an ounce-but I could bask in the smell without worrying about weight gain. In the row adjacent to the roped-off concession area, with its rickety tables and folding chairs, I spotted a photographer’s booth with a poster-sized photo of a bride and her father sharing a private moment before the ceremony. I stepped closer to examine it, and read the photographer’s sign: SARAH LEWIS PHOTOGRAPHY.
The name seemed familiar… with a start, I realized she must be Marco Ingelido’s niece, the one Maurice had mentioned. Curious, I studied her as she spoke with a potential customer and what looked to be the bride’s parents. I could see a faint resemblance to Ingelido in the sweep of her cheekbone, the aquiline nose, and something about the eyes. Dressed casually in jeans and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, her dark hair in a loose braid, she looked like she’d be more at home photographing wildlife in the Galapagos than persuading a wedding party of twenty to all smile at once.
On impulse, I crossed to her and introduced myself as the bride and family left. “Aren’t you Marco Ingelido’s niece?” I asked. “I was chatting with your uncle just yesterday.”
“Nice to meet you.” She smiled easily; she was attractive in an athletic, outdoorsy way. “You know, I’ve photographed you before.”
“You have? When?”
“I freelance for dance magazines at ballroom competitions. I also do a lot of publicity photos for people in the business, as well as recital photos for dance studios. In fact, I prefer that to this”-she gestured to the bridal fair chaos-“but weddings pay more bills. Let me know if you need photos-you’ve got a new partner, right? I heard your former partner died suddenly. He called me once, wanting to know my rates for doing recital photos. He never got back to me, and I didn’t understand why until I heard about his death. I’m very sorry.”
“Thanks.” I bit the word off, infuriated to think that Rafe had been going ahead with his plans to broaden the studio’s offerings and put on a recital behind my back. I’d wanted to build Graysin Motion’s reputation as a world- class ballroom dance studio; he’d wanted to rake in the bucks with tap for tots and beginning ballet classes, to become a recital mill like Li’l Twinkletoes. If he hadn’t already been dead, I’d’ve killed him.
Sarah gave me a funny look. “Sorry,” I apologized. “My mind drifted. Vitaly and I
She handed one over. “It seems strange,” she said. “Two prominent ballroom dancers dying so close together, and both murdered, from what I hear.”
I was pleased she’d brought up Corinne so I wouldn’t have to find a way to work her into the conversation. “It’s sad. The deaths aren’t related, but even so. Your uncle mentioned Corinne yesterday. I guess they used to be close?”
“So family rumor has it,” Sarah said, her face closing down a bit. “It was before he married Aunt Marian-at least thirty years ago-so I don’t know much about it. I heard him and my mom going at it once, and Corinne’s name came up, but I didn’t pay much attention. One doesn’t think of older relatives
My mind flashed to Uncle Nico and conversations I’d heard between my mom and dad about Nico’s womanizing.
“I didn’t know she had a book coming out.” Sarah looked no more than mildly interested. “I’d’ve thought he’d be pushing for it if he was in it. He’s always looking for publicity, especially for Take the Lead with Ingelido. He’s become a workaholic in his old age, my mom says.”
Her mom must be Ingelido’s sister. Sarah certainly didn’t sound as if she cared about what Corinne might have had to say. Well, why would she? She was single, if her ringless finger was anything to go by, and even though the uncle-niece thing was a bit icky, they were both consenting adults. It looked to me like Ingelido had a lot more to lose if the affair became public than Sarah Lewis did. “So, you never wanted to be a ballroom dancer yourself?” I asked. “Even with a ballroom dance champion in the family?”
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
I tried to rush in a question before he could hang up. “What were the means, exactly? I mean, how did she
