by Ella Barrick
“Sooner would be better,” I hinted.
She shrugged. “You could approach Mr. Turner Blakely about it.”
Been there, done that. I gave in gracefully and thanked her.
Eulalia Pine pushed her glasses up her nose. “I’ll see what I can do. And I’ll have an appraisal report for you later this week. Say Thursday or Friday?”
“That’s fine,” I said, anxious to tell Maurice about the imminent arrival of the typewriter with, hopefully, the cartridge that would reveal some, at least, of the manuscript’s secrets.
After Eulalia Pine left, I called Danielle to thank her for setting up the appointment, and then Maurice to tell him about the typewriter.
“Excellent work, Anastasia,” he said.
“I think you were right about the manuscript being the key to Corinne’s murder,” I said, and told him about the break-in.
After a few questions about my well-being, he hung up, saying he had an appointment with Detective Lissy. “Don’t worry,” he forestalled my next comment. “Mr. Drake is going with me.”
Chapter 24
I didn’t have time to worry about what Lissy might want with Maurice, or to straighten up the mess left by the intruder, because Vitaly would be arriving any moment for the photo shoot with Sarah Lewis. I applied makeup in record time, then brushed my long blond hair and secured a fake hibiscus above my left ear. Slipping into the lime green samba costume with the halter top and the fringed pants, I made it upstairs moments before Vitaly arrived in a matching outfit, with a green shirt open to his navel and black slacks. I filled him in on the night’s excitement while he slicked his hair back with gel, all the while grinning at his reflection in the mirror.
“You are stayings with Vitaly and John,” he announced when I finished.
I was touched by his concern, but said, “I can’t come to Baltimore, Vitaly. I’ve got too much to do here. Besides, I can’t imagine the intruder will come back.”
“He is not searching your bedroom yet, da?” Vitaly leveled an unusually serious look at me.
The thought made the hairs on my forearms prickle; no, the intruder hadn’t gotten to my bedroom.
A knock at the outer door signaled Sarah Lewis’s arrival, and I went to let her in. She wore jeans again, and a photographer’s vest whose pockets bulged. She carried a bag with lots of zipped compartments, and her braid swung forward as she bent to set it down. “Hi, Stacy. You look great. That green is a wonderful choice. Where do you want to do this?”
I led the way into the ballroom, and she looked around curiously, greeting Vitaly with a smile. “Good light.” She peered out each of the windows, stripping the drapes as far to the side as she could to let in more light. “We’ll do a few shots in here, and then I think it might be fun to get some down there.” She pointed out the rear window to the tiny courtyard. “That tree would look marvelous in the background. And it would be a bit different from the standard ballroom backgrounds.”
“You is being the expert,” Vitaly said agreeably.
At her command, we posed and danced and smiled while she moved around us, finding different angles. My smile started to feel stiff by the time she said, “Okay, let’s go out back. Did you want to use a different costume?”
We nodded, and Vitaly ducked into the bathroom to change while I whisked down the interior stairs. I donned the red dress with plunging neckline and the black ruffle that detached to become a cape. My hair had to change, too, to match the character of the paso doble, and I quickly twisted it into an updo, sticking an elaborate enameled comb into it. Most of my makeup was okay as it was, but I slicked a dark red lipstick onto my lips before hurrying out of my bedroom.
I stopped so quickly I stumbled. Sarah Lewis stood at the threshold to the parlor, camera raised to take photos of the mess within. She must have followed me down from the studio. “What are you doing?” I asked, my brows snapping together.
She whirled at the sharp note in my voice. “Taking photos. For your insurance company. Vitaly told me about your break-in. That must have been scary.”
I eyed her, uncertain whether to believe her or not. Her expression was guileless. She couldn’t be interested in the manuscript, I reminded myself; she was far too young to feature in any of Corinne Blakely’s memories. “Thanks,” I said. “It was scary.” I moved toward the kitchen and she followed me. “Oops.” I’d forgotten the table blocked my back door. Together, Sarah and I heaved it out of the way and exited through the back to find Vitaly waiting in the courtyard, his matador costume a dramatic splash of black and red against the green grass and blue sky of the late-spring day.
