Ella Barrick - Dead Man Waltzing

“Stacy.” Tav hauled me to my feet. “Someone must have just walked out with it. If we hurry, maybe we can catch up with them at the cashier and make them an offer for it.”

“Good thinking.” I dashed out the door in front of him, saw the stairs clogged with people to my right, and headed left, hoping to find a lesser-used flight of stairs. Many of these old houses had servants’ stairs, I knew. This end of the hallway was quieter, empty bedrooms opening off to either side. I flung open a door at the end of the hall to find a narrow flight of stairs leading downward. With a triumphant smile at Tav, I took the stairs two at a time, erupting into what appeared to be a butler’s pantry near the kitchen.

“Excuse me,” I said, squeezing between two couples squabbling over an ugly china tureen ornate enough to have graced the table of Queen Victoria or some such.

Hoping Tav was still behind me, I threaded my way through the kitchen, its counters laden with stacks of china and serving dishes in three or four patterns, bins of silverware and stainless, glassware, small appliances, and all the other detritus that ends up in kitchen cabinets: linens, baskets, holiday-themed dishes, candlesticks, garlic presses and mandolins, and a George Foreman grill. A brief vision of the impeccable Corinne bent over a little grill on her patio flashed through my mind as I opened the back door to said patio and stepped outside with a sigh of relief. Fresh air! I hadn’t realized how confining the house felt with so many people panting for bargains.

“Over there.” Tav grasped my arm and pointed toward a young man disappearing around the side of the house, our typewriter tucked under one arm while he struggled with a standard poodle on a leash. We took off after him. My kitten heels sank into the soft turf with every step. I finally paused to slip them off and sprinted barefoot to catch up with Tav as he rounded the corner of the house. The grass was crisp and cool, and I would’ve enjoyed the opportunity to stand and scrunch my toes in it, but our typewriter was getting away.

“Sir, sir!” I called to the man, who had, luckily, stopped to examine a copper birdbath.

The poodle barked and the man looked up, light brown hair the color of the poodle’s curly hair falling into his eyes. He was in his mid-twenties, with a soft look about him like he didn’t exercise much and spent most of his time indoors. “Quiet, Tammy,” he told the dog, resting a hand on her head.

She curled her lip at us, but quieted. “Yes?” He looked from me to Tav inquiringly.

“My name’s Stacy Graysin,” I said with a winning smile, “and I came here today specifically to buy that typewriter for a friend of mine.”

The man’s arm tightened around the machine. “I’m buying this for my mother. She wants to write a book. A romance.”

“Wouldn’t she rather have a computer?” I asked. “Much easier for editing and such.”

“She doesn’t trust them.”

Oh, boy. Tammy the poodle growled at me, and I wished Hoover were here to teach her a few manners.

“How much are they asking for the typewriter?” Tav asked.

The young man righted the typewriter and checked a sticker. “Twenty-five dollars.”

“I’ll give you forty,” Tav said. Tammy nosed at his hand until he stroked her head.

“Done.” The man handed me the Smith Corona while Tav pulled two twenties out of his wallet.

“Thanks.” I tossed the word to Tav and the young man as I beelined for the cashier’s desk before anything else could happen. The way the morning had been going, I expected Turner to pop up and rip the typewriter out of my hands, telling me it wasn’t for sale, or for a sinkhole to open up and swallow the machine.

“I see you found it.” The woman we’d talked to earlier smiled when I reached the front of the line.

“You know,” I said, clunking the typewriter and my shoes down on the folding table, “I really only need the cartridge, and I think that man”-I pointed to the man with his poodle, still talking to Tav-“would like to buy the typewriter.” Popping the cartridge out, I wished I’d thought of it before we’d paid Poodle Guy the forty dollars.

“Two bucks.”

Handing her a fiver, I turned to look for Tav, waving the cartridge triumphantly.

Tav and the poodle guy were inspecting a display of framed movie posters, some of which looked like they were from the 1940s and 1950s, and I started toward them, tucking the cartridge and my shoes into my purse. Before I had taken two steps, though, I caught sight of a tall, skeletally thin man clad in a trench coat skulking at the edge of the property, half-hidden by a spiky-leafed hedge. Hamish MacLeod! What was he doing here? On impulse, I headed toward him, pretending to glance at the tables of knickknacks and pieces of furniture on the way. When I got to within hailing distance, I looked up-artistically, I thought-and pretended to spot him for the first time.

“Why, aren’t you Hamish MacLeod?” I said, heading toward him with a big smile. “I saw you at the will reading. You were husband number four, right? I work with Maurice, who was husband two.” I beamed at him.

He shrank back, practically wedging himself into the hedge, and his eyes darted from side to side. I got the distinct impression he wasn’t happy to see me. Too bad. “It’s sad, isn’t it,” I babbled on, gesturing to the crowds of people trampling the grass and making off with Corinne’s treasures. “Sad to see it all go.”

“It’s sacrilegious,” he muttered, his Scottish accent blurring the words. If I’d closed my eyes, I could have been listening to Scotty from Star Trek . “It’s like desecrating a saint’s resting place.”

I didn’t quite see the parallels: Corinne was no saint, and this wasn’t her resting place.

“These ghouls don’t appreciate who Corinne was,” he said, a bit louder. He inched out of the hedge with a rattle of branches and glared down his beaky nose at me. He must have been sweltering in the trench coat, because sweat beaded his forehead and slid down his temple.

“Were you here to get a memento?” I asked.

“Why would you ask that?” he shot at me, one hand sliding into his coat pocket. Only then did I notice the way the pockets bulged.

Hm . Perhaps the Reverend MacLeod was helping himself to mementos without paying for them. I said soothingly, “I’m sure it must be hard to see the things that were special to you and Corinne sold off like… like…” I couldn’t think of a comparison.

“They have no right! That vase there.” He pointed to a huge cut-crystal vase a heavyset woman was carrying in both hands. “That held the first offering of tulips I ever made to my gorgeous Corinne. It was the night after we met. She had told me tulips were her favorite flower, and I rounded up every one I could find in the city and gave them to her in that vase.” He turned away, as if the sight of the vase being sold was too much for him.

“Very romantic.” Clearly, the man had been gaga over Corinne. Completely unbalanced about the woman, in my humble opinion. If he had felt slighted by her, if she’d told him she was going to write something that dissed their relationship, how would he have reacted? Of course, I reminded myself, she’d divorced him and married twice more, and slights didn’t get much more “in your face” than that. The divorce hadn’t prompted him to harm her, so why would he poison her now? He hadn’t had the opportunity, either, as far as I knew.

“When did you last see Corinne?” I asked.

“I went to every competition and exhibition she participated in.” He straightened and threw his shoulders back, clearly waiting for me to applaud his devotion.