2 Dancing With Death

by Liz Marvin

  Betty started to comment, but was quickly shut down as Bill continued. “No,” he said, “Don’t say anything. Go ahead and snoop. Let me know anything you find. I’ll keep my source private from Officer Jerk. Just,” his voice became stern. “Don’t put yourself in unsafe situations. License to snoop doesn’t mean you have permission to wind up strangled in a freezer somewhere. Clear?”

  Betty agreed. A thrill of adrenaline ran through her at the thought of investigating a murder, and she wasn’t sure if it came more from excitement or fear.

  Betty Crawford, private eye, she thought, the theme song of a spy movie running through her head.

  This should be interesting.

  CHAPTER 17

  Back at the dance competition, Betty realized that she was feeling a little light headed. She needed to eat now, or she’d risk having an extreme blood sugar low. Neither was a good idea with her diabetes, especially if she wanted to avoid having her eyes change much more.

  She walked over to the buffet, and noticed that the celebrity chef was serving a single dish to anyone who wanted it. A small crowd had gathered around his table. Given that the entire meal was a self-serve buffet, the situation struck Betty as a little odd. So, it was to that table that Betty brought her plate first, grabbing a carrot stick to munch on along the way. She got in line, waiting to see whatever delicacy the chef was dishing up.

  When she was just a few feet from the table, Betty noticed a sign proclaiming “Waltzing Beef: a brand new dish, inspired by the classic ballroom dance!”

  Betty immediately imagined a pair of cows waltzing. She laughed aloud once, earning an odd look from the woman directly in front of her. The snippets of musing that Betty had overheard earlier suddenly made sense, as did having a celebrity chef at the dance competition. The sign continued to explain that the Chef would unveil a tasty new dish each meal, named for the dance that inspired it.

  Betty accepted her piece of beef with a grin. What would a waltz taste like?

  When she took her first bite, Betty had her answer. The beef was sliced thinly, and cooked so tender that it practically melted in her mouth. A light, smooth gravy covered it, bringing out hidden flavors and nuances of herbs. A garnish of caramelized onions added a touch of sweet.

  Sweet, smooth, tender waltzing beef. Delicious.

  Betty finished her meal, watching the crowd bustle around the room. It seemed that she’d missed another round of dancing, this one a tango round for the professionals. The ballroom was abuzz with people commenting on the dancers. The couple behind her was talking about the intricacies of the dance. Betty had no idea that the tilt of the woman’s head was such an important part of the dance. She’d have enough trouble figuring out where her feet were going, let alone her neck!

  As she left, Betty checked the schedule. There was a professional level round in a couple hours. She made a mental note to come back for it. If the comments on the tango were anything to go by, then she was in for a treat. The professional rounds sounded amazing!

  After her meal, Betty decided to head up to her room to check on the wireless. If the storm had stopped enough to allow a helicopter through, the internet might be working again.

  As she walked through the lobby, Betty was distracted from her course by the sounds of a loud argument.

  CHAPTER 18

  “What do you mean I can’t leave?” A woman shrieked. She was in her late fifties, tall, thin and wearing what Betty hoped was a faux fur coat. She stood in the entrance hall near one of the doors, looking down her long, pointy nose at George. “Let me pass! My chauffeur will be arriving any moment.”

  George looked… well, harried. His hair was mussed, as though he’d been pulling on it, and there were shadows under his eyes. Even his moustache seemed to droop.

  “I assure you Mrs. Finklesworth,” George said tiredly. “your chauffer will not be arriving any time soon. The roads are closed.”

  “Nonsense!” she exclaimed. “I told him to be here at 3 P.M. sharp, and he will be here or be fired! Now let me pass!”

  “I can’t do that madam,” George said. “Even if your chauffeur were to arrive, no one is to leave the hotel until the police have had a chance to further their investigation.”

  “Well, I never!” the woman exclaimed. “Let me speak to your superior, at once! I won’t be treated like a common criminal. I’ll have you know I’m the niece of a baron!”

