Dead Man Waltzing (11 page)

I agreed, reluctantly, to attend the reading of the will with him, and we arranged to meet in front of the lawyer’s office shortly before eight. “You’ll get a chance to meet Corinne’s other husbands,” he said with a hint of a mischievous smile. “Make sure you tell me that she went downhill after divorcing me.”

“Not a doubt of it,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

Chapter 15

Corinne Blakely’s lawyer was a gentleman about Maurice’s age, with uniformly black, suspiciously stiff hair draped across his head. The toupee covered the tops of jutting ears and brushed his collar in the back. With his lined face, and dark-framed reading glasses perched at the tip of his nose, he looked a little like the King of Rock and Roll might have looked if he were still alive. Elvis: the golden years. Fortunately, the lawyer wore a pin-striped suit and not a spangled white jumpsuit. Standing at the head of the conference room table, he shuffled papers in an expandable file, glancing at his watch and then the door approximately every forty-five seconds.

Maurice and I stood in the back right-hand corner of the room, having arrived too late to get one of the twenty-four chairs drawn up to the oblong table. People lined the walls as well, and I guessed there must be eighty people present, mostly men. Interesting. I recognized only a few of them. Turner Blakely sat at the lawyer’s right hand, reclining in his leather chair, sunglasses obscuring his eyes. Hungover, maybe? Mrs. Laughlin sat midway down the table on the side opposite Turner, dabbing at her eyes with a utilitarian hankie. Lavinia Fremont sat beside her, occasionally patting the housekeeper’s hand. She looked tired, and older than when I’d seen her Thursday. Standing against the far wall, abreast of the lawyer, Marco Ingelido stood with his arm around a fiftyish blonde I took to be his wife. When he caught sight of me, he raised his brows and tried to stare me down, apparently not thinking I belonged there. I held his gaze until he looked away.

I was about to mention it to Maurice when a tan man in his mid-sixties squeezed in beside me, all heavy gold jewelry and expensive golf attire.

“Goldberg,” the newcomer greeted Maurice. He had an unfortunately high-pitched voice that made him sound like a munchkin, and wore a salmon pink shirt that clashed viciously with raspberry trousers.

“Lyle,” Maurice said in a resigned way.

“I’m Stacy,” I said, offering my hand.

Lyle shook it, looking from me to Maurice, brown eyes sparking with curiosity. “Lyle Debenham,” he said. “It looks like they’ve been selling tickets to this shindig,” he observed. “It’s a packed house.”

“How did you know Corinne?” I asked when Maurice didn’t say anything.

“I was Mo’s replacement.” Lyle chuckled.

It took me a minute to realize “Mo” was Maurice.

“Husband number three,” Maurice said dryly.

“She always said she was going to leave each of us something to remember her by,” Lyle said, apparently unperturbed by Maurice’s cool manner. “What do you suppose it’ll be? Old Goudge”—he tilted his head toward the lawyer—“wouldn’t even give me a hint. I thought about not coming, but I had nothing better to do this early—tee time’s not till nine forty-two, so here I am. You’re not related to Corinne, are you?”

“No,” I said.

“For what it’s worth, old man,” Lyle said, leaning across me to address Maurice directly, “I know you didn’t have anything to do with offing our mutual ex-wife. Not your style.”

“Decent of you,” Maurice said, a bit more warmth in his voice.

“Wasn’t me either,” Lyle volunteered. “I was at my grandson’s graduation in Alabama this past weekend. He’s going on to med school so he can take care of his old grandpop in my declining years. Didn’t get back here until Thursday. Hamish, though . . .”

I followed his gaze to where a cadaverously thin man sat at the table, arms crossed over his chest.

“A little bird told me he never gave up on getting Corinne back, that he continued to send her a bouquet of tulips—”

“Her favorite flowers,” Maurice put in.

“—every week of her life. He made a total ass of himself at the wedding when she married the count.”

“He’s a baron,” Maurice said. He scanned the crowd. “I don’t see him here.”

“Not worth making the transatlantic trip,” Lyle said. “I heard he’s close to bankruptcy, that his shipping business has taken some big losses the past couple of years.”

Before Maurice could respond, the lawyer cleared his throat with a loud “Ahem.”

My watch showed exactly eight o’clock. A sense of anticipation upped the energy level in the room. Peering over his glasses at us, the old lawyer said, “It is a relief to see that so many of you could avail yourself of the invitation I extended to be here this morning, in accordance with Corinne Blakely’s expressed wishes. There appear to be quite a few people here whom I did not invite and who are not mentioned in the will. . . .” He scanned the room with a disapproving gaze.

