“Oh, believe me,” Drake said, eyes narrowing, “I’ve got an investigator prying into every corner of young Mr. Blakely’s finances and lifestyle as we speak. And into the housekeeper’s. She had unparalleled access to the prescription bottle.”
“Mrs. Laughlin wouldn’t do anything to hurt Rinny,” Maurice said. “They’ve been together for nearly fifty years.”
“The same could be said of many married couples until the wife snaps one day and puts a bullet into hubby dearest, or he loses it and has at her with a poker. In my experience, living with someone for a long time makes you less tolerant of their… foibles, shall we say?… than more tolerant. You can leave the toilet seat up only so long before it’s wood-chipper time.”
I could see that being a criminal defense attorney gave one a cheery outlook on humanity.
“So what do I do now?” Maurice asked, fingers twiddling with a loose button on his blazer sleeve. I gave him a sympathetic look.
“Nothing,” Drake said. “Go to work, go home, don’t talk to the media, and absolutely don’t talk to the police unless I’m present. The ball’s in my court. I’m working on getting a copy of Ms. Blakely’s will so we can see who else might have had a financial motive. I’ve also got someone finagling the memoir outline from the literary agent. I don’t think you have much to worry about, Maurice.”
Maurice crinkled his forehead. “But a jury-”
“I don’t believe in juries,” Drake interrupted. “Nice people, most of ’em, I’m sure, but unpredictable. No, the best way to keep a client out of jail is to make sure he never sees a jury. And that’s what I aim to do in your case. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to meet up with the missus at the bar association shindig before she bids on a time-share in Fiji or some such at the silent auction.” Smoothing his vest over his considerable paunch, he ushered us from the conference room.
Maurice had ridden the Metro to the meeting and was happy to accept a ride home with me. Rush-hour traffic still snarled the streets, and I resigned myself to a long commute. Glancing at Maurice’s profile, I asked, “Do you feel any better about the situation now?”
His mouth twitched in a “not really” way. “I’m less concerned about ending up in the pokey with Drake on the case,” he conceded, “but Rinny’s still dead, isn’t she? And the murderer is still out there.” He gazed through the side window as if hoping to spot the killer in the semi idling beside us, or in the van leaking rap music in front of us.
“Do you know Greta Monk?” I asked, giving him a brief account of my visit with Lavinia Fremont.
“Poor Lavinia.” He sighed. “She was an amazing dancer… so light on her feet you’d have thought she was a piece of dandelion fluff tossed by the wind.”
“Very poetic.”
He reddened and said sheepishly, “Well, she was a born dancer. Maybe not as technically proficient as Corinne, but with a musicality that set her dancing apart. It was a crime-literally-when she lost her leg. Although she’s achieved a lot with her design business.”
“She said Corinne and her husband helped her get set up.”
Maurice nodded. “Indeed. I’ve often thought Corinne felt guilty about Lavinia.”
I took my eyes off the road to look at him-no big deal, since I-395 more nearly resembled a parking lot than a highway. “Really? Why on earth?”
“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
“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 voila-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.”