“I love photographing trees,” Sarah said as she positioned Vitaly and me under the draping limbs of the old magnolia. “I like to think about all the history they’ve seen. Who knows what this old guy might have observed in his day?” She patted the tree’s rough trunk. “Slaves washing sheets on laundry day in this very courtyard, British soldiers occupying the town during the War of 1812, a midwife slipping through the night to help a scared sixteen-year-old wife give birth.”
I stared at her. “You sound like a historian,” I said.
“Smile. I was a history major at William and Mary before I got bitten by the photography bug. My mom-she’s a history professor at Georgetown-got me a job as a tour guide at Christ Church one summer. George Washington used to go to services there, you know.”
I was pretty sure everyone in Old Town Alexandria knew that bit of trivia, but I said only, “A history professor, huh? Not a dancer like her brother?” I dropped into a deep lunge, looking up into Vitaly’s face with simulated passion. He steadied me when my foot slid off an exposed root.
Sarah lowered the camera and stared at me. “My mom doesn’t have any brothers.”
I was confused. “But your uncle Marco-”
Understanding dawned and she laughed. “No, no, he’s my uncle by marriage. He’s married to Mom’s sister, my aunt Marian.”
“But you look-” My eyes widened and I gasped. Vitaly, thinking I’d hurt myself, hauled me upright. I leaned into him for a moment to hide my face.
“Is it hurting, your head?” he asked.
“No, I’m fine,” I said, plastering a fake smile on my face. “Just dizzy for a moment.” I resumed the pose.
It seemed like Sarah hadn’t heard my last half-comment, because she didn’t react. My mind raced, and I knew none of the photos she took in the last five minutes of our session would be usable, because my head wasn’t in the paso doble. I was mentally back in the early 1980s, when Ronald Reagan was president, disco was king, and Sarah Lewis and I were infants. We wrapped things up minutes later, and Sarah packed up her equipment, promising to have proofs for us to review the next day. Vitaly dashed off to meet John, and Sarah followed me back upstairs to the studio so I could write her a check for the sitting fee. I was saying good-bye to her, trying to catalog her features without seeming to stare, when Maurice pushed through the door. He and Sarah exchanged greetings, and he held the door for her as she slipped out, descending the stairs bolted to the house’s exterior.
I grabbed Maurice by his blazer lapels and dragged him into my office. “Maurice! Could Sarah Lewis be Marco Ingelido’s daughter, rather than his niece? I always thought she looked like him, but I thought that was because his sister was her mother. But her mom’s not his sister; her mom’s his wife’s sister.”
Surprisingly, Maurice didn’t look surprised. I took him through it again. “But you can see she’s related to him by blood,” I finished. “She’s got his coloring, his facial structure.”
“I tried to tell you about their relationship,” he said, “that day Mildred and I went to get the typewriter from Turner.”
I stared at him in astonishment. “I thought you meant they-Ingelido and Sarah-were having an affair. So it’s common knowledge that she’s his daughter?” So much for Marco’s being desperate to stop the memoir’s publication to keep his secret.
“By no means
,” Maurice said. “I happen to know because Ingelido was dating Corinne at the time. I found her sobbing her heart out one evening. She told me she had to break up with him because he had gotten another woman pregnant. He’d been acting strangely, and she suspected he was cheating on her. She wasn’t proud of it, but she’d hired a private detective and managed to piece it together.”
“Why didn’t he marry Sarah’s mother?”
“She was already married,” Maurice said.
Oh, the tangled webs we weave… “Would Corinne publish something like that?” I asked. “Making a scandal like that public would hurt a lot of people-Sarah, her mother, and Ingelido’s wife, just to name a few.”
Maurice gave it some thought, shrugging out of his blazer as if it were suddenly too warm. “I just don’t know,” he said, clearly troubled. “I would hope not, but…”
I flashed on Sarah Lewis taking photos of my front parlor. “Do you suppose Sarah knows? What about the man who’s married to her mom?” I couldn’t call him Sarah’s “father,” since it seemed clear he wasn’t.
