“
His expression was comical, and I laughed. I realized I didn’t know whether Tav had ever been married. We’d met under intense circumstances and gotten to know each other on some levels pretty quickly, but once we became coowners of Graysin Motion, a certain awkwardness had come in. Having learned my lesson about being involved with a business partner from the difficulties that resulted when Rafe and I broke up but still had the studio to run together, I was reluctant to become too close to Tav. Dating was out of the question, although something about him-his scent, his intensity-made me far too aware of him. Not that he’d ever asked me out, I thought with irrational pique.
“Why the interest in bridal shows, then?”
“I thought that Graysin Motion might purchase space and use the convention as an opportunity to advertise ballroom dance lessons. Encourage brides and grooms and their attendants to learn to waltz for their wedding receptions.”
“We could even offer a gift registry, where people could buy the happy couple dance lessons,” I said, enthused by the idea. “That’s very clever, Tav.” We’d always had a trickle of business from engaged couples hoping to shine on the dance floor at their receptions, but I’d never thought of specifically going after wedding business.
He grinned, teeth very white against his tanned skin. “Advertising is one of my gifts. Like soccer and-”
I stopped myself and him before I could speculate about his other possible gifts. “Did you hear about Corinne Blakely’s death?”
“No. Who is she?”
I gave him the twenty-five-words-or-less summary of her career. “There’s no one bigger in ballroom dance circles,” I finished.
Tav looked a question at me, clearly wondering why I was giving him the life story of a woman he’d never meet.
“She died yesterday,” I said.
“I am sor-”
“The police think she was murdered.”
“Murdered?” Dismay clouded his brow. “Stacy, please do not tell me-”
“Maurice was with her when she died,” I blurted. “He’s at the police station now.”
Running a hand down his face, Tav said, “That is all the studio needs-more publicity related to murder.”
“I’m sure the studio won’t be drawn into it,” I said, hoping I was right. “Maurice will tell the police about lunching with Corinne and taking her to the hospital, and they’ll thank him and wave good-bye.”
The phone rang.
Happy for the interruption, I lunged for it. “Graysin Motion.”
“Anastasia?”
I winced at the distress in Maurice’s voice. “Are you okay?”
“Perhaps you could call your lawyer friend for me?”
I put in a call to Phineas Drake, but his secretary said he was in New York for the day. Asking her to have him call me as soon as possible, I said a hurried good-bye to Tav, who was headed into D.C. to look at spaces-to-let for housing his new store, and ran downstairs to shower and change.
Seeing the brick police building on Mill Street again made my tummy flutter nervously. Reminding myself that no one suspected me of anything this time, I climbed the shallow stairs and pushed into the crowded waiting room. I avoided eye contact with the people waiting to submit forms for background checks, get fingerprinted, or report crimes, and marched straight to the counter to ask the bored-looking officer for Maurice Goldberg. In the event, Maurice exited through a door to the left of the counter before the officer could pick up the phone to locate him.
“Maurice!” I hurried to him and gave him a big hug. He looked worried, but not like he’d been beaten with hoses, stretched on the rack, or forced to listen to Justin Bieber albums. “They’re letting you go?”
“For the time being.” He sounded like he thought the police would drag him from his bed at midnight and toss him into jail.
“Did they read you your rights?”
He nodded, a little dazed. “Just like on television.”
Not good. Detective Lissy must consider him a real suspect.
“Let’s talk elsewhere, hm?” He herded me toward the door; I knew just how he felt, since I’d been in his shoes.
We emerged, blinking, into bright sunlight and energy-sapping humidity. Old Town Alexandria is a lovely area with a fascinating history, but situated as it is, smack-dab against the Potomac River, the summer air is frequently heavier than a wet towel. By the time we’d walked the half block to where I’d parked my yellow Beetle, we were both sweating. I leaned my face into the stream of air-conditioning after starting the car, letting it dry my damp hairline.
“Home?” I asked, pulling away from the curb.
“I’d rather stop by Rinny’s place, if you don’t mind, Anastasia,” Maurice said.
I darted a quick look at him. “Why?”
“I did some thinking while waiting for the police officers to interview me,” he said. “And it crossed my mind that
“Really?”
“She was laughing about it, but nervous, too, when we lunched. ‘Maury,’ she said, ‘I’ve been keeping secrets for fifty years and it’s time to speak up. I’m not getting any younger, you know. I could pop off any day.’ She laughed like it was a joke, but look what’s happened.” Maurice tapped a nervous finger against his thigh.
“You think she was murdered over a book?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“Stranger things have happened, Anastasia.” The tension vibrating in Maurice’s voice told me he was pinning his hopes on this new theory.
“I suppose so,” I said, figuring it couldn’t hurt to play along for a bit. “Which way?”
He gave me directions to Corinne Blakely’s house off of the Mount Vernon Parkway. As we sped south with the Potomac glinting on our left, I asked, “What kind of secrets?”
“The usual,” he said, with a ghost of his insouciant grin. “Infidelity, skullduggery, crimes of passion.”
“Related to ballroom dance? You sound like you’re describing the action on Tortuga Island.”
“Ah, Anastasia. You find pirates in all walks of life.” He pointed to the right and I turned, thinking the road he indicated would lead to a neighborhood. Instead, it turned out to be a driveway leading to a mansion-there was no other word for it-that occupied what Realtors called a “parklike setting” and had, I imagined, splendid views of the Potomac River from the front windows.
“Corinne Blakely lived here?” I cut the engine.
“She married well. And more than once. This house belonged to her first husband, who died only two years after they got married. Some tropical fever. His money came from hotels.” Maurice unfolded himself from the front seat and strode toward the door, seemingly completely at home.
“Wait.” I hurried after him, hampered by my strappy sandals. “What are we going to do-knock on the door, hope someone answers, and say we want to come in to-what?-search for a manuscript?”
“Corinne lived alone,” he said, unperturbed by my gentle sarcasm. “There won’t be anyone here, unless the housekeeper’s around.”
“So we’re going to break in? That’s so much better.” I’d ditched the “gentle” and moved on to unadulterated sarcasm.
“I thought we’d use the key,” Maurice said, producing one from his pocket.
“Wha-? How?” I eyed Maurice uncomfortably. He hadn’t lifted the key from Corinne as she lay unconscious on the restaurant floor, had he?
“Tut-tut, Anastasia,” he said, reading my expression. “I would never. No, I neglected to give this back.”
“Give it back?” I gaped at him. “You used to live here? You and Corinne-”
“Were married for about ten minutes in 1964,” he said.
