Dead Man Waltzing

Chapter 21

Dashing from the room would be undignified, so I went on the attack. Stalking over to Ingelido, my skirt billowing, I said, “You lied to me.”

“You lied to me. You said there was no manuscript.” He worked his jaw from side to side.

“You said you had an affair with Corinne. Her son says otherwise.”

“Randolph has been so ‘overmedicated’ for years that Corinne and I could have gone at it beside him on the couch and he wouldn’t have noticed.” Scorn coated his words.

“If you didn’t have an affair with Corinne, what were you afraid she’d put in the manuscript?” I asked, ignoring his last statement, although it instilled a small grain of doubt.

“Where is it?”

“As far as I know, there is no manuscript.”

He snorted his disbelief. “Right.”

“Greta Monk misunderstood something I said.”

His face looked like it had been carved from stone, a light olive-colored granite. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, or why you’re determined to dredge up old history-you weren’t even born!-but I’m telling you now that it’s a very, very dangerous game. No one can win. What happened to Corinne should tell you that.”

“Is that a threat?”

He leaned into my space and I fought the urge to step back. “Take it any way you like.” A change came over his face, the muscles around his eyes relaxing, and he said almost pleadingly, “Destroy the manuscript, Stacy. For everybody’s sake. Burn it.”

“I don’t have-”

“Stacy, I am leavings.” Vitaly bounded up, offered Ingelido a nod, and gave me a hug. “We will being first gold-medal winners in ballroom dance at Olympics. I am knowing this.”

I smiled at him, but my eyes followed Ingelido as he walked away. I’d rarely regretted a lie more.

The rest of Monday passed uneventfully. I stopped at an ATM for cash on my way home, then spent time in the ballroom working out new choreography for a couple who had recently turned pro and were paying for my help. I chatted with my mom and Danielle by phone. Neither mentioned Jekyll Island. I took a late-afternoon ballet class, ate a light dinner, and called Tav to see when we could get together to discuss our financials. We agreed on meeting up Tuesday for lunch. More tired than usual, I turned off the lights at ten and fell asleep immediately.

I’d dreamed about the night Rafe died several times in the months since he was shot, and tonight I was in the kitchen again, moments before I heard the thud of Rafe’s body landing on the ballroom floor. Usually my nightmare centered on the moment I flicked on the lights and saw Rafe lying in a pool of blood; tonight I kept hearing his body thump to the floor. Thud. Thud. I struggled awake and lay still a moment, trying to get oriented. It was just the dream, I told myself, breathing deeply to relax. Just a-

Click.

The sound brought me upright. My hands clutched at the sheets. What was that? It was a barely audible sound, not the weighty thump Rafe’s body had made. Probably the wind bumping a branch against a window, or a raccoon on his nightly patrol. Nothing to worry- Skree. Every muscle tensed. It sounded like a door sighing open. I widened my eyes, trying to see better in the dark. Was someone in my room? No, the noise had come from farther away, maybe the living room or kitchen.

Should I cower here in my bed, hoping the intruder would steal something quickly and leave? He was welcome to the ceramic rooster Great-aunt Laurinda kept on the kitchen counter that I hadn’t been able to bring myself to toss or donate to Goodwill. But he’d better stay away from my purse. I couldn’t afford to lose the money I’d withdrawn from the ATM. Where was my purse? Not on my dresser where I frequently left it, I realized, not making out its shape. In the kitchen! I’d dropped it on the table when I came in because I’d been loaded down with my dress and my dance duffel. Damn.

I bit my lip. I could call 911. No, I wasn’t even sure someone had broken in. I hadn’t heard anything for the last minute or so. I was making myself all hysterical for nothing. Shish. A sound like fabric brushing against a screen convinced me I wasn’t hallucinating. Someone was trying to break in-or might already be in! Adrenaline flooded me and I fumbled for my cell phone on the nightstand as I swung my legs out of bed. I wished I had the gun Uncle Nico had given me, but it was now permanently locked in a police evidence bin, since it was the weapon used to kill Rafe. Maybe I needed to ask Uncle Nico for a new gun, or buy one myself. Even a baseball bat would make me feel more confident. Or…

The poker! I eased out of my bedroom and glided toward the front parlor, where a set of sturdy andirons stood near the fireplace I hadn’t used since moving in. My peach silk nightgown-I’m a sucker for slinky lingerie-rippled soundlessly around my thighs. Even though I couldn’t see much, I avoided the squeaky plank near the stairs, crossed through the foyer-the front door was still locked-and reached the parlor without encountering the intruder. I paused, listening. Nothing. Was I mistaken? I fingered the phone, reluctant to summon the police for what might be no more than a curious night critter or cat prowling around outside. I was spending too much time thinking about murder, and it was making me jumpier than usual.

Figuring better safe than sorry, I crept toward the fireplace. Halfway there, my foot slipped on something that slid out from under it and I almost went down. I couldn’t see what it was, so when I recovered my balance, I kept moving forward. Finally, I wrapped my fingers around the poker’s iron shaft, prying it free from the stand with a slight clank. I froze. Nothing. Feeling a bit like I’d let my imagination get the better of me, I started down the hall toward the kitchen, walking more easily, the poker clutched in my right hand and the phone in my left. Two steps from the kitchen, I registered that the air was cooler just as a draft plastered my nightie against me. The back door was open!

Gooseflesh sprang up on my arms and I caught my breath, feeling a lot less brave all of a sudden. It was definitely 911 time. I brought the phone closer to my face, trying to read the numbers. A scrambling sound behind me made me whirl. I had an impression of solid blackness rushing toward me and I raised the poker like a lance, not having time to slash downward with it. Something slammed into me and the poker flew out of my hand, landing with a clatter. My fingers clutched reflexively at the phone, but my hand banged open as I struck the ground and slid. I heard heavy breathing, maybe a curse, and then my head cracked against the wall and whorls of color exploded behind my eyes.

I regained consciousness what felt like moments later, but which could have been half an hour for all I knew. My head ached. Pain in my tailbone told me I’d landed on it-hard. Not the first time. The memory of a fall from a lift-at a competition, no less-came to me, and I remembered lying on my back as people jived around me, trying to catch my breath and wincing from the pains shooting from my tailbone. There’d been an especially pretty, sparkly chandelier over the dance floor. The music had been “Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.” There was no light or music now. I blinked several times, trying to blink away the pain. Panic flashed through me suddenly as I remembered the intruder crashing into me. Was he still here? I scrambled to my feet, trying to ignore the bolts of pain zinging through my head and tailbone. One hand clutched at the wall for balance. Where was my phone? I didn’t see it. I tried to still my breathing. I didn’t hear anything. As the thudding of my heart slowed, I realized the house felt empty. He’d gone.

I drew a deep breath and then forced myself to walk toward the kitchen. With a trembling hand, I patted the wall for the switch and found it. Yellow light drenched the room. No one leaped at me. I was alone. Exhaling loudly, I felt tears burning my eyes, but blinked them away. Drawers and cabinets hung open. My purse was on the table where I’d left it, albeit tipped on its side. Hurrying to it, I groped for my wallet, not expecting to find it. My fingers closed over it and I drew it out. Untouched. Weird. I surveyed the chaos. Clearly, the burglar had searched the place. For what? Silver? I didn’t know what other valuables he could expect to find in a kitchen.

The manuscript.

The thought thudded into me with all the force of the intruder and I gasped. My nightgown fluttered, reminding me that the back door was still open, and I crossed to it. Reaching toward the knob, I jumped back as the door opened wider, pulled by an unseen hand. I screamed.