Dead Man Waltzing (10 page)

Lissy groaned.

“—and it seems to me that Corinne Blakely stirred up a lot of old . . . animosities when she set out to write her memoir. Lots of people, it seems to me, had much better motives for killing Corinne than Maurice did. Why, he doesn’t even have a motive.”

“That we know of. Yet. Moreover, he had means and opportunity, which are much more important. Now, it seems to
me
, Miss Graysin, that you should stick to dancing and let me do the investigating.”

I tried to rush in a question before he could hang up. “What were the means, exactly? I mean, how did she d—”

He hung up, leaving me staring at the disconnected phone. “Well!”

Tav gave me a quizzical look. “No success with your favorite police detective?”

“You’d think he’d be grateful for a little citizen involvement,” I said, flouncing back to my chair. It’s easier to flounce in a satin ball gown than in, say, a pair of jeans. “The police are always asking people to get more involved, to join neighborhood watches and all that.”

“Ungrateful. That is what they are.” The corners of his mouth dented in, in a way that told me he was holding back a smile.

“You’re laughing at me!”

“Never.” He shook his head unconvincingly.

“I’ve got to help Maurice.” I was prepared to get mad at Tav if he objected.

“Of course you do,” he agreed. “It is one of the things I most appreciate about you—your loyalty to your friends.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Appreciate” didn’t light me up as a verb choice—I’d have preferred “like” or “find attractive”—but I felt a warm glow nonetheless.

A managing mother-of-the-bride type sailed up just then, hapless daughter in tow, so we turned back to the business of convincing people that ballroom dance could change their lives. Or, at the very least, that it would impress the heck out of their friends and family when they performed a graceful waltz or foxtrot at their wedding reception.

Chapter 14

Late afternoon found me trapped in traffic on I-66, trying to drive into Crystal City, where Phineas Drake had his offices, to get to the meeting Maurice had asked me to attend. I’d planned on zipping home to change first, reckoning that traffic going toward the city should flow pretty well on a Friday afternoon, but an accident had snarled things up, and I didn’t have time to go home after leaving Tav to man the fort at the bridal fair.

As a result, I walked into Drake’s conference room twenty minutes late, traffic-frazzled, wearing the orange gown. I attracted quite a few stares and whispered comments as I crossed the marble-floored lobby and rode the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor. When the elevator door opened on the offices of Drake and Stoudemire, the hum of conversation, phones ringing, and keyboards clicking, muffled by plush carpeting, told me plenty of lawyers were still at work at past six on a Friday. Drake’s well-trained receptionist didn’t blink an eye at my attire, merely leading me to the small conference room with a wall of glass looking over the Potomac and into D.C. I didn’t feel quite so out of place when Drake rose to greet me and I saw he was wearing a tuxedo, complete with tartan bow tie and cummerbund.

“I see you got the memo about formal wear for this meeting,” he greeted me, smiling behind his mustache and bushy brown beard streaked with silver. He looked more like a modern-day fur trapper or logger than a lawyer. He had a barrel chest and a rounded stomach, and his hand completely swallowed mine when we shook. “I don’t suppose you’re going to the bar association gala this evening?”

I laughed. “No, just coming from a bridal fair.”

Drake’s brows soared. “Should I wish you happy?”

“Heavens, no. Graysin Motion bought space at the convention to entice brides and grooms to learn to dance before their big day.”

“I don’t know why we didn’t think of doing that sooner,” Maurice said. He was on the far side of the table, back to the windows, and wore his usual navy blazer and crisp shirt. He gave me a welcoming smile, although he looked tenser than usual.

“Tav has some good promotional ideas. Where’s your daughter?” I asked Phineas Drake as we sat. My orange skirt billowed around me and I smoothed it down. “I thought she was handling Maurice’s case.”

“We’ll be working on it together,” Drake said. “She’s flying to Bermuda as we speak, a working flight with one of our corporate clients. Now.” His tone turned businesslike. “I’ve counseled Maurice that it’s not in his best interest to have you here. I recommend against it.”

I must have looked hurt, because he continued. “You’re not subject to privilege. You can be compelled to testify.”

“Since I don’t plan to admit to killing Rinny, it’s not going to be a problem,” Maurice said. “I want Stacy here.”

“Very well.” Drake opened a folder that lay on the gleaming wood table in front of him. “Before you arrived, Stacy, I was telling Maurice that I got a copy of the autopsy report this afternoon. It seems Ms. Blakely died from a myocardial infarction.” He paused.

“A heart attack?” I looked from Drake to Maurice, confused. “Then why . . . ?”

Drake looked pleased, as if I’d come up with the response he was looking for. “Not so fast. The MI was caused by an overdose of epinephrine, apparently ingested in a capsule that was supposed to contain Ms. Blakely’s heart medication. Epinephrine raises blood pressure and increases heart rate, which triggered the heart attack.”

