Ella Barrick - Dead Man Waltzing

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-fiancé 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 photos of my parlor.”

“Sarah?” Marco took a step toward me. “What was she doing there?”

“Vitaly and I hired her to do our publicity stills,” I said. The tension in Marco’s face unsettled me and I stepped back.

“Leave Sarah out of this,” Marco warned. “It’s got nothing to do with her.”

“Oh, I think it does,” I said. “Your determination to keep Corinne from publishing her memoir-I think it’s got everything to do with Sarah.”

Marco reared back as if I’d slapped him. The cigarette burned down, unnoticed, between his fingers. After a moment, he lifted it to his lips and drew deeply. It seemed to calm him and he turned his head to exhale smoke over his shoulder. “Whatever you think you know, I had nothing to do with Corinne’s death. And that’s all I’m going to say on the subject. I don’t need to prove anything to you or anyone else: The police already have their man.”

I sensed a deep weariness in the dancer that almost made me feel sorry for him. “Maurice didn’t do it,” I said. “He had no possible motive.”

“Really?” Marco squinted and his voice turned nasty. “Perhaps you should ask him about a certain ruby necklace that ‘disappeared’ during one of his cruises. Come to think of it, that’s a story that might interest the police, if they haven’t already dug it up. And I’m sure it’s a story Corinne was including in her damned memoir, since she was instrumental in resolving the situation.”

The certainty in his tone took me aback. “What are you talking about?”

His gaze mocked me. “Ask Maurice. I’m not one to tell tales out of school on another man. I’ve got a class to teach.” On that note, he stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and ushered me out of the office, leaving me in the entryway as he returned to the dance floor. I knew Solange, eyes bright with curiosity, watched me as I exited.

I pointed my Beetle toward home, troubled by Marco’s insinuations about Maurice. I hoped to be able to talk to him about them when I got back to Graysin Motion, but an accident on the beltway had traffic backed up for miles, and by the time I reached Old Town ninety minutes later, he was gone for the day. I phoned his house, but got no answer. Reluctantly concluding I would get no answers that evening, I called Danielle and talked her into meeting me at the gym for a workout.

“Isn’t that Eulalia Pine something else?” Danielle whispered as we did vicious ab exercises in a Pilates class-Danielle’s choice, not mine.

“She seems to know her stuff,” I said, crunching my body into a vee with my arms extended over my head and my legs almost perpendicular to the floor. “She’s in charge of an estate sale at Corinne Blakely’s house that starts tomorrow. I’m going to show up early to buy Corinne’s old typewriter.”

“Why?”

The women on either side of us shushed us, and Danielle and I exchanged guilty looks and then giggled. The instructor frowned at us, which only made us giggle more.

“I’m not going to be able to walk upright for a week,” I complained to Dani as we straggled out of the class at nine p.m. I rubbed my abused abs.

“You’re the professional athlete,” she said. “Suck it up.”

“Hmph.”

As we showered in the locker room, Danielle came back to the estate sale, and I told her about the typewriter and Maurice’s theory that the cartridge would reveal Corinne’s outline and provide more suspects for her murder.

“An estate sale sounds like fun,” Dani said, squirting shampoo into her hand and massaging it through her thick curls. “I’ll come with you.”

“I have to be there by eight tomorrow morning.”

“Shoot. I’ve got to work.”

I faced the shower spray, closing my eyes and lifting my face to the drumming water. “I’ll call you as soon as I get finished and let you know how it goes. Any luck finding a couch yet? I could keep an eye out for one at the estate sale.”

“I’ve been to a couple more stores, but I haven’t settled on a couch yet. I’m making progress, though: I know I don’t want leather. Sure, let me know if you see something at the sale.”