Dead Man Waltzing

best, if not only, friend, her employer, and her home all at once.

“You wouldn’t believe how worried some people were about what she was putting in the book,” Mrs. Laughlin went on. “My, my. I can’t tell you how many times one person or another cornered me in the kitchen if they were over for dinner, or asked me on the phone, if I answered it, exactly what she was including. I gave them all the same answer: ‘You’ll have to ask Mrs. Blakely.’”

Interesting, I thought. If Danielle or one of my former dance partners or boyfriends told me they were writing a memoir, would I be worried? Okay, maybe a little bit. Danielle certainly knew a few things about my love life that I’d just as soon my parents never knew, and Andrew might reveal the story of how we raised the money to enter our first serious ballroom dance competition, but I couldn’t see myself taking any drastic steps to protect those secrets. Just how big did a secret need to be to inspire someone to want it kept under wraps “at all costs”? A question to ponder later.

“I can help you carry your stuff to your car,” I said, beginning to worry about Turner Blakely returning. If he wasn’t spending the night in Virginia Beach, he could come driving up anytime. Even though he was probably whooping it up with his about-to-be-married buddy, I couldn’t help worrying. A flat tire or a headache or a falling- out with a drunken friend might bring him home early.

“That’s very kind of you.”

I helped her down from the stool and hefted two boxes. She led the way through a back door to a detached four-car garage that held only an aging Volvo station wagon. I slid the boxes into the back and returned to the kitchen for the suitcases. When I’d loaded those, the cargo area of the Volvo was less than half-full. “Is that all?” I asked doubtfully, thinking it sad that the accumulation of fifty years would take up so little room.

“Other than the few things I mean to gather,” she said, walking briskly back toward the house.

I caught up with her. “I’m afraid Turner will come back.”

She made a derisive noise. “That sot? He’s been taken up for drunk driving three times already; he can’t afford to be pulled over again. No, he’ll stay over with his chum in Virginia Beach. That one’s another with more money than sense.” She stalked into the house, if a woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Tweety Bird’s Granny could be said to stalk.

I followed her through the mansion, fascinated by the items she chose and the stories associated with each one. I carried the things she indicated. “That pillow,” she said, pointing to an ornately embroidered throw pillow on one of the couches. “I made that for Mrs. Blakely when she turned forty. What a party we had that weekend.” In the dining room she pointed at a framed photo. “That’s me and Mrs. Blakely and Fred Astaire. They were very close at one time; he said she was the best dancer he ever led onto a dance floor. Ginger Rogers supposedly took a pet when she heard that.”

I eyed the black-and-white photo as I picked it up. It was a casual snap of the three of them, taken in front of this house. Corinne Blakely was young and lovely, holding windswept blond hair back with one hand. Mrs. Laughlin was laughing up at a middle-aged Fred Astaire, who had an arm draped around her plump shoulders. “She lived a lot of ballroom dance history,” I observed.

“She is ballroom dance history,” Mrs. Laughlin said, taking the photo from me and passing a sleeved forearm over the glass. She held it as we continued through the house, acquiring a small landscape painting, an old-fashioned pincushion shaped like a strawberry, a pair of earrings-“she was wearing those the night the baron proposed”-and a competition gown of turquoise satin and chiffon, heavy with rhinestones and trimmed with feathers. I recognized it.

“She wore that when she and Donald-that’s Donald Stevenson, one of her early partners-performed on The Ed Sullivan Show,” Mrs. Laughlin said.

“I’ve seen the footage,” I said, carrying the plastic-wrapped gown high in one hand so it wouldn’t drag on the ground. “It belongs in a museum.”

Mrs. Laughlin glared at me. “She said she wanted me to have it. She and Lavinia and I worked on it together, oh, decades ago, before Lavinia had her accident and turned to designing full-time.”

