Drape Expectations

by Karen Rose Smith

  The dance studio was located in a strip shopping center in West York. The front of the studio was plate glass. Photographs of what Caprice supposed were dance recitals decorated that window. Professional shots of two girls, three girls, and up to fifteen girls were the subjects in each photograph. All wore different types of costumes from ballet to hip-hop to jazz.

  As Caprice opened the door to step inside, she found herself in a brightly colored reception area. The chairs were a bright royal blue and the side tables were pink. Pale yellow walls surrounded her. Several women sat in the waiting area perusing magazines. One held an electronic reader, and another was scrolling down her smartphone. The beats of music came from inside a studio and Caprice noted a line of women, probably mothers, watching a dance class through a Plexiglas partition.

  The receptionist at the desk looked up at Caprice and smiled. “Can I help you?”

  Suddenly a flood of little girls came pouring out of the doorway of the closest studio. Caprice wasn’t exactly sure how to go about this, but she did know she wanted to talk to one of the teachers. These facilities usually had a head instructor and an assistant.

  She extended her hand. “I’m Caprice De Luca. I have a concern about one of your students, and I wondered if I could talk to the instructor?”

  The receptionist looked stumped for a moment as if she wasn’t sure what to do.

  Caprice handed her a business card.

  The receptionist said, “Class just let out. Rhonda has about fifteen minutes, where she can catch her breath and down a bottle of water. Come on. I’ll take you to her.”

  Mothers and girls had flowed from the studio and chatter emanated from the reception area. Caprice followed the receptionist into the now-empty studio and waited while the woman introduced her. “Rhonda, this is Caprice De Luca. She says she has a concern about one of the students.” The assistant handed Caprice’s business card to Rhonda.

  The brunette, dressed in a leotard and leggings, with wavy hair arranged in a topknot, looked wary. “I can’t talk to you about the students unless your name is on their card as a parent or an emergency contact.”

  The assistant glanced awkwardly from Caprice to Rhonda and then said, “I have to go back to the desk.”

  Caprice understood the rules at an establishment like this. They were set in place for the safety of the students. So she had to go about this in a way that didn’t threaten anyone.

  “May I show you a photo?” Caprice asked.

  “No harm in that, I suppose,” Rhonda agreed, but she crossed her arms over her chest. Caprice saw it for the defensive gesture that it was.

  Before Caprice showed her the photo, she explained, “I’m looking into a murder, and I need information. Background often helps the police find new leads. I won’t ask for anything you consider confidential.”

  Now Rhonda looked as if she relaxed a bit.

  Pulling the photo from her macramé bag, Caprice handed it to the dance instructor. Although the teacher tried to keep her expression neutral, Caprice saw recognition in her eyes.

  “I understand if you can’t give me a name. But can you tell me if she’s a student of yours? The name of your studio is stamped on the back.”

  “Then you’ve already guessed that she is.”

  “But I don’t know if she’s a student now or was in the past.”

  “This is a murder investigation and you’re with the police?” Rhonda asked, still wary, still protecting her students.

  “I’m not with the police,” Caprice admitted honestly. “I have a friend who I believe is being wrongly suspected and questioned, so I’m trying to get to the bottom of the murder.”

  “You realize I can’t tell you any specifics.”

  “I understand that.”

  After studying the photo and glancing toward the reception area, Rhonda relented. “I can tell you that this photo is a recent one. I can also tell you that this little girl and her mom will be coming in for the next class. You might recognize her among the students. If you do, that’s not on me.”

  “I understand,” Caprice said. “I am legit. You won’t be sorry.”

  “Whose murder are we talking about?” Rhonda wanted to know.

  “Alanna Goodwin in Kismet.”

  Rhonda’s eyes widened. “And you know Ace Richland?” She guessed that was the suspect Caprice was talking about. “What happens in Kismet reaches York, too,” she added. “I heard that community concert was pretty much a fiasco. Someone asked if Ace Richland killed her. Gossip about that travels fast. Do you really know him?”

  “I do. As you can see from my card, I’m a home stager. I staged the house he bought. We’ve become friends since then.”

  “Is he as wild as they say?”

  “He’s not wild anymore, not in the sense you mean. Just as you won’t talk about your students, I won’t talk about my friends.”

  Rhonda looked less cautious and gave a little nod. “If you sit in the reception area, the students will soon start filing in.”

  “And I’ve taken up your break time.”

  “If I down a bottle of water, I’ll be good to go until the next break. I love what I do.”

  Caprice smiled because she understood that. When she was staging a house, she could go all day without eating ... without cooking ... without stopping for a big breath. When you loved what you did, you became engrossed in it.

  After Caprice thanked Rhonda again, she crossed to the reception area and took a seat. Most of them were empty now. Consulting her phone, she checked messages.

  Two and then four and then two more little girls ran into the empty studio, some of the moms following. More children and parents flowed through the door. It wasn’t long before Caprice spotted the child she was looking for. The girl was carrying a duffel bag, and Caprice could see the tag on it. She took out her phone and zoomed in, snapping a quick shot. The girl’s name was Sherry Duncan.

