Page 98 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

"A Russian composer."

"A mad Russian, more like."

"I believe he wrote that particular piece for his second wife," she informed him.

"That satanic sounding piece? He must have been married to a devil of a woman."

"That makes two of us," Cecil announced as he strode up behind Dash.

"Evening, Cecil." Dash greeted him with a handshake.

"Sneaking around behind my back again, I see," the old man said with a grin.

"What can I say? The man is drop-dead gorgeous and he brings me flowers and barbecue," Miranda cooed.

"I'd be careful." He gave Dash the once-over, then shook his head. "Man like him shows up out of the blue like this? With blooms and brisket? He wants something."

"Well, there's a rumor going around that our Mr. Benning here wants to learn to play the piano. I gave him a taste, but don’t think that particular piece was to his liking." Miranda began to play another, a soft song by Burt Bacharach. "He expressed a deep need to explore the unexplored and embrace his artistic side."

"Sounds like horseshit to me." Cecil slapped Dash on the back.

Dash grinned. "Really, it's just an excuse to tickle your wife's ivories."

"Saves me from having to tickle them." Cecil laughed as he turned and shuffled back out of the room. "Don't smuggle her anymore cigarettes, Dash. I know exactly how many are left in the pack," he called from the hall.

Dash turned back to Miranda. "He's savage.”

"But he loves me," she said with a sigh.

"He'd be crazy not to."

Dash took a seat and listened to Miranda play for several minutes. She definitely had the talent to make a career out of music. He gave thanks that she'd found her way back to the piano at all. For a few years following their son’s death, music didn't exist in their grand River Oaks home.

"So, what'll it be? Mozart? Brahms? Rachmaninoff?" she questioned.

"I was thinking more along the lines of Hank Williams," Dash answered, a degree of sadness in his voice.

"Thinking of touring the Texas beer joint circuit? Or looking for an excuse to get drunk?" Without missing a beat, she switched gears, banging out her own rendition of “Your Cheatin' Heart”.

"I don't know, Miranda. Neither. Both."

She stopped playing and pushed the bench back from the piano. She crossed the room and knelt beside him, patting his knee with motherly affection. "Come with me."

Her hand in the crook of his arm, they walked down the hall to Cecil’s favorite room, the Billiards Room, which housed his pride and joy: a collection of medieval weaponry to rival the elite museums of the world. Everything from swords to chainmail to helmets, floor to ceiling—hardly an inch of bare wall space remained. Miranda loathed every piece and banished them all to this one room. She hardly set foot in the space, but always made a concession for Dash, knowing how much he loved to play pool.

"Shall I rack?" she asked, stroking the dark green felt surface of the pool table.

"I'll rack. You break," Dash responded.

"You always want me to break."

"That's because you're terrible at it and it gives me an advantage."

They chatted for a couple of minutes, engaging in what Dash called their conversational pas de deux—a dialogue dance he'd never shared with another woman, not even his own mother. They would skirt the real issue for a bit, making knowing quips and comments until one would address the heart of the matter with certain frankness.

"So, what's her name?" Miranda fired the first shot.

"Which one?" Dash asked, lining up to sink a ball.