Dead Man Waltzing

by Ella Barrick

His presence was immediately explained by Marco Ingelido, still emceeing, when he thanked the corporate sponsors who contributed to the event and introduced Turner Blakely as Corinne’s grandson: “Here today in memory of his grandmother, who conceived of this event and whose dearest wish was to see ballroom dancing get recognized as an Olympic event.”

  He invited Turner to the podium with a gesture, and the young man rose, took a swallow of his beer, and walked forward to shake Marco’s hand. Pulling a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket, Turner leaned into the mike and said, “I have here a copy of the remarks my dearest grandmother intended to make at this occasion. With your permission, I’ll read them to you.”

  Without waiting for a response, he began to read in a clear voice. His diction and pacing were excellent, and I wondered whether he’d been studying theater before getting kicked out of college. Corinne’s words were, as I’d have suspected, to the point, laced with humor, and persuasive. They were also brief. Turner finished by slowly refolding the page and saying, “Let’s all honor my grandmother by making her dream a reality.”

  We surged to our feet, applauding Corinne rather than Turner, and I heard more than a couple of sniffles from the people beside me and behind me. My own eyes stung a bit. “That was very well done,” I told Turner in all sincerity as he returned to the table. “You did Corinne proud.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me so,” he said, sinking into his chair.

  “You were so good,” cooed the dark-haired girl sitting beside him. She was his age, or a bit younger, and wore a hot-pink bandage dress that left little to the imagination. She planted a kiss on him that went on so long the other diners at our table, mostly couples in their sixties, rustled uncomfortably and greeted the arrival of dessert with relief.

  Allowing myself one spoonful of the delicious chocolate mousse, I chatted with the folks at the table, extolling the glories of ballroom dance. Most of my mind, however, was busy trying to figure out how to ask Turner a few pointed questions. I’d about decided there was no way to do it in the current forum, with strangers seated around us and his girlfriend clinging to him like a limpet, when the other couples at the table-who seemed to know one another well-rose and said they had to be going, since they were catching a train to New York at Union Station. “Tickets to The Book of Mormon,” one man said cheerfully.

  Turner’s girlfriend took their departure as the opportunity to say, “I’ve got to visit the little girls’ room. Right back, baby.” She kissed him again and I rolled my eyes.

  Turner and I were alone at the table. I accepted a cup of coffee from the waiter, and Turner ordered another beer. He slumped casually, one hand dug into a pocket, a lock of black hair draped carelessly across his forehead. When the waiter had left, Turner looked at me, a calculating look in his eyes. “So.”

  “So.” This conversation was going nowhere fast.

  “You’ve got some moves. Hot.” Lust flickered in his eyes, the same blue as his father’s.

  Gag me. I was about to say that I didn’t need him to tell me so, when it crossed my mind that letting him think I was interested in him might yield more information than if I told him spoiled little cheaters didn’t turn me on. “Thanks,” I choked out.

  “We could hook up sometime.” He tilted his beer to his lips, his eyes never leaving my face.

  “What about your girlfriend?”

  “Mandy?” He shrugged. “She doesn’t have to know.”

  So he cheated both in and out of the classroom. “I guess you have women throwing themselves at you, now that you’re a millionaire.”

  A smug smile made me want to smack him. “The bitches are hot for me. Always have been.”

  I desperately wanted to prick his self-satisfaction. “I guess you were angry that Corinne didn’t leave you the Warhol painting.”

  Turner scowled. “It should be mine. Goldberg has no right to it. They were only married for a few months, for crap’s sake. I’ve got my lawyers on it.”

  “And I suppose you’ll be spending big bucks on your dad, too.” I sipped my coffee, noticing more people leaving. Turner would be out of here as soon as Mandy finished powdering her nose.

  I thought my reminder would further anger Turner, but he laughed. “Not so much. His days in that addict resort are numbered. The will said I had to support him… it didn’t specify where he got to live.”

  If Randolph had murdered Corinne with an eye toward making up with his son, or sharing the spoils with him, he was in for a rude awakening. “He could move in with you,” I suggested. “There’s plenty of room.”

  “When hell freezes over.” He drained the last of his beer and thunked the bottle onto the table. “I’m putting that place on the market next week.”

  “If you don’t like it, why did you move in there?” I asked, pleased that the conversation had come around to where I wanted it.

  “Grandmother invited me. I felt sorry for her, living all alone with no one but that housekeeper woman, so I moved in.”

  “Aren’t you the model grandson?” I drawled, unable to hold back the sarcasm. “It’s terribly sad that she died so soon-mere minutes, really-after you got there. Some people might think it was a strange coincidence.”

  Turner’s eyes narrowed. “That’s all it was: coincidence. I didn’t know where she kept her medicine, and I’ve never bought any of that epi-whatever stuff. Where do you get off-”

  “Why did the police want to talk to you Saturday?”

  Fury and a hint of fear blazed in Turner’s eyes. Shoving his chair back, he clipped a waiter with a loaded tray and the man stumbled. Dirty dishes clattered to the floor with bangs and crashes and clinks that brought all eyes our way. White lines bracketed Turner’s mouth, and he hesitated half a second before stalking out of the dining room.

  Mandy shimmied up moments later, confusion clouding her pretty features. “Where’d Turner go?”

  “Out.” I pointed to the door he’d used. “He seemed upset about something the police said Saturday.”

  She heaved a sigh, making her boobs rise and fall in a way that caught the attention of the three waiters putting broken china in a plastic tub. “That is just so unfair. I mean, there weren’t any witnesses. It’s a case of ‘he said, she said,’ and of course she only said it hoping to get money out of Turner. She’s a stripper, for heaven’s sake! He’s the sweetest man ever. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

  “Absolutely not,” I agreed, wondering whether it was possible that some woman had accused Turner Blakely of assaulting her. He’d gone to a bachelor party on Wednesday night, and Detective Lissy came looking for him at the will reading on Saturday…

  “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 reasonab
le.” 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.