  After a brief exchange between mother and daughter, the mom gave Sherry a hug and a kiss on the forehead. Then Sherry went running off to join the others in the dance studio.

  Before the woman took a seat, Caprice approached her. “Are you Sherry’s mom?”

  The woman looked concerned. “Yes, I am. Are you a new instructor? Is there a change in the schedule?”

  “No, I’m not an instructor. Could we go over here to the corner and talk for a few minutes?”

  The woman gave her a cautious look. There were other moms seated in the reception area now, but she seemed to make a decision and they crossed to a vending machine.

  Caprice took out the photo again. “Are you Ms. Duncan?”

  The mom’s face was stoic. “Why do you want to know?”

  “This is your daughter, correct?” Caprice asked, showing her the photo.

  Finally the little girl’s mom admitted, “It’s Sherry’s performance photo. How did you get it?”

  “It was in Alanna Goodwin’s desk.”

  Ms. Duncan paled considerably, her face almost going white. She asked, “Are you with the police?”

  Caprice wished she could lie, but it just wasn’t in her nature. “No, I’m not. But I’m helping a friend who cared about Alanna and is being questioned in connection with the murder. Can you tell me your connection to Alanna Goodwin?”

  “No, I can’t,” the woman said adamantly.

  “You can’t, or you won’t?”

  “I can’t and I won’t.”

  Caprice took out another business card and handed it to Ms. Duncan. “The detective in charge of the murder investigation doesn’t know about this photo yet. He doesn’t know your connection to Alanna Goodwin. Maybe the photo means something and maybe it doesn’t. But if I don’t hear from you by Monday, I’m going to give this photo and your name to the homicide detective investigating the case.”

  A panicked look entered Ms. Duncan’s eyes. “You have no right to interfere.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But Alanna’s murderer needs to be brought to ju
stice. The only way we can do that is if we have all the facts.”

  She waited, hoping the woman would fill her in on how she knew Alanna. But she didn’t.

  However, she did slip Caprice’s card into her purse. “We’re done here.” Then she hurried to the ladies’ room, which was down the hall across from the studio.

  Caprice would give the woman the weekend. But then she would do what she said she was going to do. She’d pass the photo to Detective Carstead.

  Since the dance studio was located in West York, Caprice decided to stop at one of her nana’s favorite shops. It was one of those gift stores that sold handmade craft items, trinkets, and a little bit of home décor. Caprice shopped there, too, looking for incidentals for stagings. She was happy to find some of Nana’s favorite sachets created with rose petals. Her mom’s birthday was coming up in May and she spotted an embroidered table runner that she knew she’d like. It was easy to spend an hour examining all the nooks and crannies, the mugs and key chains, necklaces and scarves.

  But Caprice had another stop to make as well—an Italian deli nearby, which sold mortadella, prosciutto, salami, and other favorites that seemed more flavorful than the ones she bought at the grocery store. She was almost tempted to buy the wedding cookies in the glass case—macaroons rolled in pine nuts, fragile almond crescents, leaf-shaped chocolate wafers. But she resisted. She bought a frozen container of whipped topping from their refrigerator case, and now she stuffed that, with the meats surrounding it, into a cooler that she kept in her trunk. After zipping it up, she was ready to head back home to her animals and the possibility of solving Alanna’s murder, once Sherry Duncan’s mother called her. If she was any judge of character, she was pretty sure Sherry’s mother would.

  Because this was a high traffic time, Caprice decided to take back roads to Kismet instead of staying on Route 30. The landscape was coming alive with spring. In this area of York county, she also passed many farms that were slowly giving way to urban sprawl, but hadn’t yet.

  Still thinking about her canceled weekend with Seth and her confused feelings about the whole matter, she stared straight in front of her, her gaze on the ribbon of road. It wound up and down and around curves. She barely noticed the trees budding with green leaves, the red barns, the horses dotting the landscape now and then.

  Her gaze suddenly spotted a pretty chestnut filly, with a black mane, running along the roadside fence.

  She wasn’t sure when she noticed the sound of something behind her. Maybe it was when the chestnut loped out of view. Maybe it was when she glanced at the dashboard to see what speed she was going. Maybe it was some sixth sense, or, most likely, the sound the vehicle behind her made. That vroom didn’t project from her Camaro.

  As the vroom became louder, Caprice’s gaze shifted to her rearview mirror. Her heart seemed to leap to her throat. The rusty brown mud-splashed pickup truck approached fast. At first, Caprice thought it was going to pass her. A speed demon eager to get home from work?

  But then, the speed-demon truck surged forward and hit the back of her Camaro!

  She knew everything there was to know about her car’s handling. The whiplash effect didn’t affect the car as much as her sense of balance and her confidence in what she should do next. Speed up? Pull over? Duck down?

  The truck rammed her again. Before she could come up with a plan of action, it dropped back and sped forward. This time, it didn’t ram her in the rear bumper. It slid up beside her left side; then before she knew it, it had plunged into her left fender.

