by Liz Marvin
As she wove through the blurry crowd, Betty felt her foot land on something slippery. She felt a tug. Rrrrrrip.
The woman directly to Betty’s right spun around. “My dress!” she exclaimed. This close, Betty realized that she had unwittingly bumped into Mary O’Connor. Not only had she bumped into her, Betty had ripped her ball gown. Yesterday, Mary’s Irish ire had been directed at Miss Knolhart. Today, much to Betty’s displeasure, she was the one in Mary’s crosshairs. “You big oaf,” Mary hissed. “Don’t you have eyes? If my dress is ruined, I’ll sue. This is a Vera Wang gown!”
“I’m so sorry,” Betty rushed to say. “Can I help you sew it up?” she reached out to inspect the tear which, thankfully, didn’t seem too bad.
Mary slapped her hands away. “Don’t you touch it,” she said, glaring. “I saw you talking to Emily yesterday. Did she put you up to this?”
“What? No, of course not!”
Mary scoffed. “Of course not.” She looked down at her dress and sighed. “I’ve got to take care of this before the professional level competition starts.” She glared at Betty before pointedly pushing past her, shoving her aside and nearly knocking her over. “Excuse me,” she said pointedly, before she disappeared into the crowd.
Betty closed her eyes, wishing she could sink into the floor. How could she be so clumsy? She wouldn’t blame Mary if she did decide to sue after all. A Vera Wang gown! That one dress was probably worth more than everything Betty owned, and then some.
Still, at least Mary’s hasty exit had opened up a gap in the crowd. Betty slipped into her spot and was pleased to find she could see the dance floor. Directly to her right was a tall, balding man with a clip board.
The music began, and Betty immediately recognized the strains of a waltz coming from the string quartet. As one, the dancers began to move to the beat. It didn’t take long for Betty to figure out that the man standing next to her was a judge. As the dancers glided across the floor, they made a point to show off their fancier moves just as they passed. The judge made notes on his clip board.
The dance floor was very crowded. Betty had no idea how the dancers managed not to bump into each other. And yet, like skaters at an ice skating rink, they settled into moving in a circular path without seeming to take conscious thought. Within seconds, Betty noticed the slower dancers settling into the middle of the floor, while the more surefooted pairs swept along the judge-strewn edges of the crowd.
Clarise and Wes passed her spot three times. Betty couldn’t help but notice that, while they weren’t among those who sped around and around the ring and showed off for the judges, her friends seemed to be among those who were having the most fun. They were grinning fit to split their faces, and seemed to be successfully ignoring every other couple on the floor. Clarise was radiant in her sunset evening gown, complete with a scarf that had been attached to her silken gloves. The scarf’s fluidity emphasized the rigid stillness of Clarise’s upper body as she kept eye contact with Wes and maintained good posture through the whirls and twirls of the dance. Wes didn’t have very fancy attire, but the wide grin on his face as they danced more than made up for the lack of a designer label. As Betty watched the other dancers, she noticed their smiles lapse into frowns as they trod on each other’s feet or swerved to avoid other couples. One sweet elderly couple dressed in matching pants suits just stood in the middle of the floor and did a side to side motion. Other couples danced aggressively, cutting off other competitors in their dash for the prize. Only Wes and Clarise seemed oblivious to it all.
I’m so proud of them! Betty thought. They came here to dance, and that’s exactly what they’re doing. Theft and intrigue and all, they’re still dancing their little hearts out.
“They’re wonderful,” a voice murmured in her ear. Grace Nell stood beside Betty in a green backless dress with silver spangles. She leaned heavily on her cane, which was sporting a silver and green bow to match the dress. Grace noticed where her eyes landed. “Even a cripple is allowed to accessorize,” she said with a tinge of bitterness lacing her voice.
