Dead Man Waltzing

Chapter 16

Danielle and I arrived at the Alexandria dock at Union and Cameron streets, just north of the Torpedo Factory, minutes before the Plantation Queen was due to sail with the Willow House party aboard. I’d dithered about whom to take with me, considering Tav before deciding that he might think I was asking him for a date, which, of course, I wouldn’t have been, since our relationship was strictly business and my urge to dance with him stemmed solely from my belief that he should know how to dance if he was part owner of a ballroom studio, and not because I liked the feeling that tingled through me when he took me in his arms, and the way he smelled, and… I stopped my unruly brain and thought about asking Vitaly, who would be fun to have around for the dancing, and even Mom, because we didn’t do too much together these days. I finally decided to ask Danielle whether she’d go with me, because I knew she’d get a kick out of doing a little sleuthing on Maurice’s behalf, and because, well, seeing Lavinia’s tears over Corinne’s death made me think I ought to spend a little more time with my sister and best friend.

Danielle had enthusiastically agreed, explaining that Coop was giving chess lessons that evening to some local middle-schoolers and she was at loose ends. She rang the doorbell as I was spritzing on a light floral perfume. I wore a frothy cocktail dress with a tight bodice and floaty skirt that came to midthigh. My Grecian-look gold sandals perfectly set off the swirls of white, peach, and gold in the fabric, and my hair bounced loose against my shoulders. I opened the door to Danielle, who had on a staid navy blue dress with a cropped jacket and matching navy blue pumps.

“You’ve got to lose the jacket,” I said the moment I set eyes on her. What I really wanted to say was, You look like you’re going to a funeral, but I bit my tongue, figuring she wouldn’t take it well. “And I’ve got some shoes you can borrow that don’t look like they came out of Great-aunt Laurinda’s closet.”

“My outfit is perfectly-”

“No, it isn’t.” I dragged her in, pushed her down on the sofa, which let out a poof of dust, and ran to my room for a pair of high-heeled silver peep-toes with rosettes. While there, I grabbed two long strands of silver set with sparkly crystals. Danielle had shed the jacket by the time I came back, revealing spaghetti straps that showed off her toned arms and lovely neck.

“Here.” I thrust the necklaces at her and crouched to slip the sandals on her feet. “Voilà! Cinderella,” I said, stepping back to survey the effect. She wore her red hair twisted into a loose chignon and it looked dramatic against the navy and silver of her dress and jewelry. “And we didn’t even need a fairy godmother.”

“Hmph,” Danielle said, but she crossed to the full-length mirror in the hallway and surveyed her reflection with a pleased smile.

We walked the few blocks to the waterfront, slightly hobbled by our impractically high heels on the uneven brick sidewalks, to find the boarding process almost complete. The Plantation Queen rode low in the water, three stories-or decks, I guessed-of pale blue accented with lacy white ironwork along the decks. Enclosed cabins with large windows on three sides took up most of the space on the lower and middle decks, but the top deck was an open observation platform only partially shaded by an awning. Twin smokestacks rose from the upper deck, flaring at the top. A huge red paddle wheel dripped water at the stern, with two gulls perched on one of the unmoving slats. A young man in a jaunty sailor outfit that looked more like a costume than serious naval attire took our tickets with a smile. “Come aboard. You almost missed the boat, ladies, and that would have been a shame.”

His admiring gaze traveled over both of us, but lingered on Danielle. Tossing cheap Mardi Gras beads over our heads, he offered each of us a hand up the unsteady metal gangway. Four feet wide, it was about fifteen feet long, with a corrugated sort of surface designed to prevent slipping, but not ideal for stiletto heels. My heel caught in one of the indentions, and the crewman saved me from falling by grabbing my upper arm. I thanked him, he smiled, and we made it safely up the rest of the gentle incline to the lowest deck. The paddle wheel began to churn moments after we were aboard, and the Plantation Queen slid away from the dock toward the center of the Potomac.

Laughter drifted from all the decks, and waiters circulated with trays of champagne. Dani and I each snagged a glass and wandered toward a stairway, or whatever you call it on a boat, to climb to the upper level, where a trio conjured up images of Bourbon Street on a saxophone, trumpet, and clarinet. Well-dressed men and women laughed and flirted and talked as the late-afternoon breeze stirred artfully casual hair and sheer silk and chiffon dresses. Actually, the breeze was turning to windy gusts, and several women had to hold their dresses down.

“The beautiful people,” Dani whispered.

“This is the life,” I agreed, turning my face up to the sun and letting the wind sift through my hair. Taking a sip of the champagne, I held it in my mouth a moment, letting the bubbles tickle my tongue, before swallowing. I closed my eyes and felt, rather than saw, the sun disappear behind some clouds.

