by Sofie Kelly
“Of course you can.” I pulled at the sleeve of his white T-shirt. “And you need to take this shirt off.”
He pointed at himself with one finger. “Nobody wants to see this without a shirt on.”
“People paid good money to see that. All of that,” I said. “Don’t make me take that T-shirt off of you, Harry Taylor.” I gave him my best stern-librarian look. “Mary taught me a few moves. I can do it.”
He took a step backward.
I held up four fingers. “Four minutes,” I said.
A hand touched my shoulder. I turned around to see Marcus standing there. At least he had his shirt on.
“You so owe me for this,” he said.
Silver lamé and sequins had never looked so good. “I can live with that.” I told him. And then I winked.
To me, Zorro belonged to Mike and Mike alone. The show needed something that would celebrate the spirit of the man, but not be a pale imitation of his act. And then I remembered what Mike had called out to the crowd at the concert—C’mon, people, you should be dancin’!—and I knew what to do.
Ella King had made the guys’ outfits with help from Rebecca, and the two of them had used every sequin within a five-mile radius of Mayville Heights. Rebecca had jokingly asked Ella if she could make an extra outfit for Everett—at least I was telling myself she was joking.
Finally Mary walked onstage to introduce the last act. “At our first show our star act was the dashing Zorro and we all miss him very much.” She unveiled a large photo of Mike dancing in his costume. “Mike Bishop’s absence has left a huge hole in this show and in our lives. Anyone who spent even five minutes with the man knew how much he loved music. So we honor his memory and celebrate his life with Mike’s own words: ‘You should be dancin’!’ ”
The throbbing disco percussion of the Bee Gees’ hit began to pound in the background.
The guys came out in their silver disco outfits: tight flared pants, boots with heels, chunky silver neck chains and sequinned shirts open to the navel because there weren’t any buttons above that. Sandra Godfrey had spent two hours with them working on a routine. She’d walked into the library afterward, laid her head on the circulation desk and said, “They’re all hopeless. They have no rhythm, no sense of timing. You know that saying ‘You’ve gotta dance like nobody’s watching’? Well, the whole town will be watching and they can’t dance!”
She was right, but it didn’t matter. All five of them were stiff and awkward at first, but Johnny was the consummate performer. He started to swivel his hips Elvis style, and before I knew it, he was doing a hip bump with Eddie.
Marcus, Brady and Harry were doing their version of disco; at least I thought that was what it was. One hand was on their hips as their other arm pointed sideways à la John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. That was followed by an arm roll and a repeat on the other side. They were even more or less in sync.
I realized that Brady was repeating something over and over. Maybe Sandra had taught them more than she’d thought. I watched his lips. Maybe she hadn’t. Brady was a football fan like his dad. He was saying, “False start, defense, false start, offense.” The movements all lined up. And it didn’t matter that they were more NFL referees than disco stars because the audience loved them.
Sandra moaned and leaned against me. “Someone is going to put this on the Internet and John Travolta is going to sue me,” she said.
I would have answered her but I was laughing too hard. And if a couple of tears got mixed in, that was okay, too. Mike would have loved this, I was certain. Once again, I was watching a show where the crowd went wild and I fervently hoped that wherever or whatever Mike Bishop was in the universe, he, too, was dancing.
acknowledgments
It takes a multitude of people working diligently behind the scenes at the publisher to make my books the best they can be and then help readers find them. Thank you, everyone. Special thanks to my talented editor, Jessica Wade, who always finds all the holes I’ve left in the story. Her skills make every book better. Thank you as well to assistant editor, Miranda Hill, who keeps us all on track.
My agent, Kim Lionetti, is everything a writer could want—advocate, cheerleader and wisewoman. Thanks, Kim!
A big thank-you goes to the real Dr. Michael Bishop, endodontist extraordinaire, and his staff who have always taken excellent care of this very anxious patient. Dr. B. never played the stand-up bass in a church band, wore his hair in a mullet or danced in a burlesque show—at least as far as I know. He is, however, a very good sport.
And last but never least, thank you to Patrick and Lauren who always have my back and my heart.
about the author
Sofie Kelly is a New York Times bestselling author and mixed-media artist who writes the Magical Cats Mysteries and, as Sofie Ryan, writes the Second Chance Cat Mysteries.
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