Dead Man Waltzing

Chapter 16

Danielle and I arrived at the Alexandria dock at Union and Cameron streets, just north of the Torpedo Factory, minutes before the Plantation Queen was due to sail with the Willow House party aboard. I’d dithered about whom to take with me, considering Tav before deciding that he might think I was asking him for a date, which, of course, I wouldn’t have been, since our relationship was strictly business and my urge to dance with him stemmed solely from my belief that he should know how to dance if he was part owner of a ballroom studio, and not because I liked the feeling that tingled through me when he took me in his arms, and the way he smelled, and… I stopped my unruly brain and thought about asking Vitaly, who would be fun to have around for the dancing, and even Mom, because we didn’t do too much together these days. I finally decided to ask Danielle whether she’d go with me, because I knew she’d get a kick out of doing a little sleuthing on Maurice’s behalf, and because, well, seeing Lavinia’s tears over Corinne’s death made me think I ought to spend a little more time with my sister and best friend.

Danielle had enthusiastically agreed, explaining that Coop was giving chess lessons that evening to some local middle-schoolers and she was at loose ends. She rang the doorbell as I was spritzing on a light floral perfume. I wore a frothy cocktail dress with a tight bodice and floaty skirt that came to midthigh. My Grecian-look gold sandals perfectly set off the swirls of white, peach, and gold in the fabric, and my hair bounced loose against my shoulders. I opened the door to Danielle, who had on a staid navy blue dress with a cropped jacket and matching navy blue pumps.

“You’ve got to lose the jacket,” I said the moment I set eyes on her. What I really wanted to say was, You look like you’re going to a funeral, but I bit my tongue, figuring she wouldn’t take it well. “And I’ve got some shoes you can borrow that don’t look like they came out of Great-aunt Laurinda’s closet.”

“My outfit is perfectly-”

“No, it isn’t.” I dragged her in, pushed her down on the sofa, which let out a poof of dust, and ran to my room for a pair of high-heeled silver peep-toes with rosettes. While there, I grabbed two long strands of silver set with sparkly crystals. Danielle had shed the jacket by the time I came back, revealing spaghetti straps that showed off her toned arms and lovely neck.

“Here.” I thrust the necklaces at her and crouched to slip the sandals on her feet. “Voila! Cinderella,” I said, stepping back to survey the effect. She wore her red hair twisted into a loose chignon and it looked dramatic against the navy and silver of her dress and jewelry. “And we didn’t even need a fairy godmother.”

“Hmph,” Danielle said, but she crossed to the full-length mirror in the hallway and surveyed her reflection with a pleased smile.

We walked the few blocks to the waterfront, slightly hobbled by our impractically high heels on the uneven brick sidewalks, to find the boarding process almost complete. The Plantation Queen rode low in the water, three stories-or decks, I guessed-of pale blue accented with lacy white ironwork along the decks. Enclosed cabins with large windows on three sides took up most of the space on the lower and middle decks, but the top deck was an open observation platform only partially shaded by an awning. Twin smokestacks rose from the upper deck, flaring at the top. A huge red paddle wheel dripped water at the stern, with two gulls perched on one of the unmoving slats. A young man in a jaunty sailor outfit that looked more like a costume than serious naval attire took our tickets with a smile. “Come aboard. You almost missed the boat, ladies, and that would have been a shame.”

His admiring gaze traveled over both of us, but lingered on Danielle. Tossing cheap Mardi Gras beads over our heads, he offered each of us a hand up the unsteady metal gangway. Four feet wide, it was about fifteen feet long, with a corrugated sort of surface designed to prevent slipping, but not ideal for stiletto heels. My heel caught in one of the indentions, and the crewman saved me from falling by grabbing my upper arm. I thanked him, he smiled, and we made it safely up the rest of the gentle incline to the lowest deck. The paddle wheel began to churn moments after we were aboard, and the Plantation Queen slid away from the dock toward the center of the Potomac.