“Rinny took a pill soon after I arrived at the restaurant,” Maurice said, leaning forward with his forearms on the table. “She had a minor heart attack four years ago and has been on medication since. She dropped the bottle and it rolled under the table. I crawled under there to get it for her.”

“An excellent way to account for your fingerprints on the pill bottle,” Drake said, nodding approvingly. “We’ll find someone on the restaurant staff who remembers seeing you retrieve the bottle.” He made a note.

Maurice continued, as if he were thinking aloud. “If the epinephrine was in the capsule, it proves I couldn’t have killed her. I never left the table after I arrived; I didn’t have the opportunity to doctor the capsules.” Relief softened the tightness in his jaw.

“Not so fast,” Drake said, raising a cautionary finger. “You were at Ms. Blakely’s house last Thursday, you said. Did you have access to the medicine cabinet at that time?”

Maurice’s silence answered for him.

“On top of that, the police have a record of you buying an epinephrine-based product at the Walgreens nearest your house two weeks ago. Not enough to start your own meth lab, which is, of course, why you can’t buy those meds now without signing for them, but certainly enough to send Ms. Blakely’s ticker into overdrive.” His look invited Maurice to explain.

“I had a cold! I bought some decongestants.”

“He did have a cold,” I said, remembering a sniffling Maurice. I’d sent him home from one class so he could rest.

“The police are testing all the capsules in Mrs. Blakely’s bottle,” Drake continued, “to see if any others were tampered with. I guess that will tell us how quickly someone wanted her dead.”

“It sounds like a pretty iffy way of killing someone,” I said. “What if she didn’t take the doctored pill? What if she noticed that someone had tampered with it?”

“Perhaps the killer didn’t have a specific time line,” Drake suggested. “He or she could afford to wait until Ms. Blakely ingested the poisoned pill. And who looks at their pills before they take them? I take a handful each morning—blood pressure, cholesterol—and I certainly don’t examine them. I spill ’em out and pop ’em in.” He mimed dumping pills in his hand and tossing them in his mouth. “At any rate, our job’s to prove that Maurice here didn’t do it, and the killer’s made that an easier task for us.”

“How so?” asked Maurice.

“Anyone with access to Ms. Blakely’s house during the time period since she last refilled her prescription—hopefully a month or so ago—could conceivably have put the epinephrine in the capsule. The DA will have a much harder time of hanging this on you,” he said with grim satisfaction, “with such a large window of opportunity for, I imagine, a healthy number of folks.”

“What about Turner?” I asked. “Her grandson. He lives at her house now, and he’s going to inherit everything, right?”

“Oh, believe me,” Drake said, eyes narrowing, “I’ve got an investigator prying into every corner of young Mr. Blakely’s finances and lifestyle as we speak. And into the housekeeper’s. She had unparalleled access to the prescription bottle.”

“Mrs. Laughlin wouldn’t do anything to hurt Rinny,” Maurice said. “They’ve been together for nearly fifty years.”

“The same could be said of many married couples until the wife snaps one day and puts a bullet into hubby dearest, or he loses it and has at her with a poker. In my experience, living with someone for a long time makes you less tolerant of their . . . foibles, shall we say? . . . than more tolerant. You can leave the toilet seat up only so long before it’s wood-chipper time.”

I could see that being a criminal defense attorney gave one a cheery outlook on humanity.

“So what do I do now?” Maurice asked, fingers twiddling with a loose button on his blazer sleeve. I gave him a sympathetic look.

“Nothing,” Drake said. “Go to work, go home, don’t talk to the media, and absolutely don’t talk to the police unless I’m present. The ball’s in my court. I’m working on getting a copy of Ms. Blakely’s will so we can see who else might have had a financial motive. I’ve also got someone finagling the memoir outline from the literary agent. I don’t think you have much to worry about, Maurice.”

Maurice crinkled his forehead. “But a jury—”

“I don’t believe in juries,” Drake interrupted. “Nice people, most of ’em, I’m sure, but unpredictable. No, the best way to keep a client out of jail is to make sure he never sees a jury. And that’s what I aim to do in your case. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to meet up with the missus at the bar association shindig before she bids on a time-share in Fiji or some such at the silent auction.” Smoothing his vest over his considerable paunch, he ushered us from the conference room.

Maurice had ridden the Metro to the meeting and was happy to accept a ride home with me. Rush-hour traffic still snarled the streets, and I resigned myself to a long commute. Glancing at Maurice’s profile, I asked, “Do you feel any better about the situation now?”

His mouth twitched in a “not really” way. “I’m less concerned about ending up in the pokey with Drake on the case,” he conceded, “but Rinny’s still dead, isn’t she? And the murderer is still out there.” He gazed through the side window as if hoping to spot the killer in the semi idling beside us, or in the van leaking rap music in front of us.

“Do you know Greta Monk?” I asked, giving him a brief account of my visit with Lavinia Fremont.

