“By no means,” Maurice said. “I happen to know because Ingelido was dating Corinne at the time. I found her sobbing her heart out one evening. She told me she had to break up with him because he had gotten another woman pregnant. He’d been acting strangely, and she suspected he was cheating on her. She wasn’t proud of it, but she’d hired a private detective and managed to piece it together.”
“Why didn’t he marry Sarah’s mother?”
“She was already married,” Maurice said.
Oh, the tangled webs we weave… “Would Corinne publish something like that?” I asked. “Making a scandal like that public would hurt a lot of people-Sarah, her mother, and Ingelido’s wife, just to name a few.”
Maurice gave it some thought, shrugging out of his blazer as if it were suddenly too warm. “I just don’t know,” he said, clearly troubled. “I would hope not, but…”
I flashed on Sarah Lewis taking photos of my front parlor. “Do you suppose Sarah knows? What about the man who’s married to her mom?” I couldn’t call him Sarah’s “father,” since it seemed clear he wasn’t.
Maurice rubbed a finger along his lower lip. “I don’t know him well; I’ve met him at a few functions when he and his wife-Phyllis, I think her name is-came to watch Ingelido dance. He’s a university professor. Physics. Marian, on the other hand, I know pretty well. I attended their wedding about six months before I signed on with my first cruise line. She comes from money. If I’m not mistaken, her money bankrolled Take the Lead with Ingelido.”
We exchanged significant looks. “So if she found out her husband fathered a child with her sister…”
“She might pull the rug out from under Ingelido’s business,” Maurice finished.
“That certainly gives Marco a strong motive for not wanting Corinne’s book to get published,” I said.
“I don’t like Ingelido much,” Maurice said, “but I can’t see him sneaking poison into Corinne’s pills. How would he have gotten access to them, for one thing?”
“Good question.” Crossing to the window, I looked down onto the street, twiddling with the blinds’ cord. “I think you should at least mention him to Phineas Drake, though. One of his investigators might turn up something more.”
At the mention of Drake’s name, Maurice’s face sagged, and I remembered he’d had another session with Detective Lissy and his merry band of interrogators.
“What? Did the police…” I didn’t finish the question.
“They didn’t spring any new evidence on us, if that’s what you’re asking,” Maurice said, sinking onto the love seat. I sat beside him and put my hand on his. “We covered the same old ground, several times. It’s clear they think I’m their man, that I killed Corinne. The worst part is that since they’ve arrested me, they’re not even looking at anyone else.”
“But I’m sure Phineas Drake is,” I said, remembering the way the lawyer dug up other suspects when the police thought I had killed Rafe.
“He’s got investigators on it,” Maurice said with a shrug that said he thought it was hopeless.
“Then they’ll turn something up that will exonerate you,” I said with hearty cheerfulness. I stood and tugged at his hand. “Come on.”
He looked a question at me but got obediently to his feet.
“I’m taking you down to the river and buying you an ice cream.” I knew ice cream couldn’t fix Maurice’s situation, but my dad took me for ice cream when I didn’t do well at a competition or a teen boyfriend dumped me, and it always made me feel a bit better, at least temporarily. And temporarily was better than nothing, I thought, following Maurice down the stairs.
Chapter 25
After our expedition to the river (where I had a lemon sorbet to keep my calorie intake within the strict levels I stuck with to maintain my weight, while drooling over Maurice’s double scoop of coffee fudge ripple), I left Maurice at Graysin Motion, practicing with one of his competitive students, and headed for the flagship studio of Take the Lead with Ingelido. I had debated calling Marco Ingelido and setting up an appointment, but I decided that surprise might work better. I was going to confront the dancer-turned-entrepreneur with the news of my break-in and see how he reacted. I couldn’t stand to see Maurice so sad and worn-down; I needed to do something to jolt Corinne’s murderer into betraying himself or herself.
Take the Lead with Ingelido was in the Tysons Corner area, and I fought rush-hour traffic around the beltway to get there. Late-afternoon sun streamed through the Beetle’s window, and my air-conditioning didn’t seem to be as cool as usual, so I arrived flushed and sweaty. The dance studio occupied a former skating rink, and the familiar top-hat logo signaled potential dancers from atop a neon sign that towered over the private parking lot. I eyed the lot with envy. In crowded Old Town Alexandria, where my studio was located, students either had to park on the street-a chancy thing-or use the parking garage two blocks down. I knew a fair number of female students didn’t feel comfortable attending our evening events because they didn’t like the parking situation.
A sprinkling of cars populated the lot, and I figured Marco had a class going on. Entering the building, I looked around curiously; I’d never been in here before. The color scheme was all black and gold, like the logo, with flocked wallpaper and gilt mirrors in the entryway. An unmanned reception counter where some pimply kid used to pass out roller skates now held class schedules, brochures, and a selection of dance shoes. A door, half-open, sat just past the counter, waltz music pouring out, and I poked my head in.
The dance floor was huge, the former rink covered with wood flooring, I guessed, noting the waist-high wall that encircled it with gaps for dancers to enter or leave the floor. Approximately fifteen couples circled the floor, and I bit back the envy that surged in me; we were lucky to have six or eight couples at any given class. Clearly, people liked Ingelido’s concept. Marco himself was moving among the dancers, correcting a gentleman’s frame, demonstrating a turn with a flustered woman student. I had watched for three minutes or so, not willing to interrupt the class to speak with Marco, when a familiar voice spoke from behind me.
“Were you interested in lessons, ma’am?”
I spun to see Solange Dubonnet standing behind me. Her expression faded from helpful to sneering when she recognized me. “Come to see how a successful studio operates, Stacy?” she asked with false sweetness.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” I said. Solange was the reason Rafe Acosta became my ex-fiance four months before his death. I caught them in bed together. Waves of red hair rippled to Solange’s shoulders, bared by a halter-top dress, and her green eyes gleamed with malice. She’d tried to buy Rafe’s half of the studio after his death, but her plan had fallen apart.
“I’ve been teaching here since just after the Emerald Ball,” she said, referring to a ballroom dance competition in L.A. “Working with Marco is fabulous-he’s got such a head for business, and the students love him. What are you doing here?” She eyed me with suspicion, as if I were here to kidnap Marco’s students and drag them down to Graysin Motion.
“I just wanted a word with Marco,” I said, determined not to get into it with her.
After studying my face for a moment, she sashayed onto the dance floor and spoke in Marco’s ear. He glanced toward me, handed the class off to Solange, and headed my way. I had to admit he moved well as he approached me with the gliding motion that had made him famous back in the day.
“Stacy.” He greeted me with lifted brows. “Have you come to find out about our franchise opportunities?” The glint in his eye told me he knew better.
“Actually, I came to tell you someone broke into my house last night.”
His face went expressionless for a moment before he said. “Really? And why would I be interested?”
“Because whoever it was was looking for Corinne’s manuscript.”
Taking my elbow, he guided me toward a small office I hadn’t noticed earlier. I noted dark wood, an excellent sound system, dance trophies, and a sleek laptop before he closed the door and turned to face me. “Did they get it?” His dark eyes searched my face.
“You should know.”
“Are you accusing me?” He seemed caught between astonishment and scorn, and any hope I cherished of getting him to confess dwindled. He snorted and passed behind me to get a cigarette from a box on his desk. “Filthy habit, I know,” he said, lighting up. “I feel it in my wind more and more each year. Yet…” He shrugged.
I tried a different tack. “Sarah Lewis seemed very interested in the scene of the crime. I caught her taking
