Dead Man Waltzing Read Online Free PDF Page B

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.”
    * * *
    I arrived late to the furniture store, where I had promised to help my sister, Danielle, pick out a new sofa. The old one had collapsed under her and her boyfriend, Coop, when they were, she alleged, simply watching Jeopardy! a couple nights ago. The store was a freestanding building on Lee Highway, surrounded by a gymnastics place, a restaurant, and an oil-change garage. Traffic whizzed by. Dani was pacing the concrete walkway in front of the store, curly red hair billowing around her, frown etching her pretty face.
    “Sorry,” I started as I came up to her, thinking her uncharacteristic anger was directed at me.
    “Have you talked to Mom today?” she asked, ignoring my apology.
    Ah, now I knew where her anger was coming from. She and our mother had had a difficult relationship since Mom chose to follow her passion for horses and dressage rather than stick around to be a wife and mother. Dad had given her an ultimatum—him or the horses—and she’d chosen the nags. I’d been fifteen when she left and I’d sorta, kinda, maybe understood her choice. By then, I’d been ballroom dancing for several years and knew I wouldn’t be me if I couldn’t continue. Danielle, a couple years younger, had never forgiven her.
    “No, I haven’t been home. Is she okay?”
    Danielle snorted. “‘Okay.’ That’s one word for it.”
    I moved into the air-conditioned cool of the store and Danielle trailed after me. We waved away the saleswoman charging toward us like Yogi Bear after a pic-a-nic basket.
    “She wants us to join her on a vacation,” Danielle said, clearly incensed.
    “So?”
    “So, she’s going to a dressage competition in Georgia and she wants us to meet her afterward on Jekyll Island. Her treat.”
    “Oh.” The reason for Danielle’s anger became plain: Jekyll Island was the site of our last vacation as a family, before Mom moved out.
    “She wants to ruin our memories of our last vacation together,” Danielle said, plopping down onto a brown plaid sofa. “Too hard.” She popped up again and punched the pillows of a beige microfiber conversation pit.
    “Not beige,” I objected, drawn to a red leather sofa.
    “Beige blends,” she said.
    “There’s such a thing as too much blending.” I admit I was biased; I’d rather go naked than wear beige or brown or any of the other “blendy” colors Danielle stocked her closet with. As a union negotiator, she thought a “nonthreatening” wardrobe helped her connect with the employees she was