The other swans, apparently taking Ebony’s departure as their cue, beat their wings heavily and took to the sky, a dark phalanx rising over the cemetery. It was stirring in its way, I had to admit, but slightly undermined by the first swan still chasing the hapless pup. I had to think this wasn’t quite what Corinne had in mind when she requested swans at her funeral. The dog’s owner had entered the chase as well, wailing, “Gumdrop!” as she trailed the pair, staggering on her high heels. The dog had reached the lip of the grave, and I was afraid that the farce was going to turn really ugly, but Corinne’s son, Randolph Blakely, leaned forward and scooped up Gumdrop before he could barrel into the gaping hole. With a smile, he restored the dog to her grateful owner. A blond woman about Randolph’s age laid her hand on his arm and smiled. My investigative antennae pricked up, and I wondered whether she was the “girlfriend” Randolph’s neighbor had told us about. She carried a few extra pounds and had a long face, but she was attractive in a comfortable, middle-aged sort of way.
Randolph looked more alert today, and his expression was lighter, in marked contrast to his son, who scowled at Gumdrop as if wanting to drop-kick him into the next county. “That was well done of Randolph,” I whispered to Tav.
Ebony, deprived of his prey, flapped his great wings and followed his buddies into the sky.
“I wonder how the swan wrangler catches them again,” Tav said, his gaze following the elegant bird.
With a determined look on her face, the minister began a rousing chorus of “Nearer My God to Thee” and we all chimed in.
As the service ended and people began wandering off, I excused myself to Tav and angled toward where Randolph was accepting condolences, the blond woman still by his side. I made it to the front of the line and offered my hand to Randolph, saying sincerely, “Your mother meant a lot to all of us in the ballroom dancing world. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He nodded his acceptance of my condolences and turned to the older gentleman behind me. I stuck out my hand to the blond woman. “I’m Stacy Graysin. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Alanna Vincent,” she said with the gratitude that spouses and girlfriends frequently betray when someone pays attention to them at their husbands’ or boyfriends’ events.
“How did you know Corinne?” I asked.
“I didn’t, really,” she admitted with a small smile that crinkled the skin at the corners of her eyes. “Randolph and I met at Hopeful Morning. I’m an alcoholic, and we overlapped there for several months.” She said it with no trace of self-consciousness. “When I left this past February, we stayed in touch. Things are progressing.” She gave me a sweetly mischievous smile and squeezed Randolph’s arm. Still conversing with the elderly gentleman, who seemed to have an inexhaustible flow of reminiscences about Corinne, Randolph patted her hand where it lay on his arm.
“That’s lovely,” I said. “I hope things work out for both of you. It was very nice meeting you.”
“You, too, Stacy.” Alanna smiled.
A bit bemused by this evidence of Randolph’s romantic life, I went in search of Maurice to see how he was holding up. He stood near the grave with the other ex-husbands. Lyle was apparently demonstrating a golf swing, and the Reverend Hamish was bawling, while the fifth husband, the African-American whose name I couldn’t remember, patted his back. I assumed the short, dumpy man I hadn’t seen before was Baron von Whatever, and I studied him curiously. I was somewhat disappointed to see that he was ordinary in every respect, except for a gray mustache waxed and twirled into points that looped up against his pudgy cheeks.
Spotting me, Maurice said something to the baron and edged toward me, only to be intercepted by Turner Blakely. The young man looked svelte and sophisticated in a black suit with a black-and-gray-striped tie. His dark hair was brushed straight back from his forehead, revealing a pale, narrow brow.
“Goldberg.” He planted himself in front of Maurice and pulled an envelope from an inner jacket pocket.
Maurice cocked his head slightly, waiting for Turner to explain himself.
“I’m contesting the will,” Turner said, thrusting the envelope at Maurice, “and in particular the painting that you tricked Grandmother into leaving you.”
“There was no trickery involved, Turner, as you well know,” Maurice said calmly. “However, it’s your prerogative under America’s right-to-sue-and-be-sued legal system to contest the will, so contest away.”
The tips of Turner’s ears reddened at the light contempt in Maurice’s tone. “Murderers can’t benefit from their crimes,” he spit. “When you’re convicted, the painting will revert to the estate anyway.”
“Then if you’re so sure of my guilt, save your money and wait for the justice system to grind its wheels. It shouldn’t take more than eight or ten years, what with appeals and everything.” Maurice gave Turner a pseudo-sympathetic smile. “Who knows? Maybe by then the painting will have appreciated in value. Or maybe I will have sold it to pay my legal bills.” With a nod, he left Turner fuming and walked to me, saying under his breath, “Get me out of here, Anastasia, before I really am guilty of murder.”
I could tell by his ragged breathing that maintaining a facade of calm while talking to Turner had cost him, and I took his arm to lead him back toward the car, distracting him by telling him about having discovered the identity of the mysterious blonde who had visited Randolph. Tav joined us and, summing up Maurice’s state of mind in one comprehensive glance, offered a quiet comment on the funeral and what a lovely tribute the crowd was to Corinne. Maurice responded in kind, and his breathing had slowed by the time we neared the car.
The car parked in front of mine was a black limousine, and a chauffeur opened the door for Randolph Blakely, Alanna Vincent, and-to my surprise-Hamish MacLeod as we approached. The reverend was still sobbing into his hands, and Alanna was murmuring soothingly to him. The chauffeur stood stiff as a fence post, perhaps used to ferrying blubbering passengers around the city.
“It’ll be okay, Hamish,” Randolph said bracingly. “You made a good decision to admit yourself to Hopeful Morning. They’ll help you. Look what they did for Alanna and me.”
The chauffeur clunked the door shut behind them, and I couldn’t hear any more. My gaze flew involuntarily to Tav, and he gave me a smug “I told you so” look that I couldn’t even get mad about. Apparently Hamish’s presence at Randolph’s cottage was completely innocent, as Tav had suggested. He’d been considering admitting himself to the rehab center. I smiled sheepishly and walked around to my door.
Maurice slid into the passenger seat and shut the door, and I looked at Tav gratefully over the hood of the Beetle. “Thanks. So, how does the swan wrangler get them back?” I guessed he’d gone to talk to the man when I went to find Maurice.
He grinned, confirming my guess. “They fly home,” Tav said, “like homing pigeons. And in case one gets the idea of escaping, they have got GPS devices on their collars.”
“The wonders of technology,” I said.
His expression grew more serious, a bit uncertain. The wind riffled his dark hair. “Stacy, will you have dinner with me one evening? Not this weekend-I must fly to New York on business-but next weekend?”
My breath caught in my throat. “Are you asking me for a date at a funeral?”
A wry smile slanted his mouth. “Is that bad?”
“It’s a first for me.”
“Me, too.”
I fell silent, biting my lip. I’d been attracted to Tav all along, but I was afraid to get involved again, especially with a business partner. If we dated and then broke up, it would be messy, awkward, like it had been after I caught Rafe cheating and ended our engagement. But we weren’t talking about “getting involved,” my free-spirit self argued. We were talking about a single date. Ha! my sensible side said.