Ella Barrick - Dead Man Waltzing

“I thought it was worth a try,” Maurice said, “but Turner turned me down flat. His insurance adjustor was there, and someone to fix the broken window-”

“Courtesy of Marco Ingelido,” I put in.

“-and an alarm company representative to install a security system, so he was distracted.”

Mildred took over. “Even so, he told us quite nastily that we were trespassing and that he wouldn’t give Maurice the time of day, never mind anything from Corinne’s house. ‘My inheritance,’ he called it.”

Maurice shrugged. “It was a long shot anyway.”

I made commiserating noises, and said, “The agent may yet come through with the outline.” Fat chance.

“It’s best not to rely on other people’s efficiency or memory,” Mildred said wisely. “Things get done better and faster if you do them yourself. We’re off to Maurice’s now to come up with a new plan,” she added. “Ta-ta. Come, Hoover.”

I wondered briefly how Hoover would get along with Gene and Cyd, Maurice’s cats, but decided it wasn’t my problem. “Keep me posted,” I called after them.

My watch said it was closing in on three o’clock. I didn’t have to be back in the studio until time to teach a tango class at six thirty. Now would be a good time, I decided, to kill two birds with one stone.

I took the Metro yellow line from the King Street station to Gallery Place, changed to a red line train, and got off at the Woodley Park station, not far from Lavinia Fremont’s small boutique. In addition to designing ballroom dance costumes, she did one-of-a-kind special-occasion dresses and the occasional wedding gown. Vitaly and I needed new costumes for the upcoming Virginia State DanceSport Competition, and Lavinia had already started on them. I’d called to make an appointment for a fitting and figured I’d work in a few questions about Corinne Blakely.

Walking the few blocks from the Metro station to Lavinia’s made me glad I’d grabbed a hat on my way out the door. Mature trees arching over the root-heaved sidewalk cut some of the sun, but enough of it got through to make the sidewalk sizzle. Lavinia’s design studio was tucked into a row of shops that formed the ground floor of what started out as a girls’ school before an enterprising developer converted the buildings into trendy lofts. Lavinia had one lavender satin-and-chiffon gown in the narrow display window, its bodice encrusted with sequins.

Pushing through the glossy black door, I entered the cool of the shop. Bolts of fabric lined one wall, and a citrusy scent drifted from a glass bowl heaped with apples, pears, and lemons set on a high table cluttered with sketchbooks, pencils, shears, pins, and snippets of cloth.

“Coming,” Lavinia called from somewhere in the back. She emerged moments later, while I was flapping my blouse to circulate some air-conditioning to my sweaty tummy. She was dressed all in black, which I might have taken as a statement of mourning for Corinne, except Lavinia always wore black. Today’s version was a narrow dress that fell to her ankles, cinched at the waist with a gray-and-silver sash that hung to her knees. Her hair, an unlikely auburn for a woman of seventy, swung in a razor-cut bob around her thin, lined face. “Lovely to see you again, Stacy,” she greeted me, moving forward stiffly with hand outstretched. “The dress is ready to try. And you said something on the phone about needing an exhibition costume?”

“Yes.” Her fingers were long, her palm cool against mine when we shook.

“Good. Then we can be creative. No need to please a bunch of rigid judges.” When she crossed the room to sort through bolts of fabric, her skirt swished from side to side, giving glimpses of the prosthetic foot that made her gait a bit stiff. “With you and Vitaly both being so blond, we need a strong hue that will contrast with your coloring, but not overwhelm you. Not this,” she said, moving aside a bolt of cream satin, “or this.” She pushed past a pale yellow velvet I quite liked. “I’m thinking maybe this red”-she pulled out a bolt of dark red fabric-“or this green. With flesh-colored inserts-or maybe midnight blue?-and stones. Lots of rhinestones.”

She passed me, thin arms laden with bolts of fabric, and laid them on the cutting table in the middle of the room. “But first, let’s try the other dress.” With a gait that was surprisingly graceful despite the limp, she disappeared into the back and emerged a moment later, holding a hanger high. I could vaguely make out the shape of the carnation-colored dress under a plastic bag. Unzipping the bag, Lavinia freed the dress, removed it gently from the hanger, and passed it to me. I ducked into the tiny changing room outfitted with only a couple of hooks and a curtain instead of a door.

Slipping out of my clothes, I carefully dropped the new gown over my head and smoothed it into place. I loved the way the salmon pink made my skin glow and set off my blond hair. It was a strong color and would be distinctive on the dance floor without being harsh or garish. I brushed aside the curtain and stepped out for Lavinia’s inspection.

“Hm.” She pinched a fold of fabric at my waist. “You have lost weight.”

“Maybe a pound or two,” I admitted.

Her deft fingers inserted a couple of pins.

“I was so sorry to hear about Corinne Blakely,” I said. “I know you two were friends for a long time.”

She hesitated, her face hidden from me as she bent to measure the distance from the floor to the hem in several places. “She was my best friend for many, many years,” she said, straightening. True sorrow lined her face.

“How did you meet?”

She draped a spangled length of tulle several shades lighter than the dress around my shoulders and stepped back to survey the effect. “I grew up on a ranch in Montana, but I was always more interested in dancing and fashion than cattle or corn. I ran away to New York when I was seventeen, convinced I’d be starring in Broadway shows within minutes of my arrival.”

“That was brave of you.”

“‘Stupid’ is the word you’re looking for. Anyway, I was doing telephone sales selling newspaper advertisements by day, auditioning every chance I got, and taking acting and dancing classes at night. I shared a one-bedroom apartment with three other gals and lived off canned tuna and peanut butter. The building super was out to get in my pants, and the rats outnumbered the tenants three to one. I’m pretty sure they were better fed, too.” She gave a grim little smile. “But I was too proud to go home, take up again with William Denney, who’d been hoping to marry me since we were in junior high, and live out my days as a Montana rancher’s wife.”

I turned to face the mirror, in obedience to the pressure of her hand on my shoulder.

“Too much,” Lavinia announced, removing the scarf. “We’ll keep the neckline simple.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway,” she continued, “one night I went to a tiny dance studio in the Village that a friend had mentioned. I’d heard a big-shot producer was casting an off-Broadway musical that required waltzing, and I was determined to impress them with my dancing ability, since my singing voice was only so-so. Well, I walked up four flights of stairs to this studio, and was huffing and puffing by the time I got to the top. I was a smoker in those days. We all were-it’s how we kept our weight down. When I got to the top, there was Corinne, dressed in an aqua gown and elbow-length gloves, twirling with her partner. She looked like a princess or a fairy queen. Titania, maybe, if I remember my Shakespeare correctly, or Queen Mab. I was captivated.

“Halfway through the piece, Corinne broke away from her partner with a few choice words about his dancing-she could cuss like a ranch hand, even though she looked so dainty-and said that someone who had never waltzed could dance more gracefully than he did. Before I knew what was happening, she grabbed my hand and pulled me out onto the dance floor. People-there must have been eight or ten students standing around, most of them older than Corinne and me-were laughing, and Corinne’s partner was sulking, and I wanted to sink through the floor. But then I got caught up in the music and the rhythm and let myself dance. That was it for me; from then on, it was ballroom dancing or nothing.”