Maurice rubbed a finger along his lower lip. “I don’t know him well; I’ve met him at a few functions when he and his wife-Phyllis, I think her name is-came to watch Ingelido dance. He’s a university professor. Physics. Marian, on the other hand, I know pretty well. I attended their wedding about six months before I signed on with my first cruise line. She comes from money. If I’m not mistaken, her money bankrolled Take the Lead with Ingelido.”
We exchanged significant looks. “So if she found out her husband fathered a child with her sister…”
“She might pull the rug out from under Ingelido’s business,” Maurice finished.
“That certainly gives Marco a strong motive for not wanting Corinne’s book to get published,” I said.
“I don’t like Ingelido much,” Maurice said, “but I can’t see him sneaking poison into Corinne’s pills. How would he have gotten access to them, for one thing?”
“Good question.” Crossing to the window, I looked down onto the street, twiddling with the blinds’ cord. “I think you should at least mention him to Phineas Drake, though. One of his investigators might turn up something more.”
At the mention of Drake’s name, Maurice’s face sagged, and I remembered he’d had another session with Detective Lissy and his merry band of interrogators.
“What? Did the police…” I didn’t finish the question.
“They didn’t spring any new evidence on us, if that’s what you’re asking,” Maurice said, sinking onto the love seat. I sat beside him and put my hand on his. “We covered the same old ground, several times. It’s clear they think I’m their man, that I killed Corinne. The worst part is that since they’ve arrested me, they’re not even looking at anyone else.”
“But I’m sure Phineas Drake is,” I said, remembering the way the lawyer dug up other suspects when the police thought I had killed Rafe.
“He’s got investigators on it,” Maurice said with a shrug that said he thought it was hopeless.
“Then they’ll turn something up that will exonerate you,” I said with hearty cheerfulness. I stood and tugged at his hand. “Come on.”
He looked a question at me but got obediently to his feet.
“I’m taking you down to the river and buying you an ice cream.” I knew ice cream couldn’t fix Maurice’s situation, but my dad took me for ice cream when I didn’t do well at a competition or a teen boyfriend dumped me, and it always made me feel a bit better, at least temporarily. And temporarily was better than nothing, I thought, following Maurice down the stairs.
Chapter 25
After our expedition to the river (where I had a lemon sorbet to keep my calorie intake within the strict levels I stuck with to maintain my weight, while drooling over Maurice’s double scoop of coffee fudge ripple), I left Maurice at Graysin Motion, practicing with one of his competitive students, and headed for the flagship studio of Take the Lead with Ingelido. I had debated calling Marco Ingelido and setting up an appointment, but I decided that surprise might work better. I was going to confront the dancer-turned-entrepreneur with the news of my break-in and see how he reacted. I couldn’t stand to see Maurice so sad and worn-down; I needed to do something to jolt Corinne’s murderer into betraying himself or herself.
Take the Lead with Ingelido was in the Tysons Corner area, and I fought rush-hour traffic around the beltway to get there. Late-afternoon sun streamed through the Beetle’s window, and my air-conditioning didn’t seem to be as cool as usual, so I arrived flushed and sweaty. The dance studio occupied a former skating rink, and the familiar top-hat logo signaled potential dancers from atop a neon sign that towered over the private parking lot. I eyed the lot with envy. In crowded Old Town Alexandria, where my studio was located, students either had to park on the street-a chancy thing-or use the parking garage two blocks down. I knew a fair number of female students didn’t feel comfortable attending our evening events because they didn’t like the parking situation.
A sprinkling of cars populated the lot, and I figured Marco had a class going on. Entering the building, I looked around curiously; I’d never been in here before. The color scheme was all black and gold, like the logo, with flocked wallpaper and gilt mirrors in the entryway. An unmanned reception counter where some pimply kid used to pass out roller skates now held class schedules, brochures, and a selection of dance shoes. A door, half-open, sat just past the counter, waltz music pouring out, and I poked my head in.
