Authors: Ella Barrick
“Is that your idea of subtlety, Miss Graysin?” Lissy asked, returning his gaze to my face.
It was, actually. “You must have your suspicions, too,” I said, “since you’re here to interrogate him.”
“On a totally different matter from the murder,” Lissy said crushingly. “I’m satisfied we arrested the right man for that. And the bequest he received today is just one more nail in his coffin. Excuse me.” He walked away, headed for Turner Blakely.
I wished I could overhear what the two men were talking about, but my watch told me I was going to be late for the salsa class if I didn’t hustle, so I trotted to the door and down the stairs fronting the gracious Georgian home that served as the law firm’s offices to my car.
* * *
The rest of the day passed quickly as I taught the salsa class (a popular one, since several nightclubs in the area catered to salsa enthusiasts), conducted private lessons with a couple of clients getting ready for a competition, and practiced with Vitaly for an exhibition for members of the Olympic committee and the public to promote ballroom dancing as an Olympic sport. We, along with other prominent members of the DanceSport community, were participating in the exhibition and luncheon on Monday. Corinne had organized it, I remembered sadly.
While we danced, Vitaly tried hard to talk me into adopting a rescued puppy. He and his partner, John, volunteered with an anti–puppy mill organization.
“John and I is adopted a boxer puppy,” he said, dipping me low as we rumbaed. “We is naming her Lulu.”
“Cute.” I spun out and leaned away from him at an acute angle as he held my hand and braced me.
“Her littering mates needs homes, too,” he hinted.
Stroking my hand down his face in a simulated caress, I said, “No. I can’t take care of a puppy. I’m too busy. I travel too much. It wouldn’t be fair to the dog.”
He sighed and released me as the music ended. “If you are knowing anyone who would liking a puppy . . .”
“I’ll point them toward you,” I promised, turning off the stereo system. I turned and caught him smiling at himself in the mirror to admire his teeth. His grin widened when he saw me watching him. “Oh,” I said, “I talked to a photographer who would be willing to do some publicity shots for us. Is that okay with you?”
“
Da
. We is needing.” He tugged a Johns Hopkins sweatshirt over his head.
“Her name is Sarah Lewis. She’s Marco Ingelido’s niece.”
Vitaly curled his lip. “I hope she is being better photographer than he is dancer.”
I merely hoped she’d be able to shed a little light on her uncle’s attitude toward Corinne and the publication of her memoir.
Chapter 16
Danielle and I arrived at the Alexandria dock at Union and Cameron streets, just north of the Torpedo Factory, minutes before the
Plantation Queen
was due to sail with the Willow House party aboard. I’d dithered about whom to take with me, considering Tav before deciding that he might think I was asking him for a date, which, of course, I wouldn’t have been, since our relationship was strictly business and my urge to dance with him stemmed solely from my belief that he should know how to dance if he was part owner of a ballroom studio, and not because I liked the feeling that tingled through me when he took me in his arms, and the way he smelled, and . . . I stopped my unruly brain and thought about asking Vitaly, who would be fun to have around for the dancing, and even Mom, because we didn’t do too much together these days. I finally decided to ask Danielle whether she’d go with me, because I knew she’d get a kick out of doing a little sleuthing on Maurice’s behalf, and because, well, seeing Lavinia’s tears over Corinne’s death made me think I ought to spend a little more time with my sister and best friend.
Danielle had enthusiastically agreed, explaining that Coop was giving chess lessons that evening to some local middle-schoolers and she was at loose ends. She rang the doorbell as I was spritzing on a light floral perfume. I wore a frothy cocktail dress with a tight bodice and floaty skirt that came to midthigh. My Grecian-look gold sandals perfectly set off the swirls of white, peach, and gold in the fabric, and my hair bounced loose against my shoulders. I opened the door to Danielle, who had on a staid navy blue dress with a cropped jacket and matching navy blue pumps.
“You’ve got to lose the jacket,” I said the moment I set eyes on her. What I really wanted to say was,
You look like you’re going to a funeral
, but I bit my tongue, figuring she wouldn’t take it well. “And I’ve got some shoes you can borrow that don’t look like they came out of Great-aunt Laurinda’s closet.”