  At that, Betty had had enough. She couldn’t stand by any longer and watch this horrid woman crucify George. And she hadn’t been an actress in drama for eight years for no reason! Betty squared her shoulders and stalked over to the pair.

  “Mrs. Finklesworth, thank goodness!” she exclaimed, stretching out her arm and taking the older woman’s hands in hers. “I’m so glad to have caught you. I have the most dreadful news.”

  Mrs. Finklesworth jerked her hands away and looked down her nose at Betty. “And you are?” she asked.

  “A friend,” Betty said firmly. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “It’s a good thing you haven’t left.”

  Mrs. Finklesworth let Betty draw her over to one of the love seats. As she looked down to arrange her skirts, Betty turned to wink at George. Then she made a shooing motion with her hands. She turned her attention back to Mrs. Finklesworth before she could see his reaction.

  “It’s about your coat,” whispered Betty, thinking fast. She tried not to gag on the scent of the noxious perfume radiating from the older woman beside her, keeping the expression on her face to one of earnest concern. “There’s a rally of extreme animal rights activists at the base of the mountain.” She silently pledged to send a donation to the ASCPA as an apology for her lies. “They’re stopping every car and burning any fur clothing they find.”

  “No!” gasped Mrs. Finklesworth, a hand coming up to her chest as though to ward off hyperventilation.

  Betty nodded. “It’s true.” She faked an admiring glance at the woman’s fur coat, firmly placing the idea of skinned foxes out of her mind. “The police aren’t saying anything yet, they’re just letting people know the roads are closed. But you really ought to be careful about your coat.”

  Mrs. Finklesworth reached out, placing her hand on Betty’s knee. Betty forced herself not to cringe away in disgust as the reek of Mrs. Finklesworth’s breath joined the perfume. “Oh my dear, you’re an angel. I must call Maurice straight away! He can’t bring my car through that. I have fur interior! And he was bringing my other winter coat.” She stood, brushing her clothes into place. “If he gets my car ruined, I’ll fire him!” she exclaimed, before rushing off towards the elevators.

  Betty watched her go, dumbfounded. She couldn’t believe that had worked! As soon as the elevator door closed and Mrs. Finklesworth was on her way up to her room, Betty started to laugh. She couldn’t help it.

  George appeared in front of her. “Miss Crawford,” he said in a shocked voice. “What did you say to her?”

  Betty repeated the conversation for his benefit, and was pleased to see some of the stress lines leave George’s face as he laughed.

  “She deserved it,” he said after he’d calmed down. “Pardon my saying so, but that woman is a witch.”

  “Of course she is,” Betty said. She looked at George sympathetically, patting the loveseat next to her. “And I bet she’s not the only one you’ve had to deal with today. Here, why don’t you sit? I’ll go get you a cup of coffee.”

  “Oh no,” George said. “I couldn’t.”

  Betty fixed him with “the look,” the one that parents the world over use on misbehaving children. “You can, and you will,” she said. “Surely you’re due a ten minute break?”

  George looked around at the hall. It was filled with guests milling about, but no one seemed in immediate crisis.

  “Sit,” Betty repeated. George sat, sinking into the plush red and gold brocade cushions with a sigh. He took off his brass name tag and stuck it in a pocket. “I’ll be right back,” Betty said.

&nb
sp; She wound her way through the crowd until she reached the beverage table in the ballroom. Sure enough, they had coffee. She poured a cup and grabbed a few packets of creamer and sugar, just in case.

  When she arrived back at the love seat George was leaning against the cushions, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed ever so slightly, as though he had to concentrate on willing himself to relax. Given the state of the hotel, Betty didn’t blame him if that was the case.

  She was almost sorry to break him from his reverie. Fortunately, she didn’t have to. George’s nose twitched almost comically when she neared with the coffee, and he pulled himself up into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

  “Here,” Betty said, handing him the coffee and setting the creamers and sugars on the wood and marble table in front of the love seat. “I didn’t know what you liked in your coffee,” she said by way of explanation.

