“It was blood money,” I said. “In her memoir, Corinne confessed to being the one who orchestrated the attack that cost Lavinia her leg. Listen.” I’d brought the page with me, and I dug it out of my pocket and unfolded it. “It’s from the next-to-last chapter.”
I began to read. “‘This memoir would be neither complete nor honest without an accounting of what happened in London in 1964 when my best friend, Lavinia, was attacked outside a nightclub and subsequently lost part of her leg and the ability to dance.’” I looked up to gauge Lissy’s reaction, but his face was expressionless. “She goes on to explain about the dance competition and who all was there in London, and then says, ‘To my everlasting shame, I paid a man, a thug, to injure Corinne so she wouldn’t be able to compete. I told him where we’d be and even made sure we lingered at the nightclub until most of the patrons had left. I have regretted it from the moment he jumped out from behind that car. If I could have stopped it, I would have, but it was too late. I watched as he attacked Lavinia, watched as she crumpled to the sidewalk, and listened to her cries of pain. I could try to excuse what I did by talking about my passion for ballroom dance, and how badly I wanted to win the competition, but that would only make me more contemptible. I was so sick with grief and remorse that I could barely dance; indeed, I gave up dancing for several months after that. Everyone thought it was so I could be with Lavinia and help her, but it was because every turn, every chassé, reminded me of what I’d caused to be done. I swear, if I could have traded places with Lavinia on that operating table when the doctors removed her leg, I would have.’”
I lowered the page, affected as I had been on first reading it by the honesty-belated-and the pain that quivered in the words. “Even though Corinne meant only to put Lavinia out of commission for a week or so, she’s the reason her friend had to have her leg amputated. She felt so guilty about it that she helped Lavinia financially-”
“Helped her get on her feet,” Lissy said with mordant humor.
I winced and continued. “She put up the money to start Lavinia’s design studio and did what she could to funnel business Lavinia’s way. All because she felt genuinely awful about what she’d done.”
“Perhaps you’ll explain why Fremont waited until now to get her revenge?” Lissy asked, politely skeptical.
“Because she didn’t know Corinne was behind it!”
Cheers erupted around us, and the boys on the field headed for the dugout while a green-shirted team took up positions around the bases and in the outfield. The scent of hot dogs drifted our way, and I realized I was hungry, but not hungry enough to eat a hot dog.
“And since the book isn’t published, she found out about the scheme how?” His tone was not-so-politely skeptical now.
“Because Corinne told her.”
He looked at me from under his brows. “Ms. Graysin-”
“No, really. Corinne told each of the people mentioned in the book-well, maybe not all of them, but the major players-what she was writing about. Greta Monk knew. Marco Ingelido knew. Maurice knew. I’m sure her son and grandson knew something about what she was writing about them. She talked to everyone. She must have talked to Lavinia Fremont, but Lavinia didn’t mention that when we talked, which proves she had something to hide.” I finished triumphantly and leaned back, bumping into someone’s knees. “Sorry,” I muttered to the man behind me.
“In each of those cases, Ms. Graysin, Blakely was revealing something negative about another individual; maybe you’re right and she felt some obligation to warn them. With the Fremont tale, however, she was confessing to something herself, not outing someone else’s secret, so I don’t see that she’d have the same motivation to discuss it in advance.”
I’d been through it fifty times in my mind and I knew I was right. Frustrated with what I saw as Lissy’s deliberate obtuseness, I started, “Detective-”
“Ssh!” His grandson had come up to bat. I resigned myself and watched as the kid whiffed the first pitch, fouled the second one, and then connected with the third one to send the ball skittering between first and second bases. When he arrived, panting, at first base, he turned to grin at his grandpa, and Lissy gave him a thumbs-up. If I’d thought his pleasure in his grandson’s accomplishment would soften him up, I was in for a disappointment.
“Go away, Ms. Graysin,” Lissy said. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do for your friend, but you have no evidence. Nada. Nothing but a story made up of speculation and wishful thinking.”
“But-” I stopped. “What if I had proof?”
“If you had evidence, we could talk.” His tone made it plain he didn’t think we’d be conversing anytime soon.
Without giving a lot of thought to what I was going to do next, I pointed my Beetle toward Washington, D.C. At this hour on a Friday evening, most of the traffic was crawling out of the city, so I didn’t hit any major traffic jams. As a result, I slid into a curbside parking space a block from Lavinia Fremont’s shop at half past seven. The sun was low on the horizon, still providing plenty of light, but stretching shadows halfway across the street. A Middle Eastern restaurant offered sidewalk tables, and the scent of falafel mingled strangely with exhaust. Diners laughed, and a belly dancer emerged as I made my way toward Lavinia Fremont’s studio.
The door was locked, and a “closed” sign hung in the window. I bit my lip. I’d rushed over here without a real plan, in my usual impulsive way, and now I didn’t know what to do. I stepped back on the sidewalk and craned my neck. A light shone from the windows above the shop; I thought Lavinia lived up there. A taupe-painted door to the left of the shop had a sign above its doorbell that read, PRIVATE RESIDENCE. NO SOLICITATION. I wasn’t a salesperson. I rang the bell.
Nothing happened for several minutes. I was about to give up and go home to formulate a better plan-heck, any plan-when I heard footsteps descending the stairs. “Yes?” Lavinia called from inside the safely closed door.
“It’s Stacy Graysin, Lavinia. May I talk to you for a moment?”
The door eased open a crack, stopped by a chain, and half of Lavinia’s face appeared. She was makeupless, and her severely red hair made a stark contrast with her pale, tissue-frail skin. “Stacy!” She sounded astonished to see that it was really me. “What on earth-”
“I know it’s late, and I shouldn’t bother you at home, but it’s about Corinne. May I come in?”
She hesitated long enough for me to know she considered my appearance on her doorstep an imposition, and then pulled the door wider after removing the chain. “I suppose so.” Her voice was querulous; she sounded a lot like my Nana Graysin did once she decided she was old and decrepit, not like the vibrant Lavinia I was used to.
She wore a gray chenille robe, and I followed her up the stairs, conscious of her one bony, blue-veined ankle bare above a black, moccasin-style slipper, and the hard, too-uniform flesh color of the prosthetic. Her apartment door stood open, light spilling onto the landing, and she gestured for me to precede her inside. I looked around curiously, noting a sofa and love seat covered in pale green velvet, with striped pillows and a patterned rug providing contrast. Framed photos were the only art on the walls. I moved closer to study them, smiling at the 1960s hairdos and fashions of the ballroom dancers. An auburn-haired dancer in an ice blue gown caught my eye. I half turned to Lavinia, who stood watching me. “You?”
She nodded. “Me and Ricky.” I realized with a start that there were no dance photos in her design studio, no photos of her at all. Glancing at the collection on her walls, I also realized that all the displayed pictures predated the attack in London. Suddenly uncomfortable, I backed away. A dining nook beyond the seating area held a round table and four chairs in a warm wood of some kind, and a single bowl of soup and glass of wine sat on the shiny tabletop.