“My outfit is perfectly—”
“No, it isn’t.” I dragged her in, pushed her down on the sofa, which let out a poof of dust, and ran to my room for a pair of high-heeled silver peep-toes with rosettes. While there, I grabbed two long strands of silver set with sparkly crystals. Danielle had shed the jacket by the time I came back, revealing spaghetti straps that showed off her toned arms and lovely neck.
“Here.” I thrust the necklaces at her and crouched to slip the sandals on her feet. “Voilà! Cinderella,” I said, stepping back to survey the effect. She wore her red hair twisted into a loose chignon and it looked dramatic against the navy and silver of her dress and jewelry. “And we didn’t even need a fairy godmother.”
“Hmph,” Danielle said, but she crossed to the full-length mirror in the hallway and surveyed her reflection with a pleased smile.
We walked the few blocks to the waterfront, slightly hobbled by our impractically high heels on the uneven brick sidewalks, to find the boarding process almost complete. The
Plantation Queen
rode low in the water, three stories—or decks, I guessed—of pale blue accented with lacy white ironwork along the decks. Enclosed cabins with large windows on three sides took up most of the space on the lower and middle decks, but the top deck was an open observation platform only partially shaded by an awning. Twin smokestacks rose from the upper deck, flaring at the top. A huge red paddle wheel dripped water at the stern, with two gulls perched on one of the unmoving slats. A young man in a jaunty sailor outfit that looked more like a costume than serious naval attire took our tickets with a smile. “Come aboard. You almost missed the boat, ladies, and that would have been a shame.”
His admiring gaze traveled over both of us, but lingered on Danielle. Tossing cheap Mardi Gras beads over our heads, he offered each of us a hand up the unsteady metal gangway. Four feet wide, it was about fifteen feet long, with a corrugated sort of surface designed to prevent slipping, but not ideal for stiletto heels. My heel caught in one of the indentions, and the crewman saved me from falling by grabbing my upper arm. I thanked him, he smiled, and we made it safely up the rest of the gentle incline to the lowest deck. The paddle wheel began to churn moments after we were aboard, and the
Plantation Queen
slid away from the dock toward the center of the Potomac.
Laughter drifted from all the decks, and waiters circulated with trays of champagne. Dani and I each snagged a glass and wandered toward a stairway, or whatever you call it on a boat, to climb to the upper level, where a trio conjured up images of Bourbon Street on a saxophone, trumpet, and clarinet. Well-dressed men and women laughed and flirted and talked as the late-afternoon breeze stirred artfully casual hair and sheer silk and chiffon dresses. Actually, the breeze was turning to windy gusts, and several women had to hold their dresses down.
“The beautiful people,” Dani whispered.
“This is the life,” I agreed, turning my face up to the sun and letting the wind sift through my hair. Taking a sip of the champagne, I held it in my mouth a moment, letting the bubbles tickle my tongue, before swallowing. I closed my eyes and felt, rather than saw, the sun disappear behind some clouds.
“So which woman is this Greta person?” Dani asked, always more task-focused than I.
Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and scanned the crowd. “That one,” I guessed, pointing discreetly to a woman who was a little too blond, in a mint silk sheath that was a little too tight, and who was working a little too hard at being vivacious and charming. Rings glittered on her gesturing hands, and her unlined face testified to the skills of a good plastic surgeon, making it hard to guess her age. She held herself gracefully erect with a dancer’s posture, though, which made me think she might be Greta Monk. I was sure of it when she moved on to another clump of partiers, greeting them like a hostess and exchanging small talk for a few moments before stepping aside to consult with a man wearing a chef’s toque.
“So, what’s the plan?” Danielle asked. “Cruise up to her and ask whether she poisoned Corinne Blakely?”
“I think something less . . . ‘in your face’ would work better,” I said, nibbling at the cuticle on my index finger.
“Great.” Danielle looked at me expectantly.
“I haven’t come up with anything yet,” I admitted, tracking Greta Monk as she moved toward the stairwell. She began to descend.
“Well, we need a plan,” Danielle said, brows twitching together. “We could—”
“I think I’ll wing it.” I thrust my glass at Danielle and hurried to catch up with Greta, brushing against a middle-aged waiter and making him bobble a tray of full champagne glasses. “I’m so sorry,” I said, catching the rim of the tray so it didn’t tip. I craned my neck to see around him, but Greta had disappeared.
“No problem, miss,” he said with a tired smile that said he’d rather be home watching
Everybody Loves Raymond
reruns than dodging tipsy passengers on a paddleboat.