“So which woman is this Greta person?” Dani asked, always more task-focused than I.

Reluctantly, I opened my eyes and scanned the crowd. “That one,” I guessed, pointing discreetly to a woman who was a little too blond, in a mint silk sheath that was a little too tight, and who was working a little too hard at being vivacious and charming. Rings glittered on her gesturing hands, and her unlined face testified to the skills of a good plastic surgeon, making it hard to guess her age. She held herself gracefully erect with a dancer’s posture, though, which made me think she might be Greta Monk. I was sure of it when she moved on to another clump of partiers, greeting them like a hostess and exchanging small talk for a few moments before stepping aside to consult with a man wearing a chef’s toque.

“So, what’s the plan?” Danielle asked. “Cruise up to her and ask whether she poisoned Corinne Blakely?”

“I think something less… ‘in your face’ would work better,” I said, nibbling at the cuticle on my index finger.

“Great.” Danielle looked at me expectantly.

“I haven’t come up with anything yet,” I admitted, tracking Greta Monk as she moved toward the stairwell. She began to descend.

“Well, we need a plan,” Danielle said, brows twitching together. “We could-”

“I think I’ll wing it.” I thrust my glass at Danielle and hurried to catch up with Greta, brushing against a middle-aged waiter and making him bobble a tray of full champagne glasses. “I’m so sorry,” I said, catching the rim of the tray so it didn’t tip. I craned my neck to see around him, but Greta had disappeared.

“No problem, miss,” he said with a tired smile that said he’d rather be home watching Everybody Loves Raymond reruns than dodging tipsy passengers on a paddleboat.

“I’m not drunk,” I assured him.

He gave me a “yeah, right” look and stepped aside so I could slip by him. I descended the stairs as quickly as possible, given my four-inch heels, and paused at the bottom, scanning the crowd for Greta. The paddleboat was lurching a bit now as the stiff winds kicked up some whitecaps, and I spread my legs wider to keep my balance. I didn’t spot Greta, but my eyes lit on a photographer snapping a smiling foursome against the rail, and I recognized Sarah Lewis. Hm, that woman got around. She turned and saw me as Danielle emerged from the stairwell and thrust my champagne glass at me.

“Lost her, huh?” Dani said at the same time Sarah Lewis, after a brief hesitation while she dredged up my name, said, “Stacy, right?”

“Hi, Sarah,” I said, momentarily giving up my search for Greta. “Done with the bridal fair? Oh, this is my sister, Danielle Graysin. Dani, this is Sarah Lewis. She’s a photographer.”

They made “nice to meet you” noises before Sarah answered my question. “You know what they say: A paying gig in the hand is worth more than potential wedding contracts in the bush.” Sarah shrugged. “I left some brochures on my table at the bridal fair.” She gestured with her camera, an expensive-looking model with a fat lens that didn’t bear much resemblance to my seventy-dollar point-and-shoot camera. “Let me get a picture of the two of you. They’ll be for sale when we dock-all profits to benefit the women’s shelter.”

Danielle and I obligingly moved to the rail and leaned our heads together, smiling when Sarah said, “Say, ‘Support your local battered women’s home.’ Great. Gotta go photograph some more donors. I’ll catch you later.” She moved off, khaki vest and sensible deck shoes contrasting with the colorful, less practical garb of most of the female guests. I explained to Dani who she was.

“Kinda weird to run into her again, don’t you think?” she said.

“I don’t know. She’s a photographer. Her uncle’s got connections and undoubtedly knows Greta Monk, who probably hired her. I don’t think it’s all that strange.”

“Hmph.” Dani sounded unconvinced. She stood on tiptoe to peer over my shoulder. “Look, there goes Greta.” I whirled to see the event organizer chatting with a couple in front of her as she stood in line at a buffet table near the opposite railing.

“Come on.” I maneuvered through the crowd and snatched up a chilled plate from the buffet table, filling it randomly as I worked my way toward Greta Monk, who had exactly two shrimp and a celery stick on her plate. She was still chatting with the older couple when I came up behind her.

“Isn’t this a lovely party, Dani?” I said loudly to my sister, who cringed in embarrassment. “So well organized!”

Greta turned with a smile stretching her thin lips. Her taut skin made it difficult to place her age-anywhere from fifty to seventy, I’d guess. “Why, thank you,” she said. “I’m Greta Monk, and I put this party together for Willow House. Such a worthwhile cause.”