“Poor Lavinia.” He sighed. “She was an amazing dancer . . . so light on her feet you’d have thought she was a piece of dandelion fluff tossed by the wind.”

“Very poetic.”

He reddened and said sheepishly, “Well, she was a born dancer. Maybe not as technically proficient as Corinne, but with a musicality that set her dancing apart. It was a crime—literally—when she lost her leg. Although she’s achieved a lot with her design business.”

“She said Corinne and her husband helped her get set up.”

Maurice nodded. “Indeed. I’ve often thought Corinne felt guilty about Lavinia.”

I took my eyes off the road to look at him—no big deal, since I-395 more nearly resembled a parking lot than a highway. “Really? Why on earth?”

“Because the trip to England was her idea. She’d had a bee in her bonnet for a long time about winning at Blackpool, and she’s the one who talked Lavinia and Ricky into accepting the invitation to compete. Lavinia was more of a homebody; I don’t think she’d have gone if it hadn’t been for Corinne.”

“Corinne presumably didn’t force her to go at gunpoint. It sounded to me like Lavinia was pretty keen on competing at the dance festival.” Traffic stuttered forward a half block, and a motorcycle cut through the line of cars, making me wonder whether I shouldn’t trade my Beetle in for one of those cute scooters that came in fun colors, like pink. I looked down at the gown I was wearing and gave up on the scooter idea; exposure to wind, rain, and smog wouldn’t be good for my competition wardrobe.

“As you say,” Maurice agreed. “As to Greta Monk . . . well, she’s a piece of work. I think she studied ballet once upon a time, but she didn’t have what it took to get on with a professional company. Then she took to ballroom dance, but . . .” He shrugged. “I will say this: She seemed aware of her limitations as a dancer and switched to ‘patronizing’ the arts, rather than trying to be a performer, not long after she married Conrad Monk. He encouraged her to chair fund-raising events and the like, and when she and Corinne started talking about putting together a foundation to award scholarships, he put up a big chunk of change.”

“If her husband was well-off, why would she embezzle from the foundation, if she did?” I asked.

“Don’t ask me,” Maurice said, a hint of asperity in his voice. “Why do those pretty, rich young actresses shoplift? It’s not always about the money.”

The cars in front of us shot forward like water from a pipe that was suddenly unclogged, and I stepped on the gas, thinking that Maurice might be right. The Lindsay Lohans of the world certainly let us know that some thefts must be motivated by the adrenaline rush that accompanied the risk, or the thrill of getting away with something. I’d never been that way myself, but I’d had a friend in high school who was constantly shoplifting a lip gloss here or a CD there. And it wasn’t because she couldn’t afford to pay for them. She used to bring the items to school and brag about how she stole them. I’d stopped hanging out with her after she stole a tank top from Target while I was with her. I’d been petrified when she pulled it out of her purse in the store parking lot, laughing about how easy it was.

“If you want to talk to Greta,” Maurice said, “she’ll be at the Willow House battered-women’s shelter fund-raiser tomorrow. It’s a Mardi Gras–themed party on a Potomac cruise. Greta organized it.”

“Isn’t Mardi Gras in February?”

“Would you want to go on a river cruise here in February?” He gave an exaggerated shiver.

There’d be ice on the river; temps would dip into the twenties; gusty winds would rock the boat. “I guess not.”

“I’ve got tickets, if you want them. Greta strong-armed me into buying them. Corinne and I were going to go, but now . . . The
Plantation Queen
launches at four; she’s an old-fashioned paddleboat.”

“I’ll still be at the bridal fair,” I said.

“Let me man the booth at the fair,” Maurice said. “I’d welcome a day to sit and schmooze with brides-to-be and their lovely mothers. I’ll bet I can sign up more ballroom students than you did today; the key is charming the mothers. Everyone’s oohing and ahhing over the beautiful bride and her sparkly ring, and the mother gets less attention than the bride’s purse or hairdo. A few kind words, a graceful compliment, and voilà—the mother convinces the whole wedding party they need to learn to foxtrot.”

“No bet,” I said with a laugh. “Okay. You’ve got it.”

We pulled up in front of Maurice’s house and he opened the door. I put a hand on his arm. “You okay?”

“Dandy,” he said.

I eyed him with concern.

“No, really, Anastasia.” His face grew serious. “I’m okay. Sad about Corinne’s death and not happy that I’m a suspect, but I’m not going to drink myself into a stupor or sit around and mope. I’ll make myself some dinner, maybe pop ’round to the Fox and Muskrat for a pint, and turn in early. Corinne’s lawyer is reading her will tomorrow at eight, and I’ve been asked to attend. Can’t think why. She can’t have left me more than a token.” His brows drew together briefly. “Want to come with me?”

“I don’t know. . . .” His request took me aback, but the eagerness in his eyes seemed to suggest he could use some moral support. “Would they let me?”

“I don’t see why not. Good!” he said, as if it were settled. “It’ll be over and done with in time for me to get out to the bridal fair before the expo center doors open.”