him and embraced him, almost knocking him off his feet. He steadied himself with a hand against the wall.
She released him, her eyes bright. Dabbing at them with a lace hankie she pulled from her sleeve, she said, “It makes me so emotional. To think of you cooped up in a prison cell with no room to
I could think of a lot worse things about being imprisoned than that, but I didn’t mention them. A slurping sound brought all our heads around, and we saw Hoover lapping happily from the toilet. Thank goodness I’d already flushed the cleanser down. He looked up when Mildred shrieked his name, slobbering on the toilet seat and tiled floor. So much for my clean bathroom.
“Hoover, dear, that’s a nasty, nasty habit,” Mildred scolded. “How many times have I told you that?”
The Great Dane’s tail thumped against the fridge. Stripping off my gloves, I joined the others in the hall, and Hoover followed me.
“It was kind of you to stop by, Mildred,” Maurice said, “but-”
“Oh, I didn’t just stop by. I’ve come to tell you that I’m starting a legal defense fund for you.” Mildred beamed. “I’ve already put out collection jars at many of the businesses around here, with that lovely photo of us from when we competed at the Emerald Ball a couple of years ago. And I’ve sent an e-mail to all my correspondents, explaining the situation and asking for donations.”
Maurice looked appalled. “Mil-”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to thank me.” She held up a beringed hand sparkling with diamonds, rubies, and platinum. “You know you’re so much more than a dance instructor to me, Maurice, and I couldn’t sleep at night if I didn’t do what I could to make sure you don’t end up
“Indeed they do,” Maurice said grimly. “One of the guards ‘joked’ that when I got convicted and put on death row, I could be known as ‘dead man waltzing.’ Apparently the phrase ‘dead man walking’ refers to a condemned prisoner on his way to be executed.”
“That’s horrible!” I said.
“We’ll have to make sure it doesn’t come to that,” Mildred said, patting his arm. “Don’t you worry. I’m all over this like stink on excrement, as my grandson says.”
When I choked back a laugh, she twinkled at me. “Well, that’s not exactly how he says it. Come on, Maurice.” She hooked her arm through his. “I’m taking you to lunch. It’s a wonder you didn’t waste away on that nasty prison diet.”
“I was only there one night,” he said, letting himself be dragged away.
“Perhaps Hoover could stay here with you, Miss Graysin?” Mildred called over her shoulder. “For some reason they don’t appreciate him at Giuseppe’s.”
They exited through the door by my office. Hoover sat in front of the closed door, cocking his head. When it didn’t reopen, he raised one great paw and scratched at it, looking over his shoulder to invite me to let him out.
“Sorry, buddy. You’re stuck with me for the moment.”
He stared at me disbelievingly. When it dawned on him that Mildred wasn’t coming back immediately, he threw up his nose and let loose with a mournful
“I think I have some peanut butter crackers in my drawer,” I said, coaxing him into my office. He snarfed down the six crackers, snuffled around the desks, then clambered onto the love seat, resting his head against the back of it so he could see out the window.
Maurice and Mildred returned more than two hours later. Hoover leaped off the couch at the sound of their footsteps on the outside stairs and dashed to the door to greet them. The three of them crowded into the office moments later, Mildred looking distinctly disgruntled.
“That Turner Blakely is a nasty young man,” she announced.
“Did you run into him at the restaurant? What did he do?”
“It was my idea,” Mildred admitted, patting Hoover as he nosed at her hand. “When Maurice filled me in on your search-so brave of you, dear-I thought up a wonderful scheme for getting the typewriter cartridge from Corinne’s house. ‘Tell Corinne’s grandson you want the typewriter for sentimental reasons,’ I told Maurice. ‘Tell him it’s special to you because Corinne used it to write you letters.’”
“I thought it was worth a try,” Maurice said, “but Turner turned me down flat. His insurance adjustor was there, and someone to fix the broken window-”
“Courtesy of Marco Ingelido,” I put in.
“-and an alarm company representative to install a security system, so he was distracted.”
Mildred took over. “Even so, he told us quite nastily that we were trespassing and that he wouldn’t give Maurice the time of day, never mind anything from Corinne’s house. ‘My inheritance,’ he called it.”
Maurice shrugged. “It was a long shot anyway.”
I made commiserating noises, and said, “The agent may yet come through with the outline.”
“It’s best not to rely on other people’s efficiency or memory,” Mildred said wisely. “Things get done better and faster if you do them yourself. We’re off to Maurice’s now to come up with a new plan,” she added. “Ta-ta. Come, Hoover.”
I wondered briefly how Hoover would get along with Gene and Cyd, Maurice’s cats, but decided it wasn’t my problem. “Keep me posted,” I called after them.
My watch said it was closing in on three o’clock. I didn’t have to be back in the studio until time to teach a tango class at six thirty. Now would be a good time, I decided, to kill two birds with one stone.
Chapter 11
I took the Metro yellow line from the King Street station to Gallery Place, changed to a red line train, and got off at the Woodley Park station, not far from Lavinia Fremont’s small boutique. In addition to designing ballroom dance costumes, she did one-of-a-kind special-occasion dresses and the occasional wedding gown. Vitaly and I needed new costumes for the upcoming Virginia State DanceSport Competition, and Lavinia had already started on them. I’d called to make an appointment for a fitting and figured I’d work in a few questions about Corinne Blakely.
Walking the few blocks from the Metro station to Lavinia’s made me glad I’d grabbed a hat on my way out the door. Mature trees arching over the root-heaved sidewalk cut some of the sun, but enough of it got through to make the sidewalk sizzle. Lavinia’s design studio was tucked into a row of shops that formed the ground floor of what started out as a girls’ school before an enterprising developer converted the buildings into trendy lofts. Lavinia had one lavender satin-and-chiffon gown in the narrow display window, its bodice encrusted with sequins.
Pushing through the glossy black door, I entered the cool of the shop. Bolts of fabric lined one wall, and a citrusy scent drifted from a glass bowl heaped with apples, pears, and lemons set on a high table cluttered with sketchbooks, pencils, shears, pins, and snippets of cloth.
“Coming,” Lavinia called from somewhere in the back. She emerged moments later, while I was flapping my blouse to circulate some air-conditioning to my sweaty tummy. She was dressed all in black, which I might have taken as a statement of mourning for Corinne, except Lavinia always wore black. Today’s version was a narrow dress that fell to her ankles, cinched at the waist with a gray-and-silver sash that hung to her knees. Her hair, an unlikely auburn for a woman of seventy, swung in a razor-cut bob around her thin, lined face. “Lovely to see you again, Stacy,” she greeted me, moving forward stiffly with hand outstretched. “The dress is ready to try. And you said something on the phone about needing an exhibition costume?”
“Yes.” Her fingers were long, her palm cool against mine when we shook.
“Good. Then we can be creative. No need to please a bunch of rigid judges.” When she crossed the room to sort through bolts of fabric, her skirt swished from side to side, giving glimpses of the prosthetic foot that made her