“I’m not drunk,” I assured him.
He gave me a “yeah, right” look and stepped aside so I could slip by him. I descended the stairs as quickly as possible, given my four-inch heels, and paused at the bottom, scanning the crowd for Greta. The paddleboat was lurching a bit now as the stiff winds kicked up some whitecaps, and I spread my legs wider to keep my balance. I didn’t spot Greta, but my eyes lit on a photographer snapping a smiling foursome against the rail, and I recognized Sarah Lewis. Hm, that woman got around. She turned and saw me as Danielle emerged from the stairwell and thrust my champagne glass at me.
“Lost her, huh?” Dani said at the same time Sarah Lewis, after a brief hesitation while she dredged up my name, said, “Stacy, right?”
“Hi, Sarah,” I said, momentarily giving up my search for Greta. “Done with the bridal fair? Oh, this is my sister, Danielle Graysin. Dani, this is Sarah Lewis. She’s a photographer.”
They made “nice to meet you” noises before Sarah answered my question. “You know what they say: A paying gig in the hand is worth more than potential wedding contracts in the bush.” Sarah shrugged. “I left some brochures on my table at the bridal fair.” She gestured with her camera, an expensive-looking model with a fat lens that didn’t bear much resemblance to my seventy-dollar point-and-shoot camera. “Let me get a picture of the two of you. They’ll be for sale when we dock—all profits to benefit the women’s shelter.”
Danielle and I obligingly moved to the rail and leaned our heads together, smiling when Sarah said, “Say, ‘Support your local battered women’s home.’ Great. Gotta go photograph some more donors. I’ll catch you later.” She moved off, khaki vest and sensible deck shoes contrasting with the colorful, less practical garb of most of the female guests. I explained to Dani who she was.
“Kinda weird to run into her again, don’t you think?” she said.
“I don’t know. She’s a photographer. Her uncle’s got connections and undoubtedly knows Greta Monk, who probably hired her. I don’t think it’s all that strange.”
“Hmph.” Dani sounded unconvinced. She stood on tiptoe to peer over my shoulder. “Look, there goes Greta.” I whirled to see the event organizer chatting with a couple in front of her as she stood in line at a buffet table near the opposite railing.
“Come on.” I maneuvered through the crowd and snatched up a chilled plate from the buffet table, filling it randomly as I worked my way toward Greta Monk, who had exactly two shrimp and a celery stick on her plate. She was still chatting with the older couple when I came up behind her.
“Isn’t this a lovely party, Dani?” I said loudly to my sister, who cringed in embarrassment. “So well organized!”
Greta turned with a smile stretching her thin lips. Her taut skin made it difficult to place her age—anywhere from fifty to seventy, I’d guess. “Why, thank you,” she said. “I’m Greta Monk, and I put this party together for Willow House. Such a worthwhile cause.”
“Why, my goodness.” I put a theatrical hand to my heart. “Greta Monk. Corinne Blakely was talking about you just the other day. Isn’t it a shame what happened to her? Maurice Goldberg was just too broken up to attend tonight, so he gave me and my sister their tickets.” I gestured Dani forward, and she gave Greta a smile while shooting me a look that promised retribution.
“Really?” Greta’s smile faltered slightly at the mention of Corinne. “And you are . . . ?”
“Oh, where are my manners?” I didn’t know why I’d adopted the persona of a dithering Southern belle; it must have been the power of suggestion emanating from the gracious old boat, or the Dixieland music filtering from the cabin. “I’m Stacy Graysin, and this is my sister, Danielle. I own a ballroom dance studio.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Greta said automatically, looking anything but. “Did you say Corinne mentioned me? In a good way, I hope.” She forced a chuckle, but the nervous look in her eyes told me she was anxious to know what Corinne had been saying.
“Oh, of
course
,” I reassured her. “Something about how you’re going to be on the Kennedy Center board of trustees, and a dance scholarship fund. I didn’t really catch it all, but if the scholarships are merit-based, I’ve got a student or two who might qualify.”
Greta pressed a napkin to her lips. “There’s no . . . That was a long time ago. I don’t know why Corinne . . .” Composing herself, she said, “Corinne and I administered a fund years ago—
years
ago. I don’t know why she’d bring it up now. Who was she talking to?”
“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 for
ever
, 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—”