Ella Barrick: Dead Man Waltzing

“Grudge,” the rest of us chorused.

“I’m just glad you don’t have to go through a trial,” I told Maurice.

“Me, too,” he added fervently.

Danielle slipped off her shoes and scrunched her toes open and closed against the cool hardwood floor. “So, if this dress designer person killed Corinne, who pushed you off the paddleboat, Stacy?”

“My guess is Conrad Monk. I think he meant it as a warning, or to soften me up for his attempt at buying me off when he thought I had the manuscript.”

“Are they still going to publish it?” Danielle asked.

“I don’t know. You probably saw the news story: Turner is suing Mrs. Laughlin and the publisher over it, but Randolph is contesting Corinne’s will and trying to wrest control of the estate away from his son, so who knows how it will turn out.”

“Turner should have known better than to try to move Randolph out of Hopeful Morning,” Maurice said with a head shake. “If he’d left things as they were, Randolph would probably have been happy to spend the rest of his life there, bothering no one.”

“At least now Turner’s so busy with Randolph’s lawsuit and fighting the sexual-assault allegation that he doesn’t have the time or money to fight for your painting,” I said. “Did you see in the paper that he was arrested but released on bond? Someone told me there was a video on YouTube of him going after the stripper at the bachelor party, but I haven’t seen it. Phineas Drake says he’ll buy his way out of it-pay off the woman who’s accusing him-but still. What will you do with the painting?”

“Hang it in my house for a while,” Maurice said, smoothing his hair back, “then probably donate it to the Smithsonian. It belongs in a museum, where thousands of people can admire Corinne every day. To Corinne.” He raised his glass, tiny bubbles spiraling upward, and we toasted again.

“To ballroom dancing,” Vitaly offered.

“To ballroom dancing,” we chorused.

“To Anastasia,” Maurice said, “whose tenacity-”

“Pigheadedness,” Dani chimed in.

“-and insight spared me an ugly trial, at the very least.” He mouthed Thank you at me as the others swallowed more champagne.

Danielle pulled me aside as the men popped open the second champagne bottle. “Did you ever hear back from Eulalia Pine about the furniture? Did she give you an estimate?”

“She did better than that,” I said, raising my champagne glass. “She bought most of it. She’s sending a truck on Wednesday.”

Danielle stared at me. “Really? And it doesn’t bother you to let it all go?”

Shaking my head, I said, “No. I thought about it. I mean, there’re a lot of memories in that furniture, but you know what? They’re Great-aunt Laurinda’s memories, not mine. I want to start fresh, with a clean slate and all that, and decorate this place in a way that means something to me . I’m keeping a couple of pieces, the grandfather clock and Great-aunt Laurinda’s portrait, for instance, but most of it is out the door.” I made brushing movements with my hands.

“Did she pay you enough to buy all new furniture?”

“I wish. I can buy a few pieces-maybe we can go couch shopping again!-but it’ll be pretty bare in here for a while.”

Danielle looked down into her almost empty champagne flute and mumbled something.

“What?”

“I said I bought my ticket today.” She met my gaze almost defiantly.

“Ticket?”

“For Jekyll Island.”

I gave a whoop and hugged her hard. “I’m so glad you’re coming! You didn’t have to buy a ticket, though; Mom said it was her treat.”

“I’ll pay my own way, thank you,” Danielle said. “That way, if I feel like canceling, I can, or if I want to come home early because it’s just too awkward or the memories are hard to take, I can.”

I smiled and released her. That was my sis, always planning for all eventualities.

Music suddenly blared from the speakers-Carrie Underwood’s “Cowboy Casanova”-at decibel levels guaranteed to net complaints from my neighbors. Danielle and I whirled to see that a tipsy Vitaly had plugged his iPod into the stereo system and was now free-dancing to the strong beat. With a laugh, Danielle joined him, doing the same dorky box step she’d been doing since her first middle school dance. Maurice set down the champagne bottle and glided toward me. With a smile, he offered his hand.

“Anastasia?”

“Let’s dance,” I agreed.