I squirmed as his eyes seemed to linger on me. Was he going to kick me out?

“But we shall get on with it, regardless.”

A communal exhalation told me I wasn’t the only noninvitee here.

“For those of you who don’t know me, I am Jonathan Goudge, and I had the honor of Mrs. Blakely’s trust and confidence for nearly half a century. It is my privilege to carry out the last task she entrusted to me, the reading of her will and the distribution of her assets.”

Goudge had a sonorous voice that almost put me to sleep as he read through the opening paragraphs of legal mumbo jumbo in a measured way. Corinne seemed to have left mementos—a letter opener, a brooch, a sterling tea set, and the like—to many, many people. Some recipients teared up, some frowned, and some left the conference room after their inheritances were announced. Lavinia Fremont started to sob when the lawyer read that she was to receive all of Corinne Blakely’s clothes, including a collection of vintage evening wear and competition gowns, plus one hundred thousand dollars to preserve and display the gowns as she saw fit. The bequest was “in memory of the friendship that has meant more to me than any other during my life.” I shivered at the naked loss on Lavinia’s face and said a prayer of thanks for my sister, who was my dearest friend. Lavinia rose, with the help of the man behind her, and made her way out of the room, face buried in the handkerchief Mrs. Laughlin had handed her.

The lawyer paused momentarily in his reading, until Lavinia had cleared the door and attention returned to him, and then read that Mrs. Laughlin was to receive a pension from the estate for the duration of her life, and was to be allowed to select such mementos as she pleased from the house where she had served so long, excepting only those items specifically left to other people.

Turner Blakely jerked his head up. “Anything she wants?”

Leveling a reproving look at Turner over the top of his glasses, the lawyer reiterated, “‘Any such mementos as she pleases.’”

“A memento would be something small, right? Something valued under, say, a hundred bucks?” Turner refused to give up, and seemed unaware of the disgusted looks aimed his way.

“The term ‘memento’ has no specific definition as to size or value,” Goudge said.

I grinned inwardly, thinking of the items Mrs. Laughlin had already spirited from the house. She hadn’t been greedy; she’d selected things for their sentimental value, not their money value. I smiled at her and she lowered her right eyelid in the suggestion of a wink as Turner subsided into sulky silence.

Maurice gripped my arm tightly when the lawyer began. “‘And to my former husbands, I bequeath . . .’”

I stood up straighter, feeling Lyle come to attention, too.

“‘To Baron Klaus von Heffner, my sixth husband, I leave my collection of classical albums, because music soothes the savage beast.’”

A few titters rose from the crowd and I arched my brows at Maurice in a “what does that mean?” way. He shrugged, looking as puzzled as I was.

“‘To Jeffrey Washington, my fifth husband and dear friend, I leave the 1953 Packard Caribbean, in memory of our road trips.’”

A good-looking African-American man who seemed to be in his early fifties smiled and raised a hand. “Thank you, Coco, wherever you are,” he said. “We had some good times.”

“He looks a lot younger than Corinne,” I whispered to Maurice.

“Her husbands got successively younger,” he said. “I believe there was a twenty-two-year gap between Corinne and Washington.”

The lawyer continued, his voice a bit louder, to be heard over the hum of low-voiced conversations. “‘And to my fourth husband, Hamish MacLeod, I leave five thousand dollars with the hope that he will spend it on tulip bulbs to replenish the earth’s supply of tulips, since he lavished so many of them on me.’”

The thin man at the table stiffened. Was Corinne making fun of him or thanking him? I wondered. MacLeod seemed equally uncertain as he pressed his lips into a thin line, shoved his chair back from the table, smacking into the knees of the people standing behind him, and lurched to his feet. “I was intended by God as Corinne’s only true husband,” he said with a soft Scottish burr. His gaze swept the room as if daring anyone to dispute it. The man and woman sitting on either side of him inched their chairs away. “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”

“Didn’t he realize several men had already been sundered from Corinne before he married her?” I asked in a low voice.

Maurice snorted and, when he got control of himself, said, “He’s a minister, originally from Edinburgh. He relocated to California years ago, and Corinne met him when he officiated at a friend’s wedding.”

