Dead Man Waltzing

female guests. I explained to Dani who she was.

“Kinda weird to run into her again, don’t you think?” she said.

“I don’t know. She’s a photographer. Her uncle’s got connections and undoubtedly knows Greta Monk, who probably hired her. I don’t think it’s all that strange.”

“Hmph.” Dani sounded unconvinced. She stood on tiptoe to peer over my shoulder. “Look, there goes Greta.” I whirled to see the event organizer chatting with a couple in front of her as she stood in line at a buffet table near the opposite railing.

“Come on.” I maneuvered through the crowd and snatched up a chilled plate from the buffet table, filling it randomly as I worked my way toward Greta Monk, who had exactly two shrimp and a celery stick on her plate. She was still chatting with the older couple when I came up behind her.

“Isn’t this a lovely party, Dani?” I said loudly to my sister, who cringed in embarrassment. “So well organized!”

Greta turned with a smile stretching her thin lips. Her taut skin made it difficult to place her age-anywhere from fifty to seventy, I’d guess. “Why, thank you,” she said. “I’m Greta Monk, and I put this party together for Willow House. Such a worthwhile cause.”

“Why, my goodness.” I put a theatrical hand to my heart. “Greta Monk. Corinne Blakely was talking about you just the other day. Isn’t it a shame what happened to her? Maurice Goldberg was just too broken up to attend tonight, so he gave me and my sister their tickets.” I gestured Dani forward, and she gave Greta a smile while shooting me a look that promised retribution.

“Really?” Greta’s smile faltered slightly at the mention of Corinne. “And you are…?”

“Oh, where are my manners?” I didn’t know why I’d adopted the persona of a dithering Southern belle; it must have been the power of suggestion emanating from the gracious old boat, or the Dixieland music filtering from the cabin. “I’m Stacy Graysin, and this is my sister, Danielle. I own a ballroom dance studio.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Greta said automatically, looking anything but. “Did you say Corinne mentioned me? In a good way, I hope.” She forced a chuckle, but the nervous look in her eyes told me she was anxious to know what Corinne had been saying.

“Oh, of course,” I reassured her. “Something about how you’re going to be on the Kennedy Center board of trustees, and a dance scholarship fund. I didn’t really catch it all, but if the scholarships are merit-based, I’ve got a student or two who might qualify.”

Greta pressed a napkin to her lips. “There’s no… That was a long time ago. I don’t know why Corinne…” Composing herself, she said, “Corinne and I administered a fund years ago-years ago. I don’t know why she’d bring it up now. Who was she talking to?”

“That’s too bad,” I said, ignoring her question. “About the scholarships, I mean. And about Corinne.”

“Hideous,” Greta agreed. “Corinne and I were like sisters. When I heard the news…” She shuddered. A fat pink shrimp slid off her plate and splotched her dress before dropping to the deck. “Oh!” She rubbed at the spot with her napkin, looking far more upset than the slight mark deserved.

“But isn’t it wonderful that her book will still be published?” I said brightly. “She lived the early days of ballroom dance competition in America, and it would be such a shame if her memories were lost forever!”

“What?” Greta’s plate fell and shattered on the deck. A passing server swooped in to begin picking up the shards.

Inspiration struck and I babbled on. “I’m really looking forward to reading the manuscript.”

“How did you-”

“Corinne was worried that someone was out to steal the manuscript-wasn’t that silly? But you know how she is. Was. So she gave it to Maurice Goldberg for safekeeping. She and Maurice have known each other forever, you know. Anyway, he gave it to me to take to the publisher in New York when I go up next week for an… an appointment. He didn’t want to risk losing it in the mail.” The lies were stacking up, and I counted on Greta’s being too much distressed at the news that the manuscript had survived Corinne to scrutinize my story too closely.

Danielle gave me a narrow-eyed gaze that said she thought I was insane. I ignored her.

