Dead Man Dancing

by Marcia Talley

  ‘I don’t think the attack on me was just a simple mugging.’

  ‘You don’t? Is that what the police told you?’

  ‘No. They’re still working on the theory that the punk followed me from Mother Earth, thinking I’d be taking the receipts to the BB&T night deposit like I normally do. When I went straight to J & K, they believe he followed me and waited until I got out of the car before he pounced.’

  The police’s theory sounded plausible to me. ‘What makes you think the police are wrong?’

  Ruth adjusted a knitted afghan over her knees. ‘Remember what Tanya Harding did to Nancy Kerrigan?’

  ‘Vaguely. Wasn’t Harding the Olympic ice skater who hired a hit man to kneecap her rival?’

  ‘Uh huh. Then there was that Texas cheerleader-murdering mom, Wanda somebody-or-other, who asked her brother-in-law to hire a hit man to murder the mother of her daughter’s cheerleading rival.’

  ‘Ruth, surely you’re not suggesting . . .’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting, Hannah. Somebody didn’t want me to audition for Shall We Dance? and that someone made damn certain of it.’

  My sister had always been spacey in a superannuated flower child sort of way, but this cockamamie idea was a bit far out, even for her. Right-wing nuts went in for conspiracy theories, not citizens of the Woodstock Nation. Or so I always thought.

  ‘Since when did you start believing in conspiracy theories, Ruth? The next thing I know, you’ll be telling me that NASA faked the moon landing, Bill Gates designed Wingding fonts to deliver subversive messages, and that Paul McCartney is really dead.’

  Ruth flapped a hand. ‘Hear me out, Hannah. Jay may think I’m stupid, but I can see right through that smarmy veneer. He never thought I was a good dancer. Never. You know what he had us doing, Hutch and me?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘It’s called a showcase move. You teach a beginner – that would be me – some simple steps, and then the expert – that would be Hutch – dances fancy all around me.’

  If that was a problem, I simply wasn’t getting it. ‘So, what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing, per se. But did you notice how quick Jay was to cut me off last night when I started to tell Melanie about our routine.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, he did, and that’s because it’s a shit routine, Hannah. It’s not going to impress anyone except my nearest and dearest – that would be you. It’s certainly not going to impress any judges!’

  ‘Ruth . . .’

  ‘So when Melanie suddenly became free . . .’ Ruth’s voice trailed off.

  Before she could launch another sentence, I made a time-out sign with my hands. ‘Whoa! You’re going way too fast for me.’

  ‘Think about it, Hannah. Jay’s been teaching Don and Melanie Fosher for two years, and they’re really, really good. He knows that the Foshers had a good chance of acing the auditions, right?’

  I had to agree with that.

  ‘Hutch and me . . . well, I don’t know what he was thinking about us. Maybe Jay thought I could be brought up to speed, and then – ta-dah – he’d have two couples in the show . . .’

  Ruth swung her legs from the footrest to the floor and reached for her crutches which were propped against a folding tray table. ‘I need a cup of coffee. You?’

  I stepped forward. ‘I’ll get it.’

  Ruth waved me aside with the tip of a crutch. ‘No, my butt will go to sleep if I sit in that chair a minute longer.’ She turned and clumped her way into the kitchen. Since the laundry room was on the way, I picked up the basket and followed close behind.

  When Ruth got to the coffee pot, she turned to face me, resting the aforementioned butt against a kitchen cabinet. ‘With Don suddenly gone, Melanie’s out of the running, and it’s just Hutch and old Twinkle Toes here.’ Ruth used her crutch to tap lightly on her cast.

  ‘So, if I hear you right, you’re suggesting Jay hired somebody to make sure you’d be out of the competition so Melanie could partner with Hutch?’

  Ruth sucked in her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘Or, maybe Melanie hired somebody to do the deed, and then talked Jay into teaming her up with Hutch.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ I’d just met Melanie, but we’d bonded instantly. If she was the type to put out a contract on somebody, well, move over Elizabeth, I’m the Queen of England.

  Ruth’s eyes narrowed. ‘You saw how buddy-buddy Jay and Melanie were last night.’

  I had to admit that I had, but I’d thought the relationship more of a proud teacher/talented protégé kind of thing. ‘Ruth, all you had to do was say no when Jay asked Hutch if he’d partner with Melanie. Hutch would have bowed out in an instant.’

