Taking turns and talking over each other, Maurice, Mildred, and I explained what the cartridge was and how we had gotten it. “Now,” I finished, “they’re going to tell us what they learned.”
Vitaly and I turned expectant gazes on the older pair.
“It’s not quite what we were hoping,” Maurice hedged. “It turns out this must have been a new cartridge, because there were only a couple pages’ worth of material on it. That’s why we were able to copy it off pretty quickly.”
“So tedious,” Mildred put in. “Letter by letter. I don’t understand why dear Corinne”-I didn’t think she’d ever met Corinne Blakely, but Mildred was the kind of person who made friends immediately, even with a dead woman-“didn’t use a computer. I can’t imagine life without a computer.”
That was rich, coming from a woman who’d lived more than half her life before the invention of the silicon chip.
“Why, it’s so much easier to keep up with my sorority sisters and friends with Facebook. I remember when one had to write letters by hand and hunt for one’s address book to address them, and then wait for the postal service to deliver them, and the friend to find time to write back-phah! Twitter’s the way to go. I have seventy-four followers, you know.” She beamed at us.
“The manuscript?” Maurice nudged her gently.
Hoover settled beside me, his heavy head on my lap, as Mildred began to read. “It starts in midsentence. ‘… lucky to have lived most of my adult life in the world of dance, surrounded by friends and family who venerate the art form. Although it might seem, from some of the reminiscences I’ve shared with you, that the world of ballroom dance is rife with scandal and backbiting and skullduggery, I suggest that this passion finds its way into the dance and makes it the art form that it is. In every walk of life, there are husbands who cheat, children who disappoint, friends who betray. In dance, at least, there is also beauty and movement, expiation and forgiveness in the sweat and rigor and partnership. In dance, it really does take two to tango, so relationships become paramount.
“‘As I pen these words, the International Olympic Committee is deciding whether or not DanceSport should become an Olympic event. If you’ve stuck with me through the last two hundred some-odd pages, you know how I hope the vote comes out! But even if DanceSport does not receive the IOC’s blessing, it has still blessed my life in innumerable, immeasurable ways. And I am thankful for it.’”
Mildred glanced up from the page and wiped a tear from her eye. “So beautiful.”
I locked eyes with Maurice. “But… two hundred pages! This isn’t an outline-it’s a final chapter.”
“Just so, Anastasia,” he agreed.
“Then… then there is a completed manuscript.”
“Unless she is starting at the end?” Vitaly suggested.
I considered it briefly before shaking my head. “No, the page count makes it sound like she’s already written the whole thing.” I jumped up, dislodging Hoover. “Mrs. Laughlin lied!”
Chapter 28
Maurice tapped a finger against his lips. “Now, Anastasia, maybe there’s some other explanation. Maybe Corinne didn’t share the manuscript with Mrs. Laughlin.”
I looked at him from under my brows. “Friends for half a century? Lived in the same house?”
“It seems unlikely that Mrs. Laughlin wouldn’t know,” he admitted.
“Who is being this Mrs. Laughlin person?” Vitaly asked.
“Corinne’s housekeeper,” I said.
“Where can we find her, dear?” Mildred asked.
“England,” I said gloomily, at the same time Maurice said, “The King’s Arms.”
“What?” “Where’s that?” “How do you know?” Hoover added to the bedlam by scrambling to his feet and barking. Mildred shushed him with a hand around his muzzle.
Maurice answered my question first. “I spoke with her briefly at the will reading and she mentioned she would be putting up there-it’s a bed-and-breakfast place in Arlington-until after the funeral.”
Mention of the funeral quieted us all. It was being held the next day. Turner Blakely had delayed it, he’d said, so Corinne’s “many, many friends from the international ballroom dancing community” could arrange to attend. He’d hired a funeral coordinator and was doing it up like a Hollywood wedding. I knew all this because there’d been a black-boxed announcement about it in the program handed out at the exhibition for the Olympics folks. (The announcement hadn’t actually said the bit about a Hollywood wedding, but it was clear the solemnities would be pompous and glitzy and overdone.) Vitaly and Maurice and I were attending together.
“I’m going to the King’s Arms,” I said. I pushed to my feet, my muscles stiff after sitting cross-legged for so long on the hard floor. I was getting old.
“I’ll go with you,” Maurice said.
Shaking my head, I started for the door. “Uh-uh. She lied to me. I’m going to have it out with her. I’ll give you a call when I get back. Can you cover the ballroom aerobics class for me if I’m not back in time?”
When Maurice looked like he would have followed me anyway, Vitaly put a hand on his arm. “No one is doing anythings with Stacy when she is making up her minds. Much smarter to keep away and take cover.” He mimed ducking and covered his head with his arms.
Everyone laughed, defusing the tension. Hoover barked, and I hurried out, not bothering to debate Vitaly’s assessment of me. I might be impulsive now and then, but I didn’t create chaos, for heaven’s sake.
Pausing only to toss a lemon-colored T-shirt over my sweaty workout top, I grabbed my keys and slammed the back door on my way out.
The King’s Arms, when I finally found it-I should have taken time to MapQuest it before driving off-was a two-story, Tudor-style home on a quiet cul-de-sac in nearby Arlington. It was all whitewashed walls, dark beams, and mullioned windows; it looked old and out of place next to the brick, 1960s-era ranch house beside it. Flowers frothed in the classic English garden that fronted the home, roses spilling open so bumblebees could get drunk on pollen. I recognized lavender and daisies and petunias, but I couldn’t name most of the blooms. A carved wooden sign announced, THE KING’S ARMS, EST. 1805, BED AND BREAKFAST. Crunching up the oyster-shell path to the front door, I paused. Did one ring the bell or just walk into a B and B? Playing it safe, I knocked. When no one answered, I pushed the door open and peeked in.
“Hello?”
A small reception desk with old-fashioned cubbies for keys was four paces in front of me, but no one staffed it. A rag rug covered the floor, and an iron chandelier hung low, providing dim light from curly CFL bulbs that didn’t have near the ambience that candles would have. A broad staircase ascended to my right, and I could see a door with the number one affixed to it just off the landing. I had one foot on the stairs, determined to knock on every door if I had to, to locate Mrs. Laughlin, when a thin teenager came around the corner, steadying a pile of pink towels with her chin. She looked startled to see me, but then smiled. “Hi.” The towels muffled the word by not giving her enough space to open her mouth properly.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Laughlin,” I said.
“Number four,” she said.
“Thanks.” I trotted up the stairs, not pausing to inspect any of the botanical prints arranged on the wall.
Number four was the last door on the right. I rapped with one knuckle.
“Come in, Shelly,” a voice called.
I turned the black metal doorknob that might have been original to the house, and pushed the door open. Mrs. Laughlin, still looking as sweet and gentle as a Hallmark-card grandma, had a suitcase open on the bed and was placing folded clothes into it. “Just leave the towels on the dresser,” she said without looking up.