Betty’s eyes jerked away from the cane and she felt a blush flood her cheeks. How could she be so insensitive? Her eyes flicked unwittingly to Grace’s bad leg, concealed under her outfit. “I’m sorry,” she said, stumbling over her words. “I didn’t mean—”
Grace flapped her hand, all tension cleared from her expression as if it had never been there. “Of course you didn’t. I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t be so sensitive. Especially not when I dress it up in a shiny bow! It’s just…” she looked out on the dance floor. “I love seeing my students out there dancing. But a part of me wishes I was on the floor…” she shook her head, as if to clear it. “Oh, this is silly. It’s a beautiful night, and the competition is starting out splendidly!”
“It really is,” Betty agreed, trying not to give away her confusion. Grace seemed nice enough, but Betty didn’t like the way she seemed to switch emotions so rapidly. Someone with that much turmoil lurking beneath the surface… she made a mental note to tell Bill what she’d learned last night about Grace claiming that Miss Knolhart had caused her injury. “And Clarise and Wes are doing so well!”
Grace laughed liltingly. “Better than some of my students, to tell you the truth. Though I still hold out hope on a few of them. All the students have promised to donate half the proceeds to the school if they win. We could really use the money.”
Betty eyed Grace sharply. “Why’s that?” she asked, forcing herself to keep her voice light.
“Oh,” Grace said absently, watching the dancers, “you know how the economy is. And the arts are always the first thing to go, aren’t they? Fifty thousand dollars would go a long way towards rent and new equipment.”
Hmmm… Betty wondered. And how much further would ne hundred thousand dollars go? Even if the thief had thrown away the cash, the loving cup was sure to fetch a pretty penny if they could find a buyer.
“Ah well,” Grace said. “If my students win it would be wonderful, but I’m not counting on it. And if the school goes under, I’ve already told some of them that I’d hold private lessons in my home. Besides, my school isn’t the only one in trouble. And my future is in better shape than most teachers.” She pointed out a couple of pairs in the crowd. Unfortunately, they were all too far away for Betty to see clearly. “See that couple?” Grace asked. “And that one? I’ve been teaching them for almost a decade. They’ve promised to follow me wherever I go.” She turned to Betty, a soft smile on her face. “With students like them, I’ll never lack for home and hearth. And that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”
Betty agreed, but kept her eyes on the dance floor so that Grace wouldn’t see her confusion. It took her a moment of watching the dancers glide by to figure out what was bothering her. Grace was like candied violets: far too sweet to be real. Betty glanced quickly at the cane again, remembering the flash of bitterness in Grace’s tone.
Yes, she thought. I really do have to speak to Bill about Grace Nell.
The string quartet drew the waltz to a close with a flourish, freezing the dancers in place. The musicians stood and bowed, each holding a bow crossed over one shoulder like a beloved musket. The audience clapped first for them, and then for the dancers that had begun to filter into the crowd.
“Betty, did you see us?” Clarise exclaimed as she rushed forward, dragging Wes by the hand. If Wes hadn’t been smiling, Betty would have felt a moment of pity. He was looking rather like a small dog yanked along by a leash. His shoulder was in immediate peril of being disconnected. “Were we good?” Clarise continued in a rush. She stumbled forward, tripping on her heels.
Betty reached out to steady her friend. “You were fantastic,” she assured Clarise. She looked to Grace to confirm her opinion, knowing that compliments were always more believable when coming form a complete stranger. But Grace had disappeared into the crowd. Probably to go talk to her students, Betty realized. “Did you have fun?” she asked.
Wes ran his hand through his hair. “Well,” he said, pulling Clarise close to his side. “It wasn’t terrible, that’s for sure.”
Clarise smacked him on the shoulder. “Wesley Bundy, I saw you having fun. And don’t you deny it!”
Wes held his hands up in surrender. “Never!” he promised.
Wes wanted to eat before going back on duty, so they made their way over to the refreshment table. On the way, they passed the chef. He was standing with his back up against a wall, scribbling on a notepad and muttering. Betty could only make out every other word.
“Smooth… elegant… impossible… refined beef!”
Clarise met Betty’s eyes before jerking her head at the chef and twirling her finger by her ear in the sign for someone who had completely lost their marbles.
