by Ella Barrick
“That’s too bad,” I said, ignoring her question. “About the scholarships, I mean. And about Corinne.”
“Hideous,” Greta agreed. “Corinne and I were like sisters. When I heard the news…” She shuddered. A fat pink shrimp slid off her plate and splotched her dress before dropping to the deck. “Oh!” She rubbed at the spot with her napkin, looking far more upset than the slight mark deserved.
“But isn’t it wonderful that her book will still be published?” I said brightly. “She lived the early days of ballroom dance competition in America, and it would be such a shame if her memories were lost forever!”
“What?” Greta’s plate fell and shattered on the deck. A passing server swooped in to begin picking up the shards.
Inspiration struck and I babbled on. “I’m really looking forward to reading the manuscript.”
“How did you-”
“Corinne was worried that someone was out to steal the manuscript-wasn’t that silly? But you know how she is. Was. So she gave it to Maurice Goldberg for safekeeping. She and Maurice have known each other forever, you know. Anyway, he gave it to me to take to the publisher in New York when I go up next week for an… an appointment. He didn’t want to risk losing it in the mail.” The lies were stacking up, and I counted on Greta’s being too much distressed at the news that the manuscript had survived Corinne to scrutinize my story too closely.
Danielle gave me a narrow-eyed gaze that said she thought I was insane. I ignored her.
“Where- What are you…” Greta started. “I’d be interested in-”
“Everything okay, Greta?” A powerfully built man in his mid- to late sixties with crew-cut gray hair had come up behind Greta Monk. He was only a couple of inches taller than she was, and was too stocky to look elegant in the off-white linen suit he wore with the jacket unbuttoned to show a shirt that matched Greta’s dress. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, giving me and Dani an inquiring look from hard eyes.
“Oh, Conrad. No, nothing’s wrong, except I dropped my plate. So clumsy of me. Excuse me; I’ve got to wash this off.” She slipped out from under his encircling arm and hurried to the cabin door, which was propped open by an urn brimming with begonias.
Conrad Monk nodded brusquely and followed his wife.
Controlling herself until the pair was out of earshot, Danielle rounded on me. “Have you lost your friggin’ mind? What was that all about?”
I wasn’t sure myself. I’d gone with the impulse of the moment, as I was all too prone to do. “I thought Greta might let something slip if she thought the manuscript was still around. If her husband hadn’t come up-”
“Did it slip your mind that the last person to have that manuscript got murdered?”
It had, actually. Not that I’d forgotten Corinne was dead, but I hadn’t put two and two together. “We don’t know she was killed because of the memoir,” I said.
Danielle snorted.
“We don’t. Maybe her son or her charming grandson offed her for the money. That’s a much stronger motive, actually.” I finished my champagne.
“Well,” Danielle said after a moment, calming down a bit, “if you wanted to make Greta nervous, I think you succeeded. The moment you mentioned the scholarship fund, she turned green.”
The pitching of the boat in ever-building waves was making me feel a bit green. “Maybe she was worried about the weather.” I nodded toward the dark clouds piling up against the western horizon. “I think her beautifully organized fund-raiser is about to get rained out.”
On the words, the clouds spit a few raindrops at us. People descended from the upper deck, practically tumbling over one another as they came down the ladder and sought shelter in the glassed-in cabin area. A jagged blast of lightning zinged across the sky, and Danielle grabbed my arm. “Let’s get inside.”
Hurrying across the deck, I felt the boat slow and begin to turn. Moments later, an announcement sounded over a crackly public address system. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry, but we must curtail today’s cruise and return to the dock.” The phrasing sounded like Greta Monk’s, but the broadcast was so staticky I couldn’t tell whether the speaker was male or female. Danielle and I crammed ourselves into the cabin area, which smelled like too many damp people crowded into too small a space. Only a lucky few had seats. An elderly couple sat holding hands on the far side of the room, orange life jackets strapped around their party attire. Most people seemed unfazed by the choppy water and the lightning, laughing and chatting as they tried to keep drinks from sloshing over whenever the boat lurched unexpectedly. A summer squall on the Potomac didn’t carry the same panic factor for boats as a hurricane in the Atlantic.