“Lavinia Fremont?” She was a famous and successful competition gown designer, the same vintage as Corinne Blakely. I bought gowns from her; in fact, she was working on my and Vitaly’s costumes for the upcoming Virginia DanceSport competition.

Mrs. Laughlin nodded and headed back toward the kitchen. “They were best friends,” she said. “Mrs. Blakely was very good to Lavinia after the accident, invested in her design business.”

I vaguely remembered hearing about a tragedy or scandal involving Lavinia Fremont some decades ago, but I couldn’t summon up the details. I’d ask Maurice. “Aren’t you worried Turner will miss some of these things?”

She shook her head so her fluffy white hair danced. “A pillow? A pincushion? The boy is oblivious to anything whose value can’t be totted up by a bank.”

“The painting?” It had left a bare rectangle of lighter paint where we unhooked it from the wall. Something about the luminous colors and quiet serenity of the scene made me suspect it was valuable.

“Maybe,” she admitted with a tight smile. “But I don’t care. It’ll be on its way to Cornwall tomorrow, and I’ll be following it immediately after the funeral. He may suspect I took it, but I don’t see that he can do anything about it.”

I supposed I ought to object to aiding and abetting a thief, but I found I didn’t care. If the painting meant something to Mrs. Laughlin, I was glad she could have it. We exited through the back again and finished loading the Volvo. I told the housekeeper that I’d see her at the funeral, and watched as she backed out carefully. Then I made sure the back door was locked-I didn’t want real thieves ransacking Corinne Blakely’s house-and trotted around to the front. Clouds had drifted in, obscuring what little light the stars and new moon provided, and the wind blew in fitful gusts. I locked the front door, too, fumbling the key a bit in the dark, and was just descending the steps when headlights swept into the driveway.

Chapter 8

I froze. Turner Blakely! I was so screwed. My choices were try to brazen it out or dive into the bushes adjacent to the stoop. If I tried to run for it, he’d see me. I dived.

Stiff holly leaves pricked me and scratched my face, and crushed juniper let out a fresh piney scent. The drop was only four feet or so, and I landed on my feet but pitched forward onto my knees. Damp soil caked my hands. Concentrating on being still, I tried not to think about the spiders or other creepy crawlies that might lurk in the greenery. I couldn’t see Turner or his car from my vantage point, but I heard the motor cut off, the door slam, and footsteps. A man’s figure came into view, pausing beside my Beetle. He stopped to look into the passenger-side window, then straightened and looked around. After a moment or two, he started toward the house.

Watching him walk, I knew it wasn’t Turner. As a dancer, I’m very aware of how people move, and this man didn’t move like Turner. His stride was longer, his balance better. Besides, I noted as he mounted the stairs, this man was taller than Corinne’s grandson. Looking over his shoulder when he reached the door, he reached for the knob and jiggled it in vain. I was glad I’d locked it.

The man rattled it harder, cursed, then pulled something from his wallet and had at the door again. Lock picks, maybe? I wondered whether he was one of those opportunistic thieves who read the obituaries and burgle dead people’s homes. The skritch of his tool against the door sounded loud in the stillness. A moment later, a faint snap elicited another curse and something fell to the ground almost noiselessly. As the man bent to pick it up, a gust of wind snatched it and tossed it into the bushes, right at my feet.

Ack! I tried to shrink back without rustling the bushes. Luckily, the wind was blowing hard enough to clack the branches together, so it covered, I hoped, any sounds I made. The burglar swore loud and long this time and crossed the wide stoop with a heavy tread, coming straight toward me. There was something familiar about his voice…

I didn’t have time to figure it out as I concentrated on looking small and bent my head forward so my white face wouldn’t glimmer. I held my breath, praying the man wouldn’t want whatever he’d dropped badly enough to brave the holly to look for it. Labored breaths sounded from only a couple feet away, and the man muttered to himself, “Shit… flashlight… no one… find it.”

When the footsteps moved away again and no beam of light shone into my face, I took that to mean he wished