The thin man at the table stiffened. Was Corinne making fun of him or thanking him? I wondered. MacLeod seemed equally uncertain as he pressed his lips into a thin line, shoved his chair back from the table, smacking into the knees of the people standing behind him, and lurched to his feet. “I was intended by God as Corinne’s only true husband,” he said with a soft Scottish burr. His gaze swept the room as if daring anyone to dispute it. The man and woman sitting on either side of him inched their chairs away. “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”
“Didn’t he realize several men had already been sundered from Corinne before he married her?” I asked in a low voice.
Maurice snorted and, when he got control of himself, said, “He’s a minister, originally from Edinburgh. He relocated to California years ago, and Corinne met him when he officiated at a friend’s wedding.”
“That was the end of me,” Lyle put in, unabashed about eavesdropping and apparently bearing Corinne no ill will for dumping him for the skeletal pastor. “She took one look at him and wham! Of course, he had a bit more meat on him back then. Looks like he’s been starving himself since Corinne left him.”
I was about to reply when I noticed a latecomer sidle through the door to stand against the wall, slightly behind Mr. Goudge. Detective Lissy!
MacLeod sank back into his seat, the crowd quieted again, and Goudge resumed reading. Corinne had left Lyle a share in a country club, news he greeted with a fist pump. “That’s my gal!” Beaming, he said good-bye to Maurice and me, then scooted out the door in a flash of salmon and raspberry.
As the lawyer intoned, “‘And to my second husband, Maurice Goldberg…’” I looked at Lissy. He stood yardstick straight, too-red lips pressed together, something in his bearing making me think of a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.
“‘… I give the Andy Warhol portrait of myself. He knows why.’”
“Ah, Rinny.” Maurice sighed, so quietly I don’t think anyone heard him but me. He was looking toward the front of the room, but I got the feeling he was seeing something from long ago.
Turner Blakely whipped around, searching the room for Maurice. When his gaze landed on him, he blurted, “That painting’s worth millions! It should be part of my inheritance.”
Jonathan Goudge put a hand on Turner’s shoulder. “Mr. Blakely, please.” His tone told me he wasn’t very fond of Corinne’s grandson.
The young man angrily shrugged the hand away. “Isn’t it the law that you can’t profit as a result of murdering someone, or something like that? Then Goldberg can’t have the painting, since he killed Cor- my grandma. The police arrested him! That would be profiting from murder.”
By now, every eye in the place was fixed on Maurice, and you could have heard a piece of swan’s down land on the polished tabletop. Maurice had stiffened beside me, and although I ached to proclaim his innocence loudly, I knew I’d just be drawing more unwanted attention to us. Help came from a completely unexpected quarter.
“Mr. Blakely.” Detective Lissy’s voice, dry and pedantic, broke into the silence. “I have a few questions for you about last weekend, when you’re done here.” Lissy eased his jacket aside to reveal the badge hooked over his belt, and a couple of gasps erupted from the crowd. Lissy’s gray eyes met Turner’s bloodshot ones for a moment. Interesting. Even though Detective Lissy had been happy to arrest Maurice, it seemed like he wasn’t young Mr. Turner Blakely’s greatest fan either. That made me feel marginally more positive about Lissy. The assembled inheritors began murmuring, and heads bobbed from Lissy to Turner to Maurice, like they were watching a three- way tennis match.
“What the hell…?” Turner’s neck flushed red.
Goudge interrupted him to finish reading the will. The gist of the remaining pages was that Turner Blakely inherited everything that hadn’t already been given to someone else, with the proviso that he take care of his father, Corinne’s son, Randolph. “The rest of this is mere legalese,” Goudge said with the smile of one who is proud of his legalese. He flapped the pages. “My firm will be sending notifications to each of you, and the inheritors who could not be present, to inform you of when and how your inheritances will be made available.” He bestowed a slight smile on the room and walked with a stately step to the door, acting like all his will readings were attended by accusations of murder. Maybe they were.
“Let’s get out of here,” Maurice muttered, breaking for the door. I followed in his wake, feeling some trepidation when Detective Lissy moved to intercept us as soon as we exited the conference room.
“Congratulations on your inheritance, Mr. Goldberg,” Lissy said with a tight smile. “Or maybe not. I’d say a multimillion-dollar painting supplies the one thing missing from our case against you: motive.”
“He had no idea she was leaving him anything more than a memento,” I said, the good feelings I’d been having about him since he put Turner Blakely in his place evaporating instantly.
“And you know this how?” Lissy asked. “Because he told you so?” He whisked his jacket-covered forearm over the face of his watch to polish it.
“Anastasia.” Maurice put a calming hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got a booth at a bridal fair to man,” he told Lissy. “If you’d like to chat, give my lawyer a call to set up an appointment.” With a quick kiss on my cheek, he walked off, leaving me facing Detective Lissy.
I took advantage of the moment. “Did you get the outline from the literary agent?” I asked.
“Not yet,” Lissy said. “The agent is insisting on a court order.” His gaze lingered on Turner Blakely, who was one of the last people out of the conference room.
“You can tell he’s got a temper,” I said, “and he seems desperate to get his hands on every penny of Corinne’s estate.”
“Is that your idea of subtlety, Miss Graysin?” Lissy asked, returning his gaze to my face.
It was, actually. “You must have your suspicions, too,” I said, “since you’re here to interrogate him.”
“On a totally different matter from the murder,” Lissy said crushingly. “I’m satisfied we arrested the right man for that. And the bequest he received today is just one more nail in his coffin. Excuse me.” He walked away, headed for Turner Blakely.
I wished I could overhear what the two men were talking about, but my watch told me I was going to be late for the salsa class if I didn’t hustle, so I trotted to the door and down the stairs fronting the gracious Georgian home that served as the law firm’s offices to my car.
The rest of the day passed quickly as I taught the salsa class (a popular one, since several nightclubs in the area catered to salsa enthusiasts), conducted private lessons with a couple of clients getting ready for a competition, and practiced with Vitaly for an exhibition for members of the Olympic committee and the public to promote ballroom dancing as an Olympic sport. We, along with other prominent members of the DanceSport community, were participating in the exhibition and luncheon on Monday. Corinne had organized it, I remembered sadly.
While we danced, Vitaly tried hard to talk me into adopting a rescued puppy. He and his partner, John, volunteered with an anti-puppy mill organization.
“John and I is adopted a boxer puppy,” he said, dipping me low as we rumbaed. “We is naming her Lulu.”
“Cute.” I spun out and leaned away from him at an acute angle as he held my hand and braced me.
“Her littering mates needs homes, too,” he hinted.
Stroking my hand down his face in a simulated caress, I said, “No. I can’t take care of a puppy. I’m too busy. I travel too much. It wouldn’t be fair to the dog.”
He sighed and released me as the music ended. “If you are knowing anyone who would liking a puppy…”
“I’ll point them toward you,” I promised, turning off the stereo system. I turned and caught him smiling at himself in the mirror to admire his teeth. His grin widened when he saw me watching him. “Oh,” I said, “I talked to a photographer who would be willing to do some publicity shots for us. Is that okay with you?”
“
“Her name is Sarah Lewis. She’s Marco Ingelido’s niece.”
Vitaly curled his lip. “I hope she is being better photographer than he is dancer.”
I merely hoped she’d be able to shed a little light on her uncle’s attitude toward Corinne and the publication of her memoir.
