She laughed. “Uncle Marco tried hard to turn me into a dancer, as a matter of fact. But I’ve got the proverbial two left feet. My sister was better than I was, and our brother was better than both of us. Now she’s a stay-at-home mom of four kids who complains she hasn’t been out dancing since her first pregnancy, and Zach married a born-again type who doesn’t approve of dancing, among other things. Poor Uncle Marco.” She shook her head in mock sadness.
“I’m sure he got over it.” She seemed completely unself-conscious talking about him, not guilty or furtive, like I’d have thought if she’d had an affair with him. Still, many and many an affair started on the dance floor. Stories of pros and students hooking up, or pros with other pros (regardless of marital status), abounded in ballroom circles. “Well, thanks,” I said, pinging her card. “I’ll give you a call.”
“Nice to meet you, Stacy.” She turned to greet an engaged couple in their fifties, hovering nearby as they waited for us to finish.
Still thinking about Ingelido’s relationship with his niece, I bought a limp Caesar salad for me, with fat-free dressing and sans croutons, which really made it a heap of Romaine lettuce leaves, and a burger and fries for Tav. I snitched two of the fries on my way back to our table.
Tav was seated at our table, checking e-mails on his phone. “Thanks,” he said when I handed him the burger.
Between bites of salad, I told him about talking to Sarah Lewis, then backed up and filled him in on my conversations with Marco Ingelido and Lavinia Fremont. “I was hoping Lavinia could point me toward someone in Corinne’s past who might really have something to lose if the book got published, and she named Greta Monk.” I explained.
He eyed me thoughtfully. “Avoiding prosecution for a crime would be a strong motive. But is there not a statute of limitations?”
“I don’t know. I also don’t know how long ago the embezzlement-alleged embezzlement-happened. I can ask Phineas Drake about the statute of limitations. Maurice is supposed to meet with him this afternoon and he wanted me to go with him.” I realized I still hadn’t talked to Detective Lissy about what Angela Rush had said. “Oh, and I need to call Detective Lissy.”
Since no bridal couples were fighting for the opportunity to sign up for ballroom dancing lessons just then, I whipped out my phone and dialed Detective Lissy’s number. It was still in my cell’s memory from when he’d been trying to pin a murder on me.
He came on the line with a weary, “Yes, Miss Graysin?”
I told him about locating Corinne’s literary agent, Angela Rush (although I didn’t mention searching the Blakely house), and suggested that he might want to get a copy of whatever the literary agent had of Corinne’s book.
There was a lengthy pause when I stopped talking. “Detective Lissy?”
“Miss Graysin-”
I imagined him folding in those too-red lips.
“I’ve been doing this job for-”
“Yes, I know, twenty-seven years.” He might have mentioned that two or eight times while investigating Rafe’s murder.
“-and I assure you that I don’t need your help. In fact, if you wanted to help, you could have refrained from aiding and abetting a suspect.”
“I let a friend sleep at my place for a night. That’s hardly aiding and abetting,” I said, rising to pace around our tiny display area. I bumped the stand-up of Rafe and me and we teetered. I steadied us. I realized that arguing with Lissy was not going to help Maurice’s case. “Look, Detective Lissy, I know you know how to do your job. It’s just that I’ve talked to a few people-”
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.