  A fat tear ran down my sister’s cheek. ‘I couldn’t do that to him, Hannah. You should have seen him after everyone left last night. Flying high as a kite, up until the wee hours researching dance costumes on the Internet.’

  ‘Oh, so what’s he wearing?’ I asked, welcoming the opportunity to steer the conversation in a safer direction.

  ‘They’re doing a tango, so he’s been looking at Latin pants with gold stripes, and one of those shirts that’s slashed to the waist.’ She grinned. ‘He’s tentatively picked out a velvet devoré animal print.’ She fanned her face rapidly with her hand. ‘It’s going to be hot, Hannah. I won’t be able to keep my hands off the man.’ She tapped her crutch on the floor, emphasizing every word. ‘And little Miss Marlee Matlin better keep her hands off him, too.’

  ‘Hard to do that when you’re tangoing with somebody,’ I said reasonably. ‘What’s Melanie wearing, then?’

  Ruth shrugged. ‘Dunno. They’ll be meeting with Jay about it on Friday when they start working on the choreography.’

  Ruth finally remembered what she’d come to the kitchen for. She located two clean mugs in the dishwasher, and poured us each a cup of . . . sludge. If Hutch had made the coffee, as I suspected he had, the pot had to have been sitting on the warming plate for at least three hours.

  She took a sip of coffee, grimaced. ‘So, I take it you don’t think much of my theory.’

  ‘Look, Sis, what I think isn’t important. Have you shared your theory with the police?’

  ‘They’ll just think I’m crazy.’

  ‘Think about what you’ve just said.’

  ‘I know, I know, but I just can’t shake the feeling, Hannah. I swear, when the police catch that little creep and shake him down, when it all comes out in the wash, they’ll find that somebody did hire the guy to do this to me.’

  ‘And speaking of wash,’ I said, hoisting the laundry basket, ‘I’d better get this load into the washing machine, or your live-in lover is going to appear in court tomorrow with a ring around the collar.’

  Fourteen

  ‘Thanks for taking charge of Chloe, Mom.’ Emily had turned my granddaughter over to me at J & K for her ballet lesson with every intention of turning around and heading right back out the door. ‘I’m simply frazzled. Except for Christmas itself, I haven’t had a single day without a whole raft of rug rats in the nursery. I swear to God, their mothers were checking in for massages, dropping off their kids, and nipping out the back door to go do their Christmas shopping.’

  ‘When did you get to be such a cynic, my dear? They probably need the massages after fighting tooth-and-nail for parking spaces, then lugging all those packages around the mall.’

  ‘Ahh! Don’t I know it. It’s gotten so I avoid the mall altogether between Thanksgiving and New Years. I did all my shopping on Maryland Avenue and Main Street this year, which, being the great detective that you are, you probably deduced since I picked up those earrings you had Jean set aside for you at Aurora Gallery.’ She grinned. ‘Next year, I think I’ll shop over in Chestertown or Easton,’ she said, naming two delightful small towns on Maryland’s still largely unspoiled eastern shore.

  ‘The only thing I wanted that I didn’t get this year you can’t exactly ask Sa
nta to pop into his sack and haul down the chimney,’ she continued.

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘A full-time nanny.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Or maybe an au pair. The spa’s doing really well, Mother. So well, in fact, that we may be able to pay off our investors next year.’ She rolled her eyes theatrically. ‘Honestly, it will be a huge relief to get that obnoxiously tweedy Mrs Strother off our backs.’

  ‘Ooooh,’ I said. ‘Does that mean your father and I will be rich beyond our wildest dreams?’ Paul and I had invested in Spa Paradiso, too. Five percent. Enough to finance a space the size of your average bathroom.

  Emily grinned. ‘Of course.’ She wrapped her scarf around her neck, and took another step toward the door. ‘I love managing Puddle Ducks, but Dante wants me to be involved in the day-to-day operations of the business, too. He’s got me interviewing candidates for office manager, and we need a secretary.’

  ‘I know what that’s like,’ I chuckled, recalling all the misspellings and unintentional howlers in the résumés I’d reviewed for my son-in-law before the spa opened last year: ‘I was the manger of $2,000,000 in pubic funds.’

  I’d been wrapped up in résumés the day Timmy was kidnapped.

  Don’t go there, Hannah, I was warning myself, when Chloe bounced out of the dressing room, reminding me that all my grandchildren were home, happy and healthy.

