“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.”
I agreed, reluctantly, to attend the reading of the will with him, and we arranged to meet in front of the lawyer’s office shortly before eight. “You’ll get a chance to meet Corinne’s other husbands,” he said with a hint of a mischievous smile. “Make sure you tell me that she went downhill after divorcing me.”
“Not a doubt of it,” I said. “See you in the morning.”
Chapter 15
Corinne Blakely’s lawyer was a gentleman about Maurice’s age, with uniformly black, suspiciously stiff hair draped across his head. The toupee covered the tops of jutting ears and brushed his collar in the back. With his lined face, and dark-framed reading glasses perched at the tip of his nose, he looked a little like the King of Rock and Roll might have looked if he were still alive. Elvis: the golden years. Fortunately, the lawyer wore a pin-striped suit and not a spangled white jumpsuit. Standing at the head of the conference room table, he shuffled papers in an expandable file, glancing at his watch and then the door approximately every forty-five seconds.
Maurice and I stood in the back right-hand corner of the room, having arrived too late to get one of the twenty-four chairs drawn up to the oblong table. People lined the walls as well, and I guessed there must be eighty people present, mostly men. Interesting. I recognized only a few of them. Turner Blakely sat at the lawyer’s right hand, reclining in his leather chair, sunglasses obscuring his eyes. Hungover, maybe? Mrs. Laughlin sat midway down the table on the side opposite Turner, dabbing at her eyes with a utilitarian hankie. Lavinia Fremont sat beside her, occasionally patting the housekeeper’s hand. She looked tired, and older than when I’d seen her Thursday. Standing against the far wall, abreast of the lawyer, Marco Ingelido stood with his arm around a fiftyish blonde I took to be his wife. When he caught sight of me, he raised his brows and tried to stare me down, apparently not thinking I belonged there. I held his gaze until he looked away.
I was about to mention it to Maurice when a tan man in his mid-sixties squeezed in beside me, all heavy gold jewelry and expensive golf attire.
“Goldberg,” the newcomer greeted Maurice. He had an unfortunately high-pitched voice that made him sound like a munchkin, and wore a salmon pink shirt that clashed viciously with raspberry trousers.
“Lyle,” Maurice said in a resigned way.
“I’m Stacy,” I said, offering my hand.
Lyle shook it, looking from me to Maurice, brown eyes sparking with curiosity. “Lyle Debenham,” he said. “It looks like they’ve been selling tickets to this shindig,” he observed. “It’s a packed house.”
“How did you know Corinne?” I asked when Maurice didn’t say anything.
“I was Mo’s replacement.” Lyle chuckled.
It took me a minute to realize “Mo” was Maurice.
“Husband number three,” Maurice said dryly.
“She always said she was going to leave each of us something to remember her by,” Lyle said, apparently unperturbed by Maurice’s cool manner. “What do you suppose it’ll be? Old Goudge”-he tilted his head toward the lawyer-“wouldn’t even give me a hint. I thought about not coming, but I had nothing better to do this early-tee time’s not till nine forty-two, so here I am. You’re not related to Corinne, are you?”