The dance floor was huge, the former rink covered with wood flooring, I guessed, noting the waist-high wall that encircled it with gaps for dancers to enter or leave the floor. Approximately fifteen couples circled the floor, and I bit back the envy that surged in me; we were lucky to have six or eight couples at any given class. Clearly, people liked Ingelido’s concept. Marco himself was moving among the dancers, correcting a gentleman’s frame, demonstrating a turn with a flustered woman student. I had watched for three minutes or so, not willing to interrupt the class to speak with Marco, when a familiar voice spoke from behind me.
“Were you interested in lessons, ma’am?”
I spun to see Solange Dubonnet standing behind me. Her expression faded from helpful to sneering when she recognized me. “Come to see how a successful studio operates, Stacy?” she asked with false sweetness.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” I said. Solange was the reason Rafe Acosta became my ex-fiancé four months before his death. I caught them in bed together. Waves of red hair rippled to Solange’s shoulders, bared by a halter-top dress, and her green eyes gleamed with malice. She’d tried to buy Rafe’s half of the studio after his death, but her plan had fallen apart.
“I’ve been teaching here since just after the Emerald Ball,” she said, referring to a ballroom dance competition in L.A. “Working with Marco is fabulous-he’s got such a head for business, and the students love him. What are you doing here?” She eyed me with suspicion, as if I were here to kidnap Marco’s students and drag them down to Graysin Motion.
“I just wanted a word with Marco,” I said, determined not to get into it with her.
After studying my face for a moment, she sashayed onto the dance floor and spoke in Marco’s ear. He glanced toward me, handed the class off to Solange, and headed my way. I had to admit he moved well as he approached me with the gliding motion that had made him famous back in the day.
“Stacy.” He greeted me with lifted brows. “Have you come to find out about our franchise opportunities?” The glint in his eye told me he knew better.
“Actually, I came to tell you someone broke into my house last night.”
His face went expressionless for a moment before he said. “Really? And why would I be interested?”
“Because whoever it was was looking for Corinne’s manuscript.”
Taking my elbow, he guided me toward a small office I hadn’t noticed earlier. I noted dark wood, an excellent sound system, dance trophies, an
d a sleek laptop before he closed the door and turned to face me. “Did they get it?” His dark eyes searched my face.
“You should know.”
“Are you accusing me?” He seemed caught between astonishment and scorn, and any hope I cherished of getting him to confess dwindled. He snorted and passed behind me to get a cigarette from a box on his desk. “Filthy habit, I know,” he said, lighting up. “I feel it in my wind more and more each year. Yet…” He shrugged.
I tried a different tack. “Sarah Lewis seemed very interested in the scene of the crime. I caught her taking photos of my parlor.”
“Sarah?” Marco took a step toward me. “What was she doing there?”
“Vitaly and I hired her to do our publicity stills,” I said. The tension in Marco’s face unsettled me and I stepped back.
“Leave Sarah out of this,” Marco warned. “It’s got nothing to do with her.”
“Oh, I think it does,” I said. “Your determination to keep Corinne from publishing her memoir-I think it’s got everything to do with Sarah.”
Marco reared back as if I’d slapped him. The cigarette burned down, unnoticed, between his fingers. After a moment, he lifted it to his lips and drew deeply. It seemed to calm him and he turned his head to exhale smoke over his shoulder. “Whatever you think you know, I had nothing to do with Corinne’s death. And that’s all I’m going to say on the subject. I don’t need to prove anything to you or anyone else: The police already have their man.”
I sensed a deep weariness in the dancer that almost made me feel sorry for him. “Maurice didn’t do it,” I said. “He had no possible motive.”
“Really?” Marco squinted and his voice turned nasty. “Perhaps you should ask him about a certain ruby necklace that ‘disappeared’ during one of his cruises. Come to think of it, that’s a story that might interest the police, if they haven’t already dug it up. And I’m sure it’s a story Corinne was including in her damned memoir, since she was instrumental in resolving the situation.”