  I bent down and kissed the top of Chloe’s golden head. ‘So, how’s my little sugarplum fairy?’

  Chloe pulled away, more important things on her mind. She tugged on her mother’s coat sleeve. ‘Can I have a pair of toe shoes, Mommy?’

  ‘Toe shoes?’ Emily knelt down so she could converse with her daughter eye to eye. ‘You have to be at least ten years old for toe shoes, Chloe.’

  Chloe’s lower lip curled out. ‘Tessa got toe shoes for Christmas.’

  ‘If Tessa jumped off a cliff, would you jump off a cliff, too?’ Emily smiled and patted her daughter’s cheek. ‘We’ll talk about it later. Now, run along to the barre, sweetie, and after your lesson, maybe grandmother will take you to KFC.’ Emily sent a please-don’t-make-a-liar-out-of-me glance in my direction.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said, thinking I could pick up a family bucket and save myself from having to cook dinner. Never mind about the cholesterol.

  ‘Yay! Chicken wings!’ Chloe cheered, toe shoes apparently forgotten, as she skipped over to join her classmates at the barre.

  ‘I swear, Mom, I could just kill Shirley!’ Emily said when Chloe was out of earshot.

  ‘Shirley? Who’s Shirley?’

  ‘Shirley Douglas. Tessa’s mother. She’s a b-i-t-c-h on wheels. Tessa is only a year older than Chloe, but to hear her mother talk, you’d think Tessa’s been dancing en pointe since she emerged, red-faced and squalling, from the womb. Shirley’s always complaining and asking special favors for her little darlin’.’ Emily gestured toward the wall of neatly labeled plastic bins that held the studio’s extensive collection of show costumes and dance accessories such as feathers, fans and boas. ‘Nothing’s ever good enough for that woman. You think Tessa could wear one of the studio’s cowgirl costumes? No way. Shirley had one specially made. When they put on the Annie Get Your Gun review last year, it looked like –’ Emily put both hands to her mouth, like a megaphone – ‘J & K Studios present Annie Oakley and her little dancing hayseeds.’

  ‘It wasn’t that bad,’ I said, having actually seen the show.

  Emily huffed. ‘I know for a fact that Kay can’t stand Shirley, so I don’t know why they put up with her. It’s not like there aren’t other dance studios in Annapolis.’

  ‘What about Tessa’s dad?’

  ‘Link?’ Emily snorted. ‘He’s a wuss. Yes, Shirley, no Shirley, now may I kiss your butt, Shirley. Did you know she hired a specialist to design a dance studio right in their garage?’

  ‘So I heard.’

  Emily’s face softened. ‘I suppose Link’s an OK guy. Just can’t imagine what he sees in Shirley. Then again, he’s a lobbyist in DC, so he probably doesn’t spend enough time at home to get tired of her.’

  ‘I’m trying to remember if I’ve met him.’

  ‘Probably. Five foot nine or ten, impeccably tailored suits, beer gut, receding hairline? He shows up for all Tessa’s recitals, grinning and clapping like all the other proud papas.’

  I had to smile. Emily’s description fit just about every lobbyist I’d ever met on Capitol Hill. But I sympathized with the guy. The commute – one hour each way during the lightest of traffic – could be a killer. The night I got stuck in a snowstorm and ended up sleeping on a sofa at a Holiday Inn in Bowie, stranded there with a bunch of truckers, had been a turning point for me. I had just about decided to quit, when my RIF notice came, taking the decision out of my hands.

  Emily brushed her lips against my cheek. ‘Bye, Mom. And thanks!’

  ‘Not a problem. Chloe’ll have dinner with us? I promise to have her home by bedtime.’

  Emily waggled a finger. ‘No videos, now!’

  I held up three fingers. ‘Girl Scout’s honor.’

  But my other hand stayed behind my back, fingers crossed. I still hadn’t found time to see Ratatouille, after all.

  Waiting for Chloe’s ballet lesson to finish was an exercise in How Many Ways Can Hannah Avoid Talking to Shirley. I went to the restroom, spent a long time washing my hands, combed my hair, checked my teeth for signs that the Crest Whitestrips I’d been using were working – brighter teeth in five days! – but it’d only been three, so there wasn’t much to see.

