Dead Man Waltzing (13 page)

“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 home 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.”

We knocked on the door of a blue bungalow that looked like something out of a Beatrix Potter book, complete with white shutters, white picket fence and gate, flowering shrubs, and nameplate on the door that said,
HOLLYHOCK HAVEN.
I just knew the other cottages had names like Rose Retreat and Sunflower Sanctuary.

“Gag me,” I muttered as the door swung inward. “Too cutesy.”

The man who stood in the doorway, a questioning look on his face, did not fit with the cottage. Instead of being plump and cheerful, he was heavy in a way that made me think of a burlap bag filled with wet cement, and had a waxy complexion that spoke of illness. Gray-blond strands of hair were combed straight back off a face lined beyond its fifty-some years. I saw little trace of Corinne or the handsome Turner in his features, although his eyes were the same intense blue. He’d shaved unevenly, and a quarter-sized patch of whiskers bristled to the right of his chin.

“Maurice?” Puzzlement and perhaps a bit of alarm flitted across his face. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Randolph,” Maurice said. “It’s been a while.”

“Years.” Corinne’s son did not seem inclined to invite us in.

“I came to tell you how sorry I am about your mother. I didn’t know if I’d see you at the funeral?”

“Who are you?” Randolph ignored Maurice and fastened his gaze on me.

“Stacy Graysin,” I said, offering my hand. “I’m a ballroom dancer like your mom and a friend of Maurice’s. I’m very sorry about your mother’s death.”

“I doubt you’re like her,” he said. His tone was ambiguous, and I wasn’t sure whether he meant to slam Corinne or me. Looking from me to Maurice, he sighed. “I guess you can come in. I don’t have anything to offer besides tea or water, though.” He backed away so Maurice and I could slide past him.

The home’s interior and decorations—heavy on chintz, doilies, embroidered pillows, and ruffled curtains—told me the place had come furnished. Only a flat-screen television and a laptop computer on an ottoman looked like they might belong to Randolph. He went ahead of us with the gingerly movements of a man in pain, and I remembered Maurice had said his painkiller addiction began when he injured his back. He led us into a kitchen so determinedly cheery that I expected a singing Snow White to pop out at any moment.

“Sit.”

Maurice and I sat at the round oak table while Randolph filled a teapot and put it on the stove. Lowering himself into a chair, he said, “So, to what do I owe the honor?”

His tone and gaze were both sharper than when he’d opened the door, and I thought it wouldn’t do to underestimate Randolph Blakely.

“How are you doing?” Maurice asked.

“Do you mean am I sober? Clean?” Randolph’s gaze mocked Maurice, and I saw a little of Turner in the way his mouth curled up at one side. “Yes. If you mean am I grieving over my mother’s death, then no, not particularly. She wasn’t much of a mother.” He said it matter-of-factly, and I found his lack of emotion somewhat eerie.

I saw Maurice fighting to control his reaction to the slur on Corinne and jumped in with, “Have the police been out to see you?”

Randolph’s gaze slid to me. “As a matter of fact, they have,” he said, “although I’m not sure what business it is of yours.”

“Um . . .”

Before I could think of a reply, Maurice said, “Did Corinne visit you as usual last Sunday?”

“She thought coming out here once a week made up for all the times she was gone when I was growing up.” Grievance seeped from Randolph like gas from a sewer pipe.

I wanted to say,
You’re fifty-plus years old; get over it already
, but I held my tongue. I thought I’d read somewhere that addicts had a habit of blaming others for their weaknesses. “Did she say anything about the memoir she was writing?” I asked.

The teakettle
shree
-ed and Randolph pushed himself up to remove it from the burner. “She was always going on about her precious manuscript,” Randolph said, plunking a teabag into a mug and hefting the kettle in a silent question. Maurice and I shook our heads and he poured the steaming water, slopping some of it onto the counter. “She wanted my blessing on the chapters that dealt with me and my illness, as she called it.”

“Did she show them to you?” Maurice asked. I shot him an approving look.

“Just talked about what she was going to write,” Randolph said. “How she was too young when I was born, unprepared for motherhood. How when my father died she was ‘cast adrift, emotionally untethered.’ Those are the phrases she used. How she tried to provide me with loving stepfathers—of which you were the first,” he told Maurice, stirring a teaspoon of honey into his tea and rejoining us at the table. “Too bad she divorced you before I was old enough to remember you. Judging by the others, you were probably the best of the lot.”

Wow, the acid bottled up in this man would etch granite. Maurice looked shell-shocked, so I asked, “Did she mention anything else about the book? What she might be saying about other people she knew?”

Randolph’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute . . . are you saying you think she was killed because of something she wrote?”

Maurice and I exchanged glances but didn’t say anything.

“That’s rich.” Randolph gave a phlegmy chuckle, like bubbling mud.

“You disagree?” I asked. “Several people seem nervous about what might have been in her book; one even broke into her house trying to get hold of the manuscript.”

“Really?” He looked mildly interested. Downing half his tea, despite the fact that steam still curled from it, he licked his lips. “Who?”

I hesitated a moment, but then decided there was no harm in telling him. “Marco Ingelido. I guess he almost became one of your stepfathers.”

