Dead Man Waltzing

called it.”

“Did she show them to you?” Maurice asked. I shot him an approving look.

“Just talked about what she was going to write,” Randolph said. “How she was too young when I was born, unprepared for motherhood. How when my father died she was ‘cast adrift, emotionally untethered.’ Those are the phrases she used. How she tried to provide me with loving stepfathers-of which you were the first,” he told Maurice, stirring a teaspoon of honey into his tea and rejoining us at the table. “Too bad she divorced you before I was old enough to remember you. Judging by the others, you were probably the best of the lot.”

Wow, the acid bottled up in this man would etch granite. Maurice looked shell-shocked, so I asked, “Did she mention anything else about the book? What she might be saying about other people she knew?”

Randolph’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute… are you saying you think she was killed because of something she wrote?”

Maurice and I exchanged glances but didn’t say anything.

“That’s rich.” Randolph gave a phlegmy chuckle, like bubbling mud.

“You disagree?” I asked. “Several people seem nervous about what might have been in her book; one even broke into her house trying to get hold of the manuscript.”

“Really?” He looked mildly interested. Downing half his tea, despite the fact that steam still curled from it, he licked his lips. “Who?”

I hesitated a moment, but then decided there was no harm in telling him. “Marco Ingelido. I guess he almost became one of your stepfathers.”

He furrowed his brow, the wrinkles looking like grooves drawn in Play-Doh. “The guy who started the dance studio franchise? He was never one of Mother’s ‘special friends.’” He gave the last words a falsetto twist, and I could hear Corinne explaining her lovers to her young son as “Mommy’s special friends.”

“He said they were an item,” Maurice put in, leaning forward so his forearms rested on the table.

“Absolutely not.” Randolph shook his head. “Mother despised him, even before he opened those cheesy studios and ‘dumbed down’ ballroom dance, as she put it.”

“Why?” I asked. Had Marco Ingelido lied to me for some reason, or was Randolph lying now? Or perhaps he wasn’t as tuned in to his mother’s love life as he thought he was.

“Who knows? Mother could hold a grudge like no one else.” His fingers, strangely long and thin for his bulky build, tapped rhythmically against the mug.

Maurice shoved his chair back from the table as if wanting to distance himself from Corinne’s son and his negative view of his mother. “If you don’t think Corinne was murdered because of her memoir, who do you think did it?”

“That’s easy.” He looked down into his mug, but not before I caught the glint of malice in his eyes. “My only offspring, the fruit of my loins. Turner.”

I gasped and I could tell my response pleased Randolph.

“You’re accusing your own son?” Maurice asked, incredulous.

“One of the things they teach you in these sorts of places”-he waved a hand to indicate the greater Hopeful Morning Rehabilitation Center-“is to see clearly, to give up illusions and excuses and live honestly. Well, I’ve found it’s easier to live honestly if one doesn’t have to deal with one’s family too often. Ergo, my present living arrangements.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “Distance-physical and emotional-helps with honesty, too. I’ve had a clear-eyed view of Turner for some time now. I gave up on him the third time he was expelled for cheating.”

“Corinne never gave up on you,” Maurice said, anger and repulsion warring on his face.

“More fool she.”

Ten seconds went by before I managed to say, “Do you have a particular reason for thinking Turner did it? Did he say something to you, do something suspicious?”

“I haven’t seen or heard from him since I came to Hopeful Morning almost a year ago. I just know what he is. And I know Mother was concerned about his debt load and his lifestyle.”

A lawn mower started up outside, its buzz cutting into the room. Glancing through the window on my right, I spotted a young woman watering potted begonias in the “haven” next door. She waved when she caught me looking, and I smiled in response. I wondered what addiction had brought her to Hopeful Morning. I’d suddenly had enough of the hopeless Randolph Blakely. I rose. Maurice jumped to his feet as if he’d been waiting for a signal to depart. When Randolph stayed seated, Maurice and I made for the front door to show ourselves out. As we walked under the arched doorway that led to the hall, Maurice turned back. “Where were you this past Tuesday?”