“Where- What are you…” Greta started. “I’d be interested in-”

“Everything okay, Greta?” A powerfully built man in his mid- to late sixties with crew-cut gray hair had come up behind Greta Monk. He was only a couple of inches taller than she was, and was too stocky to look elegant in the off-white linen suit he wore with the jacket unbuttoned to show a shirt that matched Greta’s dress. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, giving me and Dani an inquiring look from hard eyes.

“Oh, Conrad. No, nothing’s wrong, except I dropped my plate. So clumsy of me. Excuse me; I’ve got to wash this off.” She slipped out from under his encircling arm and hurried to the cabin door, which was propped open by an urn brimming with begonias.

Conrad Monk nodded brusquely and followed his wife.

Controlling herself until the pair was out of earshot, Danielle rounded on me. “Have you lost your friggin’ mind? What was that all about?”

I wasn’t sure myself. I’d gone with the impulse of the moment, as I was all too prone to do. “I thought Greta might let something slip if she thought the manuscript was still around. If her husband hadn’t come up-”

“Did it slip your mind that the last person to have that manuscript got murdered?”

It had, actually. Not that I’d forgotten Corinne was dead, but I hadn’t put two and two together. “We don’t know she was killed because of the memoir,” I said.

Danielle snorted.

“We don’t. Maybe her son or her charming grandson offed her for the money. That’s a much stronger motive, actually.” I finished my champagne.

“Well,” Danielle said after a moment, calming down a bit, “if you wanted to make Greta nervous, I think you succeeded. The moment you mentioned the scholarship fund, she turned green.”

The pitching of the boat in ever-building waves was making me feel a bit green. “Maybe she was worried about the weather.” I nodded toward the dark clouds piling up against the western horizon. “I think her beautifully organized fund-raiser is about to get rained out.”

On the words, the clouds spit a few raindrops at us. People descended from the upper deck, practically tumbling over one another as they came down the ladder and sought shelter in the glassed-in cabin area. A jagged blast of lightning zinged across the sky, and Danielle grabbed my arm. “Let’s get inside.”

Hurrying across the deck, I felt the boat slow and begin to turn. Moments later, an announcement sounded over a crackly public address system. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry, but we must curtail today’s cruise and return to the dock.” The phrasing sounded like Greta Monk’s, but the broadcast was so staticky I couldn’t tell whether the speaker was male or female. Danielle and I crammed ourselves into the cabin area, which smelled like too many damp people crowded into too small a space. Only a lucky few had seats. An elderly couple sat holding hands on the far side of the room, orange life jackets strapped around their party attire. Most people seemed unfazed by the choppy water and the lightning, laughing and chatting as they tried to keep drinks from sloshing over whenever the boat lurched unexpectedly. A summer squall on the Potomac didn’t carry the same panic factor for boats as a hurricane in the Atlantic.

“I’m going to get more champagne,” Danielle said, eyes scanning the crowded room for a server. She must have spotted one, because she’d moved off before I could tell her I didn’t want any.

Truth to tell, my stomach was lurching a bit with the boat’s wallowing motion, and I was a teensy bit worried that the champagne I’d already drunk would reappear. My head began to throb from the heavy scents of perfumes, shrimp, and cigars in the moist air, and the overly loud jazz emanating from the brass trio that had been playing on the observation deck, but who had also sought refuge in the cabin. If I had to stay cooped up in here a moment longer, I was going to throw up. Two long strides brought me to the door, and I was through it in a heartbeat, taking in great gulps of fresh air.

I felt better almost immediately and found that the rain wasn’t coming down hard enough to bother me. The misty wetness actually felt good on my bare arms and face, although I didn’t imagine it was improving my dress any. Sheltered by the cabin’s slight overhang, I noted that I wasn’t the only one who preferred the elements to the crowded cabin. A couple huddled together against the far railing, holding the man’s jacket above them to keep off the rain. A solitary man stood at the bow, looking toward the fast-approaching dock. Another announcement crackled over the PA system; I thought it might have something to do with disembarking.