He furrowed his brow, the wrinkles looking like grooves drawn in Play-Doh. “The guy who started the dance studio franchise? He was never one of Mother’s ‘special friends.’” He gave the last words a falsetto twist, and I could hear Corinne explaining her lovers to her young son as “Mommy’s special friends.”

“He said they were an item,” Maurice put in, leaning forward so his forearms rested on the table.

“Absolutely not.” Randolph shook his head. “Mother despised him, even before he opened those cheesy studios and ‘dumbed down’ ballroom dance, as she put it.”

“Why?” I asked. Had Marco Ingelido lied to me for some reason, or was Randolph lying now? Or perhaps he wasn’t as tuned in to his mother’s love life as he thought he was.

“Who knows? Mother could hold a grudge like no one else.” His fingers, strangely long and thin for his bulky build, tapped rhythmically against the mug.

Maurice shoved his chair back from the table as if wanting to distance himself from Corinne’s son and his negative view of his mother. “If you don’t think Corinne was murdered because of her memoir, who do you think did it?”

“That’s easy.” He looked down into his mug, but not before I caught the glint of malice in his eyes. “My only offspring, the fruit of my loins. Turner.”

I gasped and I could tell my response pleased Randolph.

“You’re accusing your own son?” Maurice asked, incredulous.

“One of the things they teach you in these sorts of places”—he waved a hand to indicate the greater Hopeful Morning Rehabilitation Center—“is to see clearly, to give up illusions and excuses and live honestly. Well, I’ve found it’s easier to live honestly if one doesn’t have to deal with one’s family too often. Ergo, my present living arrangements.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “Distance—physical and emotional—helps with honesty, too. I’ve had a clear-eyed view of Turner for some time now. I gave up on him the third time he was expelled for cheating.”

“Corinne never gave up on you,” Maurice said, anger and repulsion warring on his face.

“More fool she.”

Ten seconds went by before I managed to say, “Do you have a particular reason for thinking Turner did it? Did he say something to you, do something suspicious?”

“I haven’t seen or heard from him since I came to Hopeful Morning almost a year ago. I just know what he is. And I know Mother was concerned about his debt load and his lifestyle.”

A lawn mower started up outside, its buzz cutting into the room. Glancing through the window on my right, I spotted a young woman watering potted begonias in the “haven” next door. She waved when she caught me looking, and I smiled in response. I wondered what addiction had brought her to Hopeful Morning. I’d suddenly had enough of the hopeless Randolph Blakely. I rose. Maurice jumped to his feet as if he’d been waiting for a signal to depart. When Randolph stayed seated, Maurice and I made for the front door to show ourselves out. As we walked under the arched doorway that led to the hall, Maurice turned back. “Where were you this past Tuesday?”

Randolph got up and put his mug in the sink. With his back to us, he said, “I didn’t kill Mother.” His voice was muffled and I wondered whether he was crying. But when he turned to face us, his eyes were clear. “I was here. I’m always here. I don’t even have a car.”

Unsatisfied and unsettled, I tugged at Maurice’s hand and we left, shutting the door to Hollyhock Haven quietly behind us. I wondered whether we were closing Randolph in or closing the world out. It didn’t matter. The woman from the cottage next door was watering flowers in the front yard, and she gave us a big smile. I saw she wasn’t quite as young as she’d looked from the window—maybe in her mid-thirties. Fine, light brown hair wisped around her face, and she shoved it off her forehead with her wrist.

“It’s so nice that Randolph’s getting so many visitors these days,” she said in a breathy voice, stepping closer to us and pouring water on a thirsty-looking rosebush. “For a long time, it was just his mom, on Sundays, but now it seems like every time I turn around he’s got more folks stopping by. It’s good to see him rejoining the world, as it were. So helpful with . . . well, you know . . . when you’ve got a good support group. I’m very lucky that my husband and my friends have all stuck by me.” She paused, as if inviting us to ask about the reason for her presence at the rehab center. When Maurice dropped his gaze to the path and I just stared at her, completely unaware of the etiquette for these sorts of situations, she said, “I’m going home next week and I know everything’s going to be fine. I’m going to be fine.”

“Great,” I said, a shade too heartily. “I’m sure Randolph will be fine, too, especially now that his friends are gathering around. Who all have you met?” Maurice winced almost imperceptibly beside me, and I wondered whether I was being too blatant, but the woman looked happy to gossip.

“Oh, I haven’t
met
any of them, not if you mean been formally introduced. People here are cautious about ‘boundaries,’ you know.” She made air quotes with her fingers, sloshing water out of her small watering pot, and twisted her face in a way that told us what she thought of boundaries. “But I figure the blond woman must be a girlfriend—although she wears a wedding ring. Naughty, naughty.”

I exchanged a look with Maurice and he shrugged, clearly as clueless as I was.

“And the painfully skinny gentleman—his uncle, maybe? The man didn’t look old enough to be Randy’s father. Or I suppose he could be a friend or former business partner. They didn’t really act like they were family, now that I think about it. Of course, some families are awfully stiff around one another, aren’t they?” Her bright gaze invited us to agree with her.