Free Dead Man Waltzing by Ella Barrick Page A

interview. It must be a thousand times worse to actually spend the night in jail.
    “That very competent young lady you sent got me released on bail first thing this morning. Then she and her father—he seems like a force to be reckoned with—grilled me more intensely than the police.” A faint smile showed he appreciated their thoroughness. “I’m meeting with them again Friday evening, after they’ve had a chance to check on a few things. Will you come with me?”
    “Of course,” I said, dragging him into the hall. “Have you had breakfast?”
    “Food would be appreciated,” he said.
    Tav walked in from the kitchen and Maurice’s white brows soared as he looked from me to Tav. “We just called Corinne Blakely’s literary agent,” I said.
    Tav shook hands with Maurice. “I am glad the police released you,” he said. “I would like to talk more, but I have an appointment I cannot miss. Please be assured that I will do whatever I can to help prove your innocence. Although Stacy has a head start on that task.” With a grin, he left, saying he’d catch up with us later in the day, and reminding me about the bridal fair that started tomorrow.
    Dragging Maurice into the kitchen, I started putting together some French toast while I told him about looking for the manuscript, talking to Mrs. Laughlin, avoiding Marco Ingelido, and tracking down Angela Rush. As the egg-soaked bread sizzled on the griddle, Maurice poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table. “You’re amazing, Anastasia,” he said. “I can’t believe you searched Rinny’s house last night alone.”
    I shrugged. “What are friends for? I’m only sorry I didn’t get anything useful.”
    “Maybe you did,” he said. “Didn’t you say she had an electric typewriter?”
    “Yes, a Smith Corona. So?”
    “So, you wouldn’t realize this, probably never having operated anything as antiquated as a typewriter, but those typewriters had cartridges that snapped into the machine to provide ink. The keys struck the tape and transferred letters to the paper.”
    My interest in typewriter mechanics was limited at best. I put a plate of French toast in front of Maurice and set a syrup bottle beside him. “So?”
    “So, the keys leave an impression on the ribbon. The last . . . I don’t know—twenty? fifty?—pages Corinne wrote will be on the cartridge.”
    “We could reconstruct her most recent outlines,” I said, finally catching on. “But how do we get the typewriter? Turner’s probably back from his stag party by now.”
    “I’ll think of something,” Maurice said. He ate breakfast with appreciative murmurs and looked at his watch. “Don’t you have the Ballroom Aerobics class to teach?”
    My gaze flew to the clock over the stove. Ten to eleven. “See you later,” I said, racing toward the stairs and taking them two at a time up to the studio.

Chapter 10
    Students were already starting to trickle in, and I greeted them as they lined up in the ballroom. The hour flew by and I felt invigorated by the exercise. The tension of the last couple days drained out of me as I led the class.
    Vitaly came in as the students left and immediately asked about Maurice. “Has he breaked out of the jails?”
    “They let him go, yes.”
    “Vitaly is glad. I will helping prove his innocence.” He thrust his chin up, looking like a gladiator about to enter the arena.
    “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that, Vitaly,” I said. “Tav said he’d help, too, so between us we ought to be able to come up with something .” I told him about Marco Ingelido breaking into the mansion, sure that Vitaly had come across Ingelido at some point during his career.
    Vitaly wrinkled his nose and sniffed. “Ingelido is asking me if I want to own a Taking the Lead with Ingelido studio. I laugh in his face.”
    “Tactful.”
    “His methods is a joke . . . is only fitting for the sociable dancers, not for competing.”
    “Well,” I said,