Ella Barrick: Dead Man Waltzing

I mounted the steps to stand beside him and he paused with his hand on the knob. “The police?”

“Yes, they know.”

“That’s why they’re looking at you so hard. The divorced husband with a grudge.”

“The divorce happened in the Dark Ages, and I never had a grudge against Rinny.” Maurice sounded unusually testy. He crossed his arms over his chest. “We were too young. I was too young.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean I thought you held a grudge, just that the police-”

“We stayed friends,” he said, tacitly accepting my apology, “throughout her marriages. She shucked husband number six some twelve or fourteen months back. Constancy was never Rinny’s strong suit,” he said with a reminiscent smile.

“I’d think the police would be more interested in her last husband than in you,” I said.

“He’s a Hungarian count or Latvian baron or something. He returned to Europe after Corinne tossed him over.” Maurice looked around. “Let’s go in, Anastasia, before the neighbors start to wonder.”

The nearest neighbor would have to use binoculars to spot us, but I didn’t argue. “Let’s get it over with,” I agreed.

Maurice reached for the ornate doorknob, but the door swung inward before he could touch it.

Maurice sprang back, bumping into me, and I almost toppled down the steps. Only my dancer’s reflexes and core strength saved me. I regained my balance in time to see Maurice slip the key into his pocket as a beautiful young man appeared in the doorway, dark brows arching high and an expression of surprise on his face. Pale skin and silky black hair set off intensely blue eyes. He wore jeans and a rugby shirt, but looked like he should have been dressed in an ascot and spats, like a character from an Evelyn Waugh novel. Not that I’d ever read Waugh’s books, but I’d seen the miniseries. The young man spoke, spoiling the effect with a blatantly mid-Atlantic accent and a scornful tone.

“Maurice! What the hell are you doing here?”

“We were just about to knock,” Maurice lied. “What are you doing here, Turner?”

“I was staying with Grandmama when she-” He broke off, pressing his lips together as if overcome by grief.

“Thrown out of another school?” Maurice asked with spurious sympathy. I looked at him; I’d never heard him sound so contemptuous.

“No,” Turner spit. “It’s summer break. Duh. Who’s she?”

“This is Anastasia Graysin,” Maurice said. “Anastasia, Turner Blakely.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending my hand. “It’s Stacy.”

“Nice to meet you ,” he said, running appreciative eyes over my figure and holding on to my hand too long. A smile that would have been charming if he hadn’t been so conscious of its effect curved his sculpted mouth.

I almost laughed; he couldn’t have been more than twenty-one or twenty-two. I tugged my hand away forcefully and he jolted forward a half step. He covered it up by descending the stairs past us and walking partway down the driveway to pick up the newspaper. He returned, slapping it in one hand.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” His suspicious gaze tracked from me to Maurice.

“Last time I was here, Thursday night,” Maurice said smoothly, “I left a pair of reading glasses. I was going to ask Mrs. Laughlin if she’d found them.”

“I fired the judgmental old witch this morning,” Turner said, stepping back into the foyer. Behind him I glimpsed a magnificent chandelier dangling with thousands of crystals, rounded walls painted a pale salmon, and a Chinese rug. “I’ve got to hit the road. Bachelor party for a buddy down in Virginia Beach tonight.” He started to close the door without even a polite good-bye, but Maurice stopped the door with his hand.

“When will the funeral be?” he asked.

I heard the sadness in his voice.

Turner looked like he wasn’t going to answer, but then said, “Friday. Ten a.m. First Presbyterian.” He shoved the door closed.

I resisted the juvenile temptation to call, “Nice to meet you, too,” at the impassive doors. Instead, I turned and descended the steps. “Mrs. Laughlin?” I asked Maurice.

“The housekeeper,” he said, keeping pace with me as we returned to the car. “She’s been with Corinne for years. Decades. I can’t believe Turner fired her before Rinny is even buried. She must be devastated. She’s my age, at least, and it’s unlikely she’ll get another job. I hope Rinny left her enough to live on.”

“You were pretty quick, coming up with an excuse for our being here,” I said.

He smiled. “I’m lucky he didn’t ask why we were there when he first opened the door. I would have stuttered and given the game away. Corinne didn’t mention that he had moved back in with her. It must have been over the weekend, because he wasn’t here Thursday night.”

I almost asked, Or Friday morning? but didn’t for fear of embarrassing Maurice. I was getting the distinct impression that he and the unconstant Corinne had been close friends. Friends with benefits, even.

“Why didn’t you ask him about the manuscript?” I asked as I pulled back onto the Mount Vernon Parkway going north.

“He and his father are among the people who may not come off so well in Corinne’s memoirs,” Maurice said. “If Turner knew Corinne had a book deal, he’d probably do what he could to destroy the manuscript.”

“Oh?”

“He’s got a little problem with cheating,” said Maurice, “which is why he’s been to three colleges in as many years. His father, Corinne’s son, Randolph, is addicted to painkillers. He broke his back in a skiing accident some years back and has had troubles with prescription drugs since then. I know Corinne’s paid for a couple of stays in rehab programs, but Randolph can’t seem to stay clean.”

“A Charlie Sheen type,” I said. “His dad’s had no luck helping him, either.”

Maurice looked at me blankly, apparently not a devotee of People magazine or gossipy entertainment shows.

“Never mind.”

I mulled over the situation as Maurice stayed silent. He’d been lunching with Corinne Blakely when she died-possibly poisoned-and the police considered him a suspect. He was convinced the real killer was someone afraid that Corinne’s book would expose a secret the murderer preferred to keep secret. That seemed far-fetched to me; I suspected that if Corinne was murdered, it was for a more concrete reason, like money. Pulling up in front of Maurice’s house fifteen minutes later, I asked, “Who inherits Corinne’s estate? Her son?”

Maurice shook his head. “No. She wrote him out of the will two years ago when it became clear his last stint at rehab didn’t ‘take.’ She was afraid that if she left him all her money he would use it to feed his addiction and eventually kill himself. No, I think the bulk of her estate goes to Turner. At least, that’s the direction she was leaning last time we talked about it.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Will you inherit anything?” I was worried that if Corinne had left him a substantial bequest, the police would consider it motive.

He chuckled. “She used to joke about leaving each of her husbands something to remind us of our time with her. If she did, I’m sure it will be no more than a token, a memento.”

“Okay.” I glanced at my watch. “Look, I’ve got to go. Are you okay?”

Patting my cheek, he said, “I’ll be fine, Anastasia. Thanks for springing me from the pokey. I’ll see you this evening for the Latin class.”

“You don’t have to come if you don’t feel up to it,” I said. “I can call Vitaly.”

“I’ll be there.” Maurice got out of the car. “Ciao.”