  The steering wheel slipped through her fingers in spite of her efforts to direct the car where she wanted it to go. Her Camaro lurched into a muddy ditch on the right side of the road. As Caprice struggled to recover from the shock, she heard the pickup’s gunned engine as it sped away, disappearing over the rise of a hill.

  Caprice’s left shoulder had hit the door. She felt woozy, whether from an overwhelming sense of disbelief or the accident itself, she didn’t know.

  Taking several deep breaths, she took stock of her situation. Unhooking her lap belt, she moved her arms first and winced. Her left shoulder was definitely bruised. She moved her hand and fingers. All of that was in working order. She turned her head from left to right. No problem there. She leaned forward a little, then moved each leg. There was always an adrenaline rush after an accident, and the people involved didn’t always realize how badly they were injured. But she really did think she was okay.

  Her car might be another matter. The idea that her car was badly damaged almost brought tears to her eyes. She loved this car.

  She managed to pry her door open. The car leaned to the right and it was a huge step to reach the ground.

  When she did, she sank into mud over her instep. These shoes might not survive the accident, either.

  After a look at how the Camaro was leaning and a glance around at all the mud, she knew her vehicle would have to be towed. Pulling her cell phone from the pocket of her bell-bottoms, she touched contacts, then the number for the auto service. A dispatcher informed her someone would be there between forty-five minutes and an hour.

  Still standing in mud, worrying whether or not her car could be repaired, analyzing who could have done this to her, she felt frustrated and out of sorts, weary and teary. Before she thought better of it, she speed-dialed Grant.

  Ten minutes later, Caprice sat in her car, thinking that was the safest place to be, when she spotted Grant’s vehicle coming from the opposite direction. He must have broken all the speed limits. The shoulder on the other side of the road wasn’t as muddy, and he managed to pull off. Exiting his car, he rushed over to hers.

  She pushed open her door again, fighting against gravity. But she didn’t have to exert too great an effort because Grant was there, standing in the mud, opening it the whole way.

  His eyes were an intense gray. “Are you sure you’re all right? We can still call the paramedics.”

  He looked all macho and worried and completely unconcerned that his navy suit slacks were soon going to have mud edged around the hem that might not be so easy to get off.

  “I’m okay,” she assured him.

  He held out his hands to her. “Let me help you out. You can sit in my car until the auto service and police arrive.”

  “I didn’t call the police.”

  “I’m calling them now.” He dialed 9-1-1 and gave them the appropriate information.

  They were out of Kismet jurisdiction, but whoever responded would file a report. She would contact Detective Carstead later to fill him in ... if he didn’t get to her first.

  After Grant was finished, he said, “It isn’t safe to stay in your car. Let’s go to mine.”

  No, sitting here wasn’t safe. Apparently, driving on this back road hadn’t been safe. Watching a horse gallop as she cruised by him hadn’t been safe. She took Grant’s hands and slid forward on the seat, but the bucket was an impediment to her sliding out easily. She couldn’t help but wince when she moved her shoulder forward.

  Grant muttered something unintelligible; then he leaned forward, wrapped his arms around her, and, more or less, carried her free from the car. Once she was on solid ground that wasn’t oozing water and dirt, he took her hand and guided her to his SUV.

  At the passenger door, she murmured, “I’ve got mud all over my shoes and pants, and your car’s going to be a mess.”

  “I am not worried about the car,” he said in a firm, strained tone.

  After she slid inside, and he took another look at her from head to toe—probably to make sure she wasn’t going to faint on him or something worse—he shut the door. The words “white knight” kept running through Caprice’s head and she wondered if she hadn’t been shaken up more than she thought.

  An hour and a half later, Caprice was settled on her sofa, an ice bag on her shoulder, Lady at her feet, Mirabelle to one side of her, Sophia peering down from her cat tree. Oh yes . . . and Grant was bringing her a cup of hot peach tea.
>
  “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” he asked. “Your hands are still shaking.”

  After a sip of tea, she put the cup and saucer on the coffee table right next to her silent butler. What had been her affirmation this morning? Breathe and enjoy your day.

  It had been some day.

  “Talk to me some more about what you were doing in York,” Grant said as he sat beside her.

  She’d given him a very brief explanation when she’d phoned him. Just that she’d been visiting a dance studio. She’d been too tired and upset to talk on the way home and Grant had respected that.

  Now she went into more detail. “When I was staging Alanna’s house, I saw Alanna studying a photograph of a little girl, which she quickly hid in her desk drawer.”

  “Hid?”

  “That’s the way it seemed to me. She didn’t want me to see it. I didn’t think a lot about it then, but after the funeral reception, I asked Twyla if we could see if it was still there, and it was. The little girl was dressed in a recital costume and the name of the dance studio was on the back. Twyla let me take it with me. So today I went to the dance studio. At first, the instructor was reluctant to tell me anything, but then she realized I was searching for a murderer.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” Grant asked. “Do you know how chilling that statement is?”

  After what had just happened to her, she realized exactly how chilling it was.

  “I was simply searching out clues. The little girl and her mom came to the next dance session, and I approached the mom.”

  Grant groaned. “You never should have done that. You should have given the picture to Carstead.”

  “Maybe, but what good was the photo without information to go with it?”