“Oh, give him a break,” Betty muttered. She gestured at the crowd around them. “Can you imagine how many picky eaters are in this place? I’d go insane trying to cook for them all too!”
Wes thumped his stomach. “Well, I’m not a picky eater. Just give me good home cooking, and we’ll be all set! I’m starved!”
When they reached the buffet table, Betty’s jaw dropped. This wasn’t a “light brunch” as the pamphlet had suggested. It was a feast worthy of presentation by singing candlesticks and dishes performing ballet. No matter how many picky eaters were at the competition, if anyone walked away from the meal hungry it was no fault of the chef. There was everything from ham and eggs benedict, to an egg white omelet station, pancakes, crepes, sausages… she couldn’t begin to list everything on one table, and there were three!
Betty went about loading her plate with gusto. It wasn’t often that a communal meal offered a variety of diabetes-friendly options, but she had no problem finding selections low in carbs and sugar here. They even had sugar-free syrup!
Betty was in heaven.
They found a table with three free seats and sat down to eat. The meal only lasted a few minutes before Clarise cried out in dismay.
“My dress!” She dunked a napkin in her ice water and dabbed frantically at a spot just below her neckline.
Betty made out a splotch of red marring the yellow part of Clarise’s gown.
Ah. It was that immortal enemy of white outfits and fancy clothes everywhere. The diabolical stain causer. The tasty menace.
Ketchup.
“I’ve got to go take care of this,” Clarise moaned. “I’m wearing this dress for the next round as well. Will you be okay Betty?”
“Of course,” Betty said. “Go take care of it. I’ll be here.”
“I won’t,” Wes said. “I’ve got to head back to the investigation. We were closing in on a suspect when I left, and I want to be there for the arrest.” He put his napkin down next to his plate. “I’ll walk you up to your room,” he said, helping Clarise out of her chair.
At the way Clarise’s eyes sparkled, Betty revised her opinion of the dastardly condiment. Ketchup, she decided, had just wanted to play match maker.
Well, she wasn’t going to complain.
“Let me know what happens with the investigation,” she said, waving her friends off. They were so wrapped up in each other that Betty strongly suspected they didn’t even notice.
She went back to her meal, savoring each bite.
As much as she hated to admit it, this chef did a much better job of making diabetes-friendly food delicious than her family’s diner. And she was a longtime diner food fanatic, so that was a real compliment.
Well, if ever there was an opportunity to listen in on conversations, this was it. There was no one else at her table, so Betty could listen in on the conversations around her without feeling guilty for ignoring her companions. For some reason, folks assumed that someone who was eating wasn’t also capable of listening. With luck, she’d find something to report back to Bill.
She excused herself to the manners mistress she’d taken lessons from in grade school. Eavesdropping might be rude, but someone was framing her for grand theft. Necessity dictated that rudeness was allowed if it prevented her from having to wear a bright orange jump suit.
Neon didn’t go well with her hair.
So, Betty forced herself to chew slowly and pay more attention to her surroundings than her palette.
In the cacophony, it was difficult to focus on one conversation. All she got were snippets.
“Her dress was hideous…”
“It was so much fun! I can’t wait for the next round.”
“They called that a waltz? I’ve seen bears with more grace!”
“Is this seat taken?” Someone tapped her shoulder. Betty jumped and looked up, to see that a few of the seats on the other side of the table had already been taken by a pair of gentleman. Earnest Foone, Miss Knolhart’s latest catch and the producer who was planning a television series based on her life, was looking down at her. “Is this seat taken?” he repeated, gesturing to the seat next to Betty. Harry, Miss Knolhart’s ex-husband, was seated right across from her, and he didn’t seem at all perturbed about the thought of Earnest joining their party.
So much for paying attention to her surroundings, Betty thought. She gave herself a mental smack. So she’d solved one murder. That didn’t make her a detective.
“No, it’s not. Go right ahead.”
