveying the ballroom with an expression that hovered between appreciative and assessing. In his early sixties, he was beginning to put on weight around his middle, but was still a good-looking man, with thick, dark brows over deep-set eyes and an aquiline nose. He’d been balding for years and had finally shaved his head, telling people that if it was good enough for Kojak, it was good enough for him. He’d been moderately successful as a professional ballroom dancer but gave up competing five or six years back, shortly after I started winning, to concentrate on expanding his business.

  “I heard you two partnered up,” he said, his gaze going from Vitaly to me. “Anya dump you, Voloshin?”

  Vitaly bristled. “I am moved to Baltimore and Anya is not wishing to leave Russia,” he said.

  “And of course we all know what happened to your partner, Stacy,” Ingelido said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Rafe died. Didn’t I hear something about you being arrested for his murder?” Malice gleamed in his dark eyes.

  I chose to ignore his question. “Can I help you with something, Marco?” I asked, convinced his showing up like this was not a coincidence. Not after last night.

  “You can give me what you found last night,” he said, his voice flat. “At Corinne Blakely’s.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.�
��

  Ingelido smiled coldly. “My son-in-law is a cop. He ran your license plate for me.”

  Oops. “I saw you break into Corinne’s house,” I said. Two could play the intimidation game.

  “Your word against mine.”

  “Hm, I think your credit card says otherwise.”

  He thinned his lips, clearly wishing he’d taken the trouble to retrieve the snapped credit card. “I didn’t come here to quarrel with you. I can’t imagine what Corinne had on you-you’re so young-but I know you were after her manuscript. I want it. Or”-he held out a placatory hand-“I want your assurance that it’s been destroyed.”

  “What is Corinne having on you?” Vitaly asked, eyes bright with curiosity.

  Ingelido hesitated, then finally said with an air of great honesty, “We were lovers. I was in my late thirties. Corinne was… older. I was between wives, so it’s only… embarrassing. I’d just as soon not have the affair publicized. We were discreet at the time. I don’t know why she decided to go public with it now.” His voice was a growl of frustration.

  “How did you know she was going to write about you?” I asked.

  “She told me!” He paced like a trapped tiger: three steps away, three steps back. “I had the impression she was giving everyone she was writing about ‘fair warning.’ That’s what she called it when she told me.”

  “I didn’t find the manuscript,” I said, feeling a twinge of sympathy for Ingelido. “And her housekeeper said she never wrote it, that she only had an outline.”

  Ingelido’s chest expanded as he took a deep breath and held it. He blew it out. “That’s that, then.” His shoulders sagged with relief. I debated telling him what I’d learned from Angela Rush, but before I could say anything, he said, “This is a nice little studio you’ve got here. If you signed on with Take the Lead, we could turn it into a profitable enterprise. My franchisees are seeing a twelve percent return on their investment in the first year and up to thirty percent in the second year.”