  I’d run out of things one normally does in a restroom, and was considering fashioning carnations out of Kleenex tissues like I did in junior high, when Laurie drifted in, wearing her usual white and black practice outfit, but carrying a garment on a hanger in a long plastic bag. Suddenly, all I wanted to do was talk to Laurie about her clothes.

  ‘That looks beautiful,’ I said following Laurie into the dressing room side of the dual purpose area.

  Laurie hung the gown on a hook on the wall, carefully spreading out the bottom of the bag where it trailed along the floor. ‘Wait ‘til you see,’ she gushed.

  I watched while Laurie stripped to her underwear – pink, lace-waist hipsters and a matching push-up bra. Under my sweater and jeans I wore Lollipop cotton briefs and a sports bra from Sears. I was glad I didn’t have to change in front of Laurie. Fashion-wise, it’d be embarrassing.

  Laurie unzipped the bag and withdrew a ball gown, a frothy long-sleeved, high-necked peaches and cream confection slathered with Swarovski crystal beads. She stepped into it and raised an arm, ‘Zip please.’ After I obliged, she smoothed out the fabric, swaying from side to side while checking her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘That’s gorgeous,’ I said, admiring her reflection in the mirror, too, twinkling like ten thousand tiny stars. ‘Absolutely stunning.’

  She turned around. ‘And check out the back.’

  ‘What back?’ I asked, laughing. Except for four narrow bands that formed a tentative connection between the neckband and each side of the dress, there was no back. The gown plunged nearly to her, um, tan line.

  ‘May I?’ I reached out to touch the fabric. First I lifted a sleeve, then a bit of the voluminous skirt. ‘How do you dance in this?’ I asked, goggle-eyed. ‘It weighs a ton!’

  ‘You get used to it,’ she said. ‘You should have seen the gown I wore last year for the Yuletide Ball Championships in Washington, DC Fire-engine red, but it weighed ten pounds. I felt like I was dragging a small child around the dance floor with me.’ She beamed. ‘Tom and I got firsts in tango and rumba, though, so who’s complaining?’

  I watched while Laurie carefully stepped out of the gown, returned it to its protective covering and lovingly zipped the bag shut. When she finished, she waggled her fingers at me. ‘I’m trying out a new color. What do you think? She fanned her fingers and held them a little closer to my face. ‘This is calle
d My Chihuahua Bites!’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘No, seriously. OPI has the craziest names for their nail colors. I thought about Los Cabos Coral, but that was too match-y, if you know what I mean.’

  I was familiar with OPI colors. I’d been painting my toes with Twenty Candles on My Cake for a couple of years, although the last time I got a pedicure, I considered a red called I’m Not Really a Waitress simply because the name intrigued me. ‘Well, whatever it’s called, I think it’s perfect with the gown.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Laurie’s cheeks turned the same peachy shade as her gown. ‘Tom thinks so, too.’

  Laurie pulled a tube of lipstick out of her handbag. ‘Revlon Moondrops, Peach Silk,’ she announced, then leaned close to the mirror and began repairing her lips. She mashed her lips together, checked the results, and said, ‘The dress I had specially made. Cost the earth! This –’ she waved the tube and grinned – ‘I buy at the grocery store!’

  Christmas had passed, so I wondered if the Yuletide Ball had, too. ‘Yuletide Ball, you said? Did you and Tom compete again this year?’

  ‘Yuletide’s not until December 28th, but we’re not doing it this year. Decided to wait until the Sweetheart International Ballroom Competition in February when we’ll really be prepared. We’re competing international standard advanced.’ When I looked puzzled, she went on to explain, ‘That’s the gold syllabus.’

  I knew from hanging around J & K for more than a month that ballroom dancing competitions had a series of experience levels – bronze, silver, and gold – each with its own syllabus. When a couple got to the pre-championship level, there was no syllabus; presumably they just danced to their own razzle-dazzle choreography until their feet dropped off. If they did well at the Sweetheart Ball, taking away firsts in gold, Tom and Laurie would be advancing to the pre-championship level the next time they competed.

  ‘Which dances?’ I asked, knowing that there would be a separate charge to compete in each heat, so some couples decided to pick and choose.

  ‘All of them – waltz, foxtrot, tango, quickstep and Viennese. Tom and I are going for broke.’ Laurie chortled in a very unladylike way. ‘Shit, Hannah, by the time it’s all said and done, I’ll bet we’ll have dropped five grand.’