“I’m going to get more champagne,” Danielle said, eyes scanning the crowded room for a server. She must have spotted one, because she’d moved off before I could tell her I didn’t want any.
Truth to tell, my stomach was lurching a bit with the boat’s wallowing motion, and I was a teensy bit worried that the champagne I’d already drunk would reappear. My head began to throb from the heavy scents of perfumes, shrimp, and cigars in the moist air, and the overly loud jazz emanating from the brass trio that had been playing on the observation deck, but who had also sought refuge in the cabin. If I had to stay cooped up in here a moment longer, I was going to throw up. Two long strides brought me to the door, and I was through it in a heartbeat, taking in great gulps of fresh air.
I felt better almost immediately and found that the rain wasn’t coming down hard enough to bother me. The misty wetness actually felt good on my bare arms and face, although I didn’t imagine it was improving my dress any. Sheltered by the cabin’s slight overhang, I noted that I wasn’t the only one who preferred the elements to the crowded cabin. A couple huddled together against the far railing, holding the man’s jacket above them to keep off the rain. A solitary man stood at the bow, looking toward the fast-approaching dock. Another announcement crackled over the PA system; I thought it might have something to do with disembarking.
With my stomach settling, I drifted toward the stern, drawn by the rhythmic slap of the paddle wheel slats against the water. As I approached the edge of the cabin I heard voices, low-pitched, apparently arguing. I slowed, not wanting to interrupt. Whoever the speakers were, they must be pressed up against the back of the cabin, the only wall that wasn’t glass, just around the corner from where I now stood. I was about to back away, allowing them their privacy, when I heard a single word: “Corinne.”
I stiffened. It was a man’s voice, but I didn’t recognize it. An unintelligible murmur followed, and I found myself creeping closer to the end of the cabin, hoping they wouldn’t come around the corner to find me flattened against the wall, eavesdropping. The wind died for a second and I heard a woman’s voice. Greta?
“… don’t know. Corinne never-”
The man’s voice cut her off. “We can… Turner won’t-”
Frustrated by catching only snippets of the conversation, I inched farther along the wall, just as the boat turned, plunging a bit as it came crosswise to the waves. It jolted me against the wall with a solid thud. Knowing the whispering couple must have heard the bump, I decided to reveal myself before they came looking for me. I’d brazen it out and act like I was just out for fresh air, attracted by the paddle wheel, which, I realized, had the merit of being true. I straightened my spine and stepped forward, glancing casually over my shoulder as I passed the end of the cabin, hoping to see the whispering pair.
No one huddled against the back wall. Realizing they must have gone around the far side of the cabin, I spun on my heel and slipped on the wet deck. One knee smacked into the deck, and I let out an exclamation of combined pain and frustration. By the time I regained my footing and limped around the cabin, there was no one in sight. A seagull perched on the flat roof fluffed his feathers and cocked his head at me. “Ki-yi-yi,” he jeered.
“Oh, stuff it,” I said.
The Plantation Queen had maneuvered
into the small harbor area by now, and revelers began to stream from the cabin as the captain brought the boat alongside the dock. I looked for Danielle, but didn’t see her in the press of people. I’d meet up with her on the dock, I decided. It seemed like half an hour, but was really only ten minutes or so before the crew secured the boat against the dock so it bumped against tires, and maneuvered the gangway into place. Despite crew members urging people to descend the gangway slowly, to watch their step, the crowd surged forward like teenage girls pushing into a Taylor Swift concert where the seating was up for grabs.
I moved forward with the crowd, going with the flow. I was on the outer edge of the gangway, watching my feet to make sure my heels didn’t catch as they had when I boarded. So I didn’t see whose elbow jabbed me in the side, knocking me off balance so that I teetered for a moment on the edge of the plank before plunging into the murky Potomac.