“Thank you.” Earnest pulled out the chair and sat, placing his glass of white wine on the table in front of him. He turned to Harry.
“So Harry,” he said, clearly continuing a conversation they had started before. Betty focused on her eggs. “Who do you think for this year?”
“I’ll put five on Lisa Redd and her partner to win the amateur.”
Earnest scoffed. “You’re a fool. Her partner has no coordination.”
“What can I say?” shrugged Harry. Betty noticed that, despite his indifference, a slight sheen of sweat had appeared on Harry’s forehead. “I like long odds. And besides, have you seen the way she flirts with the judges when she passes? There’s no way they even notice she has a partner, much less that he has two left feet. She’ll win for both of them, on her own merits alone.”
Earnest chuckled. “Touché,” he answered.
Was this how men who had histories with the same woman were supposed to interact? Where was the drama? The macho posturing? This sounded like a little friendly betting between friends. Five dollars was the cost of a scratch ticket! At least someone in this competition wasn’t seeing everything as life or death.
“But I still think you’re wrong,” Earnest continued. “I’ll bet you five that Lisa doesn’t even place.”
“Done. Here,” Harry said, sliding a roll of bills across the table to another man with a notebook. “Count it and hold it.”
The man counted out the bills. Betty almost choked. They were all hundreds.
“Five grand even,” the man said, sliding the bills into his pocket.
Betty gave up her pretense of not paying attention in favor of ogling the men around her.
“You bet five thousand dollars?” she blurted out. “Just like that?”
Harry laughed. “Oh love, that’s not anything. Pocket change. The real betting starts when the pro competitors start dancing.”
Betty’s eyes were so wide that she wondered they weren’t popping entirely out of her head. “You call that pocket change?” she choked out. That was what she made in two months, and these men called it pocket change?
“Yes,” Earnest said, so simply and directly that Betty couldn’t help but completely believe that he spoke nothing but the truth.
Harry winked at her. “You want in?”
Betty pushed away from the table, taking her now empty plate with her. “No,” she said. “Not at all.”
Suddenly, Betty needed a break. All the glitter and dancing and fairy tale feasts were just too much. The real world seemed to be fading away, and Betty wanted the touch of reality again. Did people really live in this gilded spider’s web?
She pushed through the crowd
and out to the front hall, where she collapsed in a large arm chair by the window and watched the blizzard outside rage. The swirling snow was oddly calming, despite knowing that it was the reason for her internet woes. She knew that if she walked outside a shock of cold would greet her. The snow looked beautiful, but it was real and the dangers it held were simple and direct.
Go outside in a blizzard and freeze. It was as simple as that. There was no intrigue, no hidden theft plots, and no high-rolling betters throwing away more money than should be legal. Just water frozen around specks of dust falling from clouds to the ground, where they’re blown about by good, clean wind.
Simple.
Betty stared at the snow until her vision was obscured by Clarise, her sunset dress completely spot-free.
Clarise’s skills with clothing never ceased to amaze Betty. If that ketchup had fallen on her dress Betty would’ve had to send it to the dry cleaner’s before she could wear it again.
Clarise took Betty’s hands and pulled her up out of the chair. “Come see,” she said, “they found the person who did it. They’re going to make an arrest right now!”
CHAPTER 13
Betty was half way across the front hall before Clarise’s words had sunk in.
“Wait,” she said, tugging Clarise’s hands to make her stop. “What happened?”
Clarise drew Betty over to a wall and whispered excitedly, “They found the thief! Bill and Wes are going to make the arrest now. Wes said we could watch. Come on!”
“Are you insane?” Betty hissed, yanking her hand out of Clarise’s. “Why would I want to watch them arrest somebody?”
Clarise looked at her incredulously. “This is the jerk that tried to frame you! Don’t you want to see him caught?”
Betty shook her head. “No,” she said. “Not really. You go if you want.”
Which was when Wes came up to the two of them. He wrapped his arms around Clarise’s waist from behind, leaning his chin on top of her shoulder. Betty noticed that his eyes were glassy.