Laughter drifted from all the decks, and waiters circulated with trays of champagne. Dani and I each snagged a glass and wandered toward a stairway, or whatever you call it on a boat, to climb to the upper level, where a trio conjured up images of Bourbon Street on a saxophone, trumpet, and clarinet. Well-dressed men and women laughed and flirted and talked as the late-afternoon breeze stirred artfully casual hair and sheer silk and chiffon dresses. Actually, the breeze was turning to windy gusts, and several women had to hold their dresses down.

“The beautiful people,” Dani whispered.

“This is the life,” I agreed, turning my face up to the sun and letting the wind sift through my hair. Taking a sip of the champagne, I held it in my mouth a moment, letting the bubbles tickle my tongue, before swallowing. I closed my eyes and felt, rather than saw, the sun disappear behind some clouds.

“So which woman is this Greta person?” Dani asked, always more task-focused than I.

Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and scanned the crowd. “That one,” I guessed, pointing discreetly to a woman who was a little too blond, in a mint silk sheath that was a little too tight, and who was working a little too hard at being vivacious and charming. Rings glittered on her gesturing hands, and her unlined face testified to the skills of a good plastic surgeon, making it hard to guess her age. She held herself gracefully erect with a dancer’s posture, though, which made me think she might be Greta Monk. I was sure of it when she moved on to another clump of partiers, greeting them like a hostess and exchanging small talk for a few moments before stepping aside to consult with a man wearing a chef’s toque.

“So, what’s the plan?” Danielle asked. “Cruise up to her and ask whether she poisoned Corinne Blakely?”

“I think something less… ‘in your face’ would work better,” I said, nibbling at the cuticle on my index finger.

“Great.” Danielle looked at me expectantly.

“I haven’t come up with anything yet,” I admitted, tracking Greta Monk as she moved toward the stairwell. She began to descend.

“Well, we need a plan,” Danielle said, brows twitching together. “We could-”

“I think I’ll wing it.” I thrust my glass at Danielle and hurried to catch up with Greta, brushing against a middle-aged waiter and making him bobble a tray of full champagne glasses. “I’m so sorry,” I said, catching the rim of the tray so it didn’t tip. I craned my neck to see around him, but Greta had disappeared.

“No problem, miss,” he said with a tired smile that said he’d rather be home watching Everybody Loves Raymond reruns than dodging tipsy passengers on a paddleboat.

“I’m not drunk,” I assured him.

He gave me a “yeah, right” look and stepped aside so I could slip by him. I descended the stairs as quickly as possible, given my four-inch heels, and paused at the bottom, scanning the crowd for Greta. The paddleboat was lurching a bit now as the stiff winds kicked up some whitecaps, and I spread my legs wider to keep my balance. I didn’t spot Greta, but my eyes lit on a photographer snapping a smiling foursome against the rail, and I recognized Sarah Lewis. Hm, that woman got around. She turned and saw me as Danielle emerged from the stairwell and thrust my champagne glass at me.

“Lost her, huh?” Dani said at the same time Sarah Lewis, after a brief hesitation while she dredged up my name, said, “Stacy, right?”

“Hi, Sarah,” I said, momentarily giving up my search for Greta. “Done with the bridal fair? Oh, this is my sister, Danielle Graysin. Dani, this is Sarah Lewis. She’s a photographer.”

They made “nice to meet you” noises before Sarah answered my question. “You know what they say: A paying gig in the hand is worth more than potential wedding contracts in the bush.” Sarah shrugged. “I left some brochures on my table at the bridal fair.” She gestured with her camera, an expensive-looking model with a fat lens that didn’t bear much resemblance to my seventy-dollar point-and-shoot camera. “Let me get a picture of the two of you. They’ll be for sale when we dock-all profits to benefit the women’s shelter.”

Danielle and I obligingly moved to the rail and leaned our heads together, smiling when Sarah said, “Say, ‘Support your local battered women’s home.’ Great. Gotta go photograph some more donors. I’ll catch you later.” She moved off, khaki vest and sensible deck shoes contrasting with the colorful, less practical garb of most of the