“That was the end of me,” Lyle put in, unabashed about eavesdropping and apparently bearing Corinne no ill will for dumping him for the skeletal pastor. “She took one look at him and wham! Of course, he had a bit more meat on him back then. Looks like he’s been starving himself since Corinne left him.”

I was about to reply when I noticed a latecomer sidle through the door to stand against the wall, slightly behind Mr. Goudge. Detective Lissy!
Uh-oh.
What was he doing here?

MacLeod sank back into his seat, the crowd quieted again, and Goudge resumed reading. Corinne had left Lyle a share in a country club, news he greeted with a fist pump. “That’s my gal!” Beaming, he said good-bye to Maurice and me, then scooted out the door in a flash of salmon and raspberry.

As the lawyer intoned, “‘And to my second husband, Maurice Goldberg . . .’” I looked at Lissy. He stood yardstick straight, too-red lips pressed together, something in his bearing making me think of a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse.

“‘. . . I give the Andy Warhol portrait of myself. He knows why.’”

“Ah, Rinny.” Maurice sighed, so quietly I don’t think anyone heard him but me. He was looking toward the front of the room, but I got the feeling he was seeing something from long ago.

Turner Blakely whipped around, searching the room for Maurice. When his gaze landed on him, he blurted, “That painting’s worth millions! It should be part of my inheritance.”

Jonathan Goudge put a hand on Turner’s shoulder. “Mr. Blakely, please.” His tone told me he wasn’t very fond of Corinne’s grandson.

The young man angrily shrugged the hand away. “Isn’t it the law that you can’t profit as a result of murdering someone, or something like that? Then Goldberg can’t have the painting, since he killed Cor— my grandma. The police arrested him! That would be profiting from murder.”

By now, every eye in the place was fixed on Maurice, and you could have heard a piece of swan’s down land on the polished tabletop. Maurice had stiffened beside me, and although I ached to proclaim his innocence loudly, I knew I’d just be drawing more unwanted attention to us. Help came from a completely unexpected quarter.

“Mr. Blakely.” Detective Lissy’s voice, dry and pedantic, broke into the silence. “I have a few questions for you about last weekend, when you’re done here.” Lissy eased his jacket aside to reveal the badge hooked over his belt, and a couple of gasps erupted from the crowd. Lissy’s gray eyes met Turner’s bloodshot ones for a moment. Interesting. Even though Detective Lissy had been happy to arrest Maurice, it seemed like he wasn’t young Mr. Turner Blakely’s greatest fan either. That made me feel marginally more positive about Lissy. The assembled inheritors began murmuring, and heads bobbed from Lissy to Turner to Maurice, like they were watching a three-way tennis match.

“What the hell . . . ?” Turner’s neck flushed red.

Goudge interrupted him to finish reading the will. The gist of the remaining pages was that Turner Blakely inherited everything that hadn’t already been given to someone else, with the proviso that he take care of his father, Corinne’s son, Randolph. “The rest of this is mere legalese,” Goudge said with the smile of one who is proud of his legalese. He flapped the pages. “My firm will be sending notifications to each of you, and the inheritors who could not be present, to inform you of when and how your inheritances will be made available.” He bestowed a slight smile on the room and walked with a stately step to the door, acting like all his will readings were attended by accusations of murder. Maybe they were.

“Let’s get out of here,” Maurice muttered, breaking for the door. I followed in his wake, feeling some trepidation when Detective Lissy moved to intercept us as soon as we exited the conference room.

“Congratulations on your inheritance, Mr. Goldberg,” Lissy said with a tight smile. “Or maybe not. I’d say a multimillion-dollar painting supplies the one thing missing from our case against you: motive.”

“He had no idea she was leaving him anything more than a memento,” I said, the good feelings I’d been having about him since he put Turner Blakely in his place evaporating instantly.

“And you know this how?” Lissy asked. “Because he told you so?” He whisked his jacket-covered forearm over the face of his watch to polish it.

“Anastasia.” Maurice put a calming hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got a booth at a bridal fair to man,” he told Lissy. “If you’d like to chat, give my lawyer a call to set up an appointment.” With a quick kiss on my cheek, he walked off, leaving me facing Detective Lissy.

I took advantage of the moment. “Did you get the outline from the literary agent?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Lissy said. “The agent is insisting on a court order.” His gaze lingered on Turner Blakely, who was one of the last people out of the conference room.

“You can tell he’s got a temper,” I said, “and he seems desperate to get his hands on every penny of Corinne’s estate.”