“Why, my goodness.” I put a theatrical hand to my heart. “Greta Monk. Corinne Blakely was talking about you just the other day. Isn’t it a shame what happened to her? Maurice Goldberg was just too broken up to attend tonight, so he gave me and my sister their tickets.” I gestured Dani forward, and she gave Greta a smile while shooting me a look that promised retribution.

“Really?” Greta’s smile faltered slightly at the mention of Corinne. “And you are…?”

“Oh, where are my manners?” I didn’t know why I’d adopted the persona of a dithering Southern belle; it must have been the power of suggestion emanating from the gracious old boat, or the Dixieland music filtering from the cabin. “I’m Stacy Graysin, and this is my sister, Danielle. I own a ballroom dance studio.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Greta said automatically, looking anything but. “Did you say Corinne mentioned me? In a good way, I hope.” She forced a chuckle, but the nervous look in her eyes told me she was anxious to know what Corinne had been saying.

“Oh, of course,” I reassured her. “Something about how you’re going to be on the Kennedy Center board of trustees, and a dance scholarship fund. I didn’t really catch it all, but if the scholarships are merit-based, I’ve got a student or two who might qualify.”

Greta pressed a napkin to her lips. “There’s no… That was a long time ago. I don’t know why Corinne…” Composing herself, she said, “Corinne and I administered a fund years ago-years ago. I don’t know why she’d bring it up now. Who was she talking to?”

“That’s too bad,” I said, ignoring her question. “About the scholarships, I mean. And about Corinne.”

“Hideous,” Greta agreed. “Corinne and I were like sisters. When I heard the news…” She shuddered. A fat pink shrimp slid off her plate and splotched her dress before dropping to the deck. “Oh!” She rubbed at the spot with her napkin, looking far more upset than the slight mark deserved.

“But isn’t it wonderful that her book will still be published?” I said brightly. “She lived the early days of ballroom dance competition in America, and it would be such a shame if her memories were lost forever!”

“What?” Greta’s plate fell and shattered on the deck. A passing server swooped in to begin picking up the shards.

Inspiration struck and I babbled on. “I’m really looking forward to reading the manuscript.”

“How did you-”

“Corinne was worried that someone was out to steal the manuscript-wasn’t that silly? But you know how she is. Was. So she gave it to Maurice Goldberg for safekeeping. She and Maurice have known each other forever, you know. Anyway, he gave it to me to take to the publisher in New York when I go up next week for an… an appointment. He didn’t want to risk losing it in the mail.” The lies were stacking up, and I counted on Greta’s being too much distressed at the news that the manuscript had survived Corinne to scrutinize my story too closely.

Danielle gave me a narrow-eyed gaze that said she thought I was insane. I ignored her.

“Where- What are you…” Greta started. “I’d be interested in-”

“Everything okay, Greta?” A powerfully built man in his mid- to late sixties with crew-cut gray hair had come up behind Greta Monk. He was only a couple of inches taller than she was, and was too stocky to look elegant in the off-white linen suit he wore with the jacket unbuttoned to show a shirt that matched Greta’s dress. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, giving me and Dani an inquiring look from hard eyes.

“Oh, Conrad. No, nothing’s wrong, except I dropped my plate. So clumsy of me. Excuse me; I’ve got to wash this off.” She slipped out from under his encircling arm and hurried to the cabin door, which was propped open by an urn brimming with begonias.

Conrad Monk nodded brusquely and followed his wife.

Controlling herself until the pair was out of earshot, Danielle rounded on me. “Have you lost your friggin’ mind? What was that all about?”

I wasn’t sure myself. I’d gone with the impulse of the moment, as I was all too prone to do. “I thought Greta might let something slip if she thought the manuscript was still around. If her husband hadn’t come up-”

“Did it slip your mind that the last person to have that manuscript got murdered?”

It had, actually. Not that I’d forgotten Corinne was dead, but I hadn’t put two and two together. “We don’t know she was killed because of the memoir,” I said.

Danielle snorted.

“We don’t. Maybe her son or her charming grandson offed her for the money. That’s a much stronger motive, actually.” I finished my champagne.

“Well,” Danielle said after a moment, calming down a bit, “if you wanted to make Greta nervous, I think you succeeded. The moment you mentioned the scholarship fund, she turned green.”

The pitching of the boat in ever-building waves was making me feel a bit green. “Maybe she was worried about the weather.” I nodded toward the dark clouds piling up against the western horizon. “I think her beautifully organized fund-raiser is about to get rained out.”

On the words, the clouds spit a few raindrops at us. People descended from the upper deck, practically tumbling over one another as they came down the ladder and sought shelter in the glassed-in cabin area. A jagged blast of lightning zinged across the sky, and Danielle grabbed my arm. “Let’s get inside.”