  George blew on the coffee to cool it and took a sip before replying, “Black is perfect.” He patted his stomach. “I don’t need any extra sugar.”

  Betty smiled in understanding. She wasn’t going to get in the way of anyone watching their diet! And, while George was far from morbidly obese, his prominent stomach could stand to lose a few inches for health’s sake.

  “But then,”” said George, “you’d know all about that, eh?” He lowered his voice. “Diabetes, right?”

  Betty laughed. “Am I that obvious?” she asked. She flat out refused to be embarrassed that George had guessed her disease. Diabetes wasn’t something to be ashamed of, just something to live with and manage.

  George shrugged. “Only to me,” he said. “It’s my job to notice the little things. And it helps that I know what to look for. I have it myself.” Betty was shocked. Diabetes wasn’t something to be ashamed of, but she didn’t go around proclaiming her disease! For a moment, she envisioned George in a vivid blue “Diabetic and Proud” t-shirt. She shook her head to clear the image, wondering if her blood sugar was spiking after that meal. “To beating our disease,” George intoned solemnly, raising his coffee cup in a toast.

  “Absolutely,” Betty agreed.

  George relaxed back into the cushions with a sigh. “Thank you so much for dealing with the witch woman,” he said. He eyed Betty, his lips quirked. “Any chance you want a job? You’d do wonderfully in the hospitality business.”

  “I’m all set,” Betty said. Somehow, she doubted she’d be able to deal with the Mrs. Finklesworths of the world for an entire shift without losing her temper.

  He gestured to his coffee. “Are you sure? You’re a natural. I’ve never had a guest get me coffee before.”

  Well, what was she supposed to do? She wasn’t heartless! “You looked like you needed a break,” Betty said.

  “I did,” George said. “I don’t know if it’s the weather, or the crimes, or the stress of competing, but the guests are insane today! Why, if I told you half the things I’ve had to deal with…”

  And he proceeded to. At great length. Betty listened, laughing and making disgusted expressions at all the right moments. At first, George was just venting, and Betty let him. From the sound of it, he needed to. But it wasn’t long before the conversation took a more interesting turn, and Betty perked up her gossip-gathering ears.

  Back in Lofton, Betty’s Aunt Laura ran a diner. Betty had spent enough time at that diner, listening to her aunt pump the town’s residents for every bit of information that they had, that she had a good handle on how to steer George towards the juicy bits without seeming intrusive.

  All she had to do was smile, look sympathetic, and ask the occasional open-ended question. She didn’t even have to pretend to look sympathetic! She genuinely felt bad for George.

  “It sounds like you’ve had quite a lot of difficult guests recently.”

  Aunt Laura would be proud.

  George snorted. “Very true. Although, I don’t know why I’m surprised. I’ve met them all before.”

  “Oh really?” Betty asked. “Who’s been here before?” Perhaps there’d be a clue in his answer. Whoever had committed the crimes must have scoped out the area first. They’d have been guests before.

  George frowned in thought. “I think everyone but you and your friends.” When he saw her surprised expression, he rushed to add, “They’ve all been here for dance competitions before. We’re one of the most popular resorts in the state for this sort of thing. And everyone in the hotel is here for the competition.”

  That was unfortunate, Betty thought. One potential clue, useless!

  George lowered his vice conspiratorially, leaning close enough to Betty that she could smell the coffee on his breath. “I’ll tell you a secret Miss Crawford. When I saw the guest list for this week, I almost took a vacation.”

  Betty laughed. “You should’ve done it.”

  George shook his head. “I couldn’t do that to my staff. You don’t know how fast the place would fall apart. And they certainly don’t know how to be discrete. With some of the guests here this weekend, if I wasn’t here to keep an eye on everything there could’ve been a major incident, and I don’t mean of the criminal kind. I mean soap opera drama.”

  “Like what?” Betty asked. She tried not to seem too eager, forcing herself to stay relaxed and comfortable.