Randolph got up and put his mug in the sink. With his back to us, he said, “I didn’t kill Mother.” His voice was muffled and I wondered whether he was crying. But when he turned to face us, his eyes were clear. “I was here. I’m always here. I don’t even have a car.”

Unsatisfied and unsettled, I tugged at Maurice’s hand and we left, shutting the door to Hollyhock Haven quietly behind us. I wondered whether we were closing Randolph in or closing the world out. It didn’t matter. The woman from the cottage next door was watering flowers in the front yard, and she gave us a big smile. I saw she wasn’t quite as young as she’d looked from the window-maybe in her mid-thirties. Fine, light brown hair wisped around her face, and she shoved it off her forehead with her wrist.

“It’s so nice that Randolph’s getting so many visitors these days,” she said in a breathy voice, stepping closer to us and pouring water on a thirsty-looking rosebush. “For a long time, it was just his mom, on Sundays, but now it seems like every time I turn around he’s got more folks stopping by. It’s good to see him rejoining the world, as it were. So helpful with… well, you know… when you’ve got a good support group. I’m very lucky that my husband and my friends have all stuck by me.” She paused, as if inviting us to ask about the reason for her presence at the rehab center. When Maurice dropped his gaze to the path and I just stared at her, completely unaware of the etiquette for these sorts of situations, she said, “I’m going home next week and I know everything’s going to be fine. I’m going to be fine.”

“Great,” I said, a shade too heartily. “I’m sure Randolph will be fine, too, especially now that his friends are gathering around. Who all have you met?” Maurice winced almost imperceptibly beside me, and I wondered whether I was being too blatant, but the woman looked happy to gossip.

“Oh, I haven’t met any of them, not if you mean been formally introduced. People here are cautious about ‘boundaries,’ you know.” She made air quotes with her fingers, sloshing water out of her small watering pot, and twisted her face in a way that told us what she thought of boundaries. “But I figure the blond woman must be a girlfriend-although she wears a wedding ring. Naughty, naughty.”

I exchanged a look with Maurice and he shrugged, clearly as clueless as I was.

“And the painfully skinny gentleman-his uncle, maybe? The man didn’t look old enough to be Randy’s father. Or I suppose he could be a friend or former business partner. They didn’t really act like they were family, now that I think about it. Of course, some families are awfully stiff around one another, aren’t they?” Her bright gaze invited us to agree with her.

I nodded. “When did you see them? Were they together?”

Maurice nudged me with his elbow, but I stood my ground, trying to figure out who the man and woman could be.

“Oh, I’ve never seen them together. The woman’s been here a few times that I’ve noticed. I saw her last, oh, this past Monday? I’ve only seen the skinny man once, and that was Saturday. I remember because I was just coming back from therapy and Dr. Neston had told me he thought I was ready. Ready to leave, ready to rejoin my family.” Her eyes lit up at the memory. “Well, I was so excited that I was skipping down the path, and I bumped right into the gentleman as he was coming through Randy’s gate. I apologized, of course, and said something about what a beautiful day it was. He mumbled something about it being too hot-he had a lovely accent-and kept going.”

A thin beep-beep sound cut through her recital. Setting down the watering pot, she tapped a button on her watch and said, “It was lovely talking to you, but I’ve got to go. Group!”

“Good luck with…” I wasn’t sure what to wish her good luck with-returning home? Beating her addiction? I petered out awkwardly, but she seemed to know what I was saying and gave me a brilliant smile.

“Thanks.”

The woman returned to the cottage and Maurice and I set off briskly down the path, not discussing the woman’s revelations, me out of a completely unrealistic fear that Randolph would overhear us. Maurice, I suspected, because he was still embarrassed about the way I’d encouraged the woman to gossip. Maurice kept