Hurrying across the deck, I felt the boat slow and begin to turn. Moments later, an announcement sounded over a crackly public address system. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are sorry, but we must curtail today’s cruise and return to the dock.” The phrasing sounded like Greta Monk’s, but the broadcast was so staticky I couldn’t tell whether the speaker was male or female. Danielle and I crammed ourselves into the cabin area, which smelled like too many damp people crowded into too small a space. Only a lucky few had seats. An elderly couple sat holding hands on the far side of the room, orange life jackets strapped around their party attire. Most people seemed unfazed by the choppy water and the lightning, laughing and chatting as they tried to keep drinks from sloshing over whenever the boat lurched unexpectedly. A summer squall on the Potomac didn’t carry the same panic factor for boats as a hurricane in the Atlantic.

“I’m going to get more champagne,” Danielle said, eyes scanning the crowded room for a server. She must have spotted one, because she’d moved off before I could tell her I didn’t want any.

Truth to tell, my stomach was lurching a bit with the boat’s wallowing motion, and I was a teensy bit worried that the champagne I’d already drunk would reappear. My head began to throb from the heavy scents of perfumes, shrimp, and cigars in the moist air, and the overly loud jazz emanating from the brass trio that had been playing on the observation deck, but who had also sought refuge in the cabin. If I had to stay cooped up in here a moment longer, I was going to throw up. Two long strides brought me to the door, and I was through it in a heartbeat, taking in great gulps of fresh air.

I felt better almost immediately and found that the rain wasn’t coming down hard enough to bother me. The misty wetness actually felt good on my bare arms and face, although I didn’t imagine it was improving my dress any. Sheltered by the cabin’s slight overhang, I noted that I wasn’t the only one who preferred the elements to the crowded cabin. A couple huddled together against the far railing, holding the man’s jacket above them to keep off the rain. A solitary man stood at the bow, looking toward the fast-approaching dock. Another announcement crackled over the PA system; I thought it might have something to do with disembarking.

With my stomach settling, I drifted toward the stern, drawn by the rhythmic slap of the paddle wheel slats against the water. As I approached the edge of the cabin I heard voices, low-pitched, apparently arguing. I slowed, not wanting to interrupt. Whoever the speakers were, they must be pressed up against the back of the cabin, the only wall that wasn’t glass, just around the corner from where I now stood. I was about to back away, allowing them their privacy, when I heard a single word: “Corinne.”

I stiffened. It was a man’s voice, but I didn’t recognize it. An unintelligible murmur followed, and I found myself creeping closer to the end of the cabin, hoping they wouldn’t come around the corner to find me flattened against the wall, eavesdropping. The wind died for a second and I heard a woman’s voice. Greta?

“… don’t know. Corinne never-”

The man’s voice cut her off. “We can… Turner won’t-”

Frustrated by catching only snippets of the conversation, I inched farther along the wall, just as the boat turned, plunging a bit as it came crosswise to the waves. It jolted me against the wall with a solid thud. Knowing the whispering couple must have heard the bump, I decided to reveal myself before they came looking for me. I’d brazen it out and act like I was just out for fresh air, attracted by the paddle wheel, which, I realized, had the merit of being true. I straightened my spine and stepped forward, glancing casually over my shoulder as I passed the end of the cabin, hoping to see the whispering pair.

No one huddled against the back wall. Realizing they must have gone around the far side of the cabin, I spun on my heel and slipped on the wet deck. One knee smacked into the deck, and I let out an exclamation of combined pain and frustration. By the time I regained my footing and limped around the cabin, there was no one in sight. A seagull perched on the flat roof fluffed his feathers and cocked his head at me. “Ki-yi-yi,” he jeered.

“Oh, stuff it,” I said.

The Plantation Queen had maneuvered into the small harbor area by now, and revelers began to stream from the cabin as the captain brought the boat alongside the dock. I looked for Danielle, but didn’t see her in the press of people. I’d meet up with her on the dock, I decided. It seemed like half an hour, but was really only ten minutes or so before the crew secured the boat against the dock so it bumped against tires, and maneuvered the gangway into place. Despite crew members urging people to descend the gangway slowly, to watch their step, the crowd surged forward like teenage girls pushing into a Taylor Swift concert where the seating was up for grabs.

I moved forward with the crowd, going with the flow. I was on the outer edge of the gangway, watching my feet to make sure my heels didn’t catch as they had when I boarded. So I didn’t see whose elbow jabbed me in the side, knocking me off balance so that I teetered for a moment on the edge of the plank before plunging into the murky Potomac.