Chapter 17
I barely had time to snatch a breath before I splatted into the water, fanny-first. The scummy water closed over my head. I kicked hard for the surface and felt one sandal drift away. Damn, I thought, as my head popped out of the water and I took a breath. I liked those sandals. Excited voices called from the gangway, the boat, and the dock, and a waving array of hands reached down to me. Oil slicked the water with rainbow colors, and fast-food wrappers, cigarette butts, and other trash floated around me. The ick factor outweighed any fear of drowning. I could swim and I was only feet from the shore… it wasn’t like I was in danger, except maybe from the hull of the Plantation Queen, which loomed a little too close for comfort.
Taking two strokes toward the dock, I reached up and grabbed for a helping hand at random, feeling a strong hand close over mine. A second man grasped my other arm and the two hauled me straight up from the water until my torso fell over the dock. I suspected I looked more like a half-drowned muskrat than a seductive mermaid as I sat up and slicked soggy hair off my face. “Thanks,” I gasped.
A bearded crew member, the braid on his sleeve suggesting he might be the captain, hurried over. “Are you all right, miss?”
“Fine,” I said, “although I’ve lost a shoe.”
He gave my remaining sandal a disapproving look. “Those heels are dangerous. Not suitable for boating. It’s not surprising that you tripped.”
From my dock-level perspective, I had a great view of a lot of feet, and almost all the women wore shoes just as impractical as mine. I shot the captain a look and got to my feet, pulling off my sandal so I stood barefoot on the dock. I thought about telling him that I hadn’t tripped, that I’d been pushed, but thought better of it. I’d sound like a crazy lady. There was no way I could prove someone deliberately knocked me into the water, and I had no clue who it was anyway. I accepted the towel someone handed me and wrung out my hair before draping the fluffy white cotton around my shoulders.
“Stacy!” Danielle skidded to a halt beside me. “I was still on the boat… I saw you fall. Are you okay?” Her pretty features twisted with worry and she hugged me, disregarding my soggy state. “Your dress!”
I looked down at the sodden silk clinging to my curves. “I think it’s a goner.”
“Come on. Let’s get you home.”
The captain, probably relieved that I hadn’t uttered any of the words small-business owners most dread-“sue,” “fault,” or “lawyer”-gave me a smile and promised me a free trip on the Plantation Queen anytime I wanted. I thanked him and looked around at the diminished crowd as Danielle dragged me away. I didn’t recognize anyone. Whoever had pushed me was long gone.
The rain had quit as suddenly as it started, and the sun had reappeared, turning the puddles and soaked earth into a soil-scented steam bath. Danielle signaled for a taxi, but I told her I’d rather walk. She gave in after a brief argument and we started back toward my house. I carried the lone sandal in one hand and left a trail of drips all the way home. The sidewalk’s warm bricks felt good against my bare feet.
“You might need a tetanus shot,” Danielle said as I unlocked my front door. “There’s no telling what was in that water.”
“They gave me one when I got shot,” I said, stripping to bra and undies in the foyer so I wouldn’t drip all over the hardwood floors. The scar on my left arm was still livid and I ran my fingers over it, remembering the terror I’d felt when facing a murderer with a gun. Danielle fetched a garbage bag and I reluctantly balled the dress up and stuffed it in. “I liked that dress,” I said.
“How did you slip, anyway?”
I headed for my bedroom and a warm shower, Dani trailing me. “Someone pushed me.”
“What!” Danielle settled on the bed while I disappeared into the bathroom, stripped, and got in the shower.
Warm water sluiced over me, washing away the film left by the murky Potomac. “I said someone pushed me,” I yelled over the water’s pounding.
“Are you sure? There were a lot of people trying to get down the gangplank at the same time. Maybe someone bumped you by accident.”
I stayed silent, ninety percent sure the elbow in my ribs had been deliberate. After a moment, Danielle continued, “Well, if it wasn’t an accident, who was it?”
I’d given that some thought on the walk home. “Greta or Conrad Monk,” I suggested, “or Sarah Lewis. I don’t think I knew anyone else on the boat.” Getting out of the shower, I turbaned my hair in a towel and wrapped another one around myself. I walked into the bedroom.
