Dead Man Waltzing Read Online Free PDF

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