Mandy shimmied up moments later, confusion clouding her pretty features. “Where’d Turner go?”
“Out.” I pointed to the door he’d used. “He seemed upset about something the police said Saturday.”
She heaved a sigh, making her boobs rise and fall in a way that caught the attention of the three waiters putting broken china in a plastic tub. “That is just so unfair. I mean, there weren’t any witnesses. It’s a case of ‘he said, she said,’ and of course she only said it hoping to get money out of Turner. She’s a stripper, for heaven’s sake! He’s the sweetest man ever. It shouldn’t be allowed.”
“Absolutely not,” I agreed, wondering whether it was possible that some woman had accused Turner Blakely of assaulting her. He’d gone to a bachelor party on Wednesday night, and Detective Lissy came looking for him at the will reading on Saturday…
“I’d better go. He might need me.” Mandy hurried away.
I was debating whether to change back into my jeans or drive home in my dress when a tap on my bare shoulder made me jump. I whirled and found myself staring into the cold gray eyes of Conrad Monk. His suit matched his eyes and crew-cut hair, and slimmed his stocky figure. A fat gold wedding band inset with tiny diamonds glittered where his hand rested on my shoulder.
“A word, Miss Graysin?”
“Uh, sure.” I looked around for Greta, but didn’t see her. Monk led me onto the dance floor so we were out of earshot of the crew cleaning up the dropped dishes.
“I trust you’ve recovered from your dip in the Potomac?”
“Good as new,” I said, trying to read his face. I couldn’t tell whether he was taunting me or genuinely concerned.
“Good. Let me get right to the point. My wife told me you have a copy of Corinne Blakely’s manuscript. I want to buy it from you.”
“It’s not- I don’t-” How did I get myself into these things?
“Corinne Blakely, although in many ways a wonderful woman, could be a bit irresponsible. Several people, my wife among them, tried to talk her out of publishing a memoir. She wouldn’t listen. Not even the knowledge that she might hurt people, innocent people, weighed with her. I hope you’re more reasonable.” Slightly lifted brows questioned me.
“I’m reasonable, but…” How to tell him I didn’t really have the manuscript? And, oh, yeah, I couldn’t sell it to him if I did, because it didn’t belong to me.
“Good.” He pulled out a checkbook. “I think ten thousand is reasonable, don’t you?”
“I don’t have it,” I burst out.
He stared at me measuringly from beneath bushy brows. “All right. Fifteen.”
“No, I really don’t have it.” What to do-lie some more by telling him I’d already given it to the publisher, or come clean? I decided to go, belatedly, for honesty. “I never-”
Tucking the checkbook back into his pocket, he said, “Remember, I gave you a chance to be reasonable.” He didn’t raise his voice, but a frigid, rigid undertone froze me. Before I could gasp another word, he turned and headed for an exit.
I was about to follow him, try to explain, when an itching between my shoulder blades gave me the eerie feeling that someone was watching me. I glanced behind me, trying to be casual, and saw Marco Ingelido mere yards away at the podium, apparently retrieving his notes. I had the sinking suspicion that he’d heard every word Monk and I exchanged. His lips curled back from white teeth in a snarl, and his glare bored a hole through me.
The phrase “if looks could kill” leaped into my mind.
Chapter 21
Dashing from the room would be undignified, so I went on the attack. Stalking over to Ingelido, my skirt billowing, I said, “You lied to me.”
“You lied to me. You said there was no manuscript.” He worked his jaw from side to side.
“You said you had an affair with Corinne. Her son says otherwise.”
“Randolph has been so ‘overmedicated’ for years that Corinne and I could have gone at it beside him on the couch and he wouldn’t have noticed.” Scorn coated his words.
“If you didn’t have an affair with Corinne, what were you afraid she’d put in the manuscript?” I asked, ignoring his last statement, although it instilled a small grain of doubt.
“Where is it?”
“As far as I know, there is no manuscript.”
He snorted his disbelief. “Right.”
“Greta Monk misunderstood something I said.”
His face looked like it had been carved from stone, a light olive-colored granite. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, or why you’re determined to dredge up old history-you weren’t even born!-but I’m telling you now that it’s a very, very dangerous game. No one can win. What happened to Corinne should tell you that.”
“Is that a threat?”
He leaned into my space and I fought the urge to step back. “Take it any way you like.” A change came over his face, the muscles around his eyes relaxing, and he said almost pleadingly, “Destroy the manuscript, Stacy. For everybody’s sake. Burn it.”
“I don’t have-”
“Stacy, I am leavings.” Vitaly bounded up, offered Ingelido a nod, and gave me a hug. “We will being first gold-medal winners in ballroom dance at Olympics. I am knowing this.”
I smiled at him, but my eyes followed Ingelido as he walked away. I’d rarely regretted a lie more.
The rest of Monday passed uneventfully. I stopped at an ATM for cash on my way home, then spent time in the ballroom working out new choreography for a couple who had recently turned pro and were paying for my help. I chatted with my mom and Danielle by phone. Neither mentioned Jekyll Island. I took a late-afternoon ballet class, ate a light dinner, and called Tav to see when we could get together to discuss our financials. We agreed on meeting up Tuesday for lunch. More tired than usual, I turned off the lights at ten and fell asleep immediately.
I’d dreamed about the night Rafe died several times in the months since he was shot, and tonight I was in the kitchen again, moments before I heard the thud of Rafe’s body landing on the ballroom floor. Usually my nightmare centered on the moment I flicked on the lights and saw Rafe lying in a pool of blood; tonight I kept hearing his body thump to the floor. Thud. Thud. I struggled awake and lay still a moment, trying to get oriented. It was just the dream, I told myself, breathing deeply to relax. Just a-
Click.
The sound brought me upright. My hands clutched at the sheets. What was that? It was a barely audible sound, not the weighty thump Rafe’s body had made. Probably the wind bumping a branch against a window, or a raccoon on his nightly patrol. Nothing to worry- Skree. Every muscle tensed. It sounded like a door sighing open. I widened my eyes, trying to see better in the dark. Was someone in my room? No, the noise had come from farther away, maybe the living room or kitchen.
Should I cower here in my bed, hoping the intruder would steal something quickly and leave? He was welcome to the ceramic rooster Great-aunt Laurinda kept on the kitchen counter that I hadn’t been able to bring myself to toss or donate to Goodwill. But he’d better stay away from my purse. I couldn’t afford to lose the money I’d withdrawn from the ATM. Where was my purse? Not on my dresser where I frequently left it, I realized, not making out its shape. In the kitchen! I’d dropped it on the table when I came in because I’d been loaded down with my dress and my dance duffel. Damn.
I bit my lip. I could call 911. No, I wasn’t even sure someone had broken in. I hadn’t heard anything for the last minute or so. I was making myself all hysterical for nothing. Shish. A sound like fabric brushing against a screen convinced me I wasn’t hallucinating. Someone was trying to break in-or might already be in! Adrenaline flooded me and I fumbled for my cell phone on the nightstand as I swung my legs out of bed. I wished I had the gun Uncle Nico had given me, but it was now permanently locked in a police evidence bin, since it was the weapon used to kill Rafe. Maybe I needed to ask Uncle Nico for a new gun, or buy one myself. Even a baseball bat would make me feel more confident. Or…