“I knew you shouldn’t have made up that story about having the manuscript,” Danielle said with gloomy “I told you so” satisfaction. “Someone’s already trying to bump you off.”
“Oh, please. No one tried to kill me. There were dozens of people around and the water wasn’t that deep and I was six inches from the dock. If someone had wanted to kill me, he or she would’ve done better to toss me off the boat in the middle of the Potomac and hope I couldn’t swim.”
Danielle’s silence conceded my point. Ducking into the closet, I got dressed and reappeared in shorts and a T-shirt. “What are you going to do now?” Dani asked.
“Dry my hair.”
She threw a pillow at me. “Then what?”
“I don’t know.” I’d had enough investigating for the day, to tell the truth. I changed the subject. “Have you thought any more about Mom’s invitation? I told her I’d go.”
Danielle looked at me as if I’d volunteered to be part of a firing squad tasked with shooting her.
“Mom really wants you to come, too,” I coaxed. “We’ll have a good time. Don’t you remember what fun we had shell collecting? And how we got up in the middle of the night to watch the sea turtles hatch and make a dash for the ocean?”
“I remember Dad waking us and walking us down to the beach. He let me carry the flashlight.”
“Mom was there, too. She tried to scare away the herons eating the baby turtles by waving her arms and singing that Jim Croce song.”
“‘Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.’” An almost-smile lit Dani’s face briefly. “It didn’t even faze those herons.”
I let the subject drop, not wanting to push too hard and have Dani decide she wasn’t coming. Sometimes, not getting a “no” was progress.
Chapter 18
Sunday noon found me on the road to the Hopeful Morning Rehabilitation Center, Maurice seated beside me in my yellow Volkswagen Beetle. I’d called him midmorning to see how his day at the bridal fair had gone, and we’d ended up discussing my unplanned dip in the Potomac and the murder. Visiting Randolph Blakely, Corinne’s son, had been Maurice’s idea. “She got together with him every Sunday for brunch,” he said. “Maybe she said something to him the weekend before she died that would help us figure this out.”
Accordingly, we were driving through Maryland horse country on our way to the rehab center, flashing past gently rolling hills and pastures featuring leggy Thoroughbreds. When Maurice told me to turn, I initially thought he’d made a mistake, because the property in front of us looked more like the h
ome of a successful horse trainer than a medical facility of any kind. Stately trees lined the long driveway, and outbuildings and barns surrounded the sprawling brick house fronted with a wide veranda. I was about to ask Maurice whether he was sure we were in the right place when I spied a discreet sign almost enveloped by a honeysuckle bush that read, HOPEFUL MORNING REHABILITATION CENTER.
“Wow,” I said, parking between a Mercedes and a BMW. “This is nicer than some resorts I’ve been to.”
“Keeping Randolph here cost Corinne more than ten grand a month,” Maurice said.
“Ouch. I guess they’ll be sending their bills to Turner now.”
The scents of honeysuckle and roses twined around us as we crossed the veranda. Bees buzzed lazily from flower to flower, and classical music drifted from a window above us. The facade of gracious living continued inside, with an Oriental rug on the marble-tiled floor and a crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling. A young woman in khaki slacks and a black polo shirt with the center’s name embroidered over her left breast directed us outside when we asked for Randolph Blakely. She pointed to a flagstone path that led away from a set of French doors opening off what looked like a dining room. “His quarters are down that path. First building on your right.”
Maurice thanked her and we exited through the French doors. I realized as we walked that the buildings I’d thought were sheds were really little cottages. I had no knowledge of addiction treatment centers, other than what I’d learned from a thirteen-year-old ballet friend who’d been sent to a residential facility in Arizona when diagnosed with anorexia. “I guess the… patients aren’t locked in?” I asked Maurice. I knew my friend had been strictly watched.
He shook his head. “Randolph’s in a transitional program now, designed to help people who have undergone the initial detox and treatment phases. The transition program is supposed to help them adjust to living on their own and rejoining society. He can come and go as he wants, according to Corinne, but she said he hasn’t set foot off this property in the ten months he’s been here.”