  George looked around to make sure no one could listen in. Unfortunately, the crowd in the lobby had only thickened in the few minutes they had been sitting. One of the staff members at the desk was looking in their direction, a frown on her face. Betty thought it was the same receptionist who had been so rude that morning.

  George stood, taking his nearly empty coffee cup with him. “Come with me,” he murmured.

  Betty followed George through the crowd and down a maze of hallways.

  Vaguely, she wondered if this was the brightest idea. Hadn’t the state police detective mentioned that no one should go anywhere in groups of less than three? And here she was, casually strolling through the inner workings of the hotel, getting hopelessly lost, and with only one other person. She just knew this had been a bad idea. Her eyes darted around the hallway, noting the way the hangings and paintings in this part of the hotel had gathered dust. A few were even hanging crooked, the lights were dim, and Betty thought the wallpaper might be peeling in the corners.

  Apparently, the hotel management didn’t worry overmuch about appearances for their employees. Either that, or George was drawing her into a trap for being too nosy.

  George took some keys out of his pocket and started to unlock a door. No key card here. The jangle of metal bits echoed. He ushered her into a office, looking both ways up and down the hall before shutting the door behind them.

  George’s office, or at least what she presumed was George’s office, was tiny. The entire room was probably the size of Betty’s bathroom in her suite, with just enough room for a desk, two chairs, a tall thin bookcase, and a filing cabinet. The furniture was mismatched, in various stages of dilapidation or repair. It was clear that George had received the hotel’s castoffs for his office, but Betty couldn’t detect any hint that he felt the office was inadequate. In fact, George had settled into his swiveling desk chair with a happy sigh, leaning backwards with his hands clasped behind his head.

  “I know it’s not the fanciest,” he said, clearly understanding her hesitation to comment. “But it’s private. Do you know how nice it is to be able to shut the door on everyone?”

  Ah. Yes, Betty did know. She’d done enough stints in retail in college to understand exactly how wonderful being able to find a quiet corner away from the nagging, squabbling and sometimes smelly customers could be. It was obvious by its size that only George had access to this room. Now that she’d grown accustomed to its relative shabbiness, at least in the midst of the opulence of the hotel, she could see that he’d made plenty of personal touches. Framed photos were scattered about the desk and bookshelves, and posters of various paintings, from Monet and Dali to Jackson Pollack, adorned the walls. A small CD p
layer sat on top of the filing cabinet, and bobble head figurines of cats waved from the monitor of his desktop computer.

  Betty took one of the chairs in front of the desk and discovered that it was surprisingly comfortable. It had just the right amount of padding and back support. “Why did you want me to come here?” she asked.

  George leaned forward on the desk. “This stays between the two of us?” he asked.

  “Of course!” Betty said. You, me, and Bill, she added silently. If the information was anything that might help with the case, she wasn’t going to hold out on telling him everything. But George didn’t need to know that.

  “Oh good!” he said. “Because I’ve been wanting to pop with this bit of gossip for months! And,” he said, swallowing down the last of his coffee, “I get the feeling I can trust you to not go gabbing about.”

  Betty resisted drumming her fingers with impatience. This was torture! Why wouldn’t he just come out and say it? Was he trying to drive her to being criminally insane?

  “You know Mr. Foone?” George asked breathlessly. Betty answered in the affirmative. Of course she knew Earnest Foone! He was Miss Knolhart’s latest catch, the television producer. He was also one of the men she’d seen betting the other night. At her response, George practically exploded with the news. “He and Miss Knolhart’s assistant were having an affair!”

  “Are you serious?” Betty asked. An affair! That was motive for murder if she ever heard one.

  “Of course I’m sure,” George stated, his tone suggesting that to imply anything other than his complete reliability in this matter was a terrible insult. “I know my guests! They used to come here on weekends without competitions. I still have their orders for room service around here somewhere. And let me tell you, no one orders champagne and chocolate covered strawberries for breakfast if they haven’t gotten lucky. Not to mention,” he continued smugly, “that I caught them at it in an empty conference room just a few days ago.”