By Hook or by Crook cm-3

by Betty Hechtman

  Since I was more interested in talking than dancing, I took the clipboard but didn’t do any writing. Dinah didn’t even pick hers up.

  “I work down the street at the bookstore.” I introduced myself and Dinah. “And you are?”

  “Roseanne and Hal Klinger,” the woman said, speaking for both of them.

  “I saw the sign on your door. . . .” I let it trail off, hoping they’d explain their connection to Mary Beth Wells. My words hung in the air for a moment, and I saw the woman’s eyes tear up. Hal stepped in and explained Roseanne’s sister had died recently.

  “Maybe you heard about it. Her name was Mary Beth Wells,” he said in a somber tone.

  I did my best to appear surprised. This was a golden opportunity and I didn’t want to blow it. When I glanced at Roseanne again, I saw her resemblance to Mary Beth, although the overall look was totally different. Mary Beth had appeared glamorous, with her golden hair and fine features. On Roseanne, those same features were sharp and foxlike, and her hair was short and red. Mary Beth seemed to have done better in the husband department as well. Lance Wells Jr. might not have been much of a dancer, but he’d inherited his father’s good looks. Hal Klinger had bland features and a fringe of hair around a bald spot that gave him an insipid aura, which his demeanor matched. He seemed to stay one step behind his wife.

  Both Dinah and I expressed our condolences. Roseanne nodded in recognition of our sympathy but then shut the door on her emotions and went back to business. She motioned toward the questionnaires, which were still not filled out. Meanwhile, the tangoing continued on the dance floor. I picked up the pen attached to the clipboard. If I wanted her to talk, I was going to have to act like a customer. I nudged Dinah and with a grunt of protest, she began to fill out her sheet as well.

  “Is that Lance Wells?” I said, glancing up from my writing and gesturing toward the row of photos on the wall. I noticed he was in a different outfit in each picture. The first showed him in a tuxedo, the next in a theatrical version of a cowboy outfit, then in a pirate getup and the final picture was when he was older. He was dressed in normal clothes and flanked by two younger men, both of whom resembled him. It wasn’t much of a stretch to figure they were Lance Jr. and Matt.

  “Yes, that’s Lance Sr.”

  “Then he owns this place?” I said innocently.

  “He started the dance studios, but he died a number of years ago,” Roseanne said.

  “Are you the owners now?” I asked.

  “We manage—” Hal started to speak, but his wife gave him a sharp flash of her eyes and he stopped.

  There was an edge of impatience in her voice. “What possible difference could that make?”

  Dinah stepped in and said we wanted to know who we were dealing with before we committed to lessons. “You know how it is—you pay for a bunch of lessons and the place suddenly goes out of business.”

  Roseanne seemed offended at the comment. “I assure you we have been in business for a long time.” She launched into the studio’s history. “Lance Wells started the dance studios to get Americans on their feet. The tradition is being carried on by Lance’s nephew, our artistic director, Matt Wells.

  “We’ve been managing the studio for years. If anything, it’s doing better with all the television dancing shows.”

  As Roseanne finished, I noticed another man had come in the side door and joined us.

  “New students?” he said, beaming a charismatic smile in Dinah’s and my direction.

  Hal introduced him, though I had already guessed who he was. Matt Wells looked better in person. The photo didn’t do justice to his thick dark hair and sparkling gray eyes. Hal went on to explain to him our concern about the ownership of the place.

  Roseanne gave her husband a sharp stare—for what, because he dared to speak?

  “I have it covered,” she said to Matt. I tried to calculate how Matt and Roseanne were related. He was Lance Wells Jr.’s cousin and she was Mary Beth Wells’s sister, did that even make them family? How ever they were related, I sensed hostility in the way Roseanne and Matt looked at each other. Roseanne had positioned herself so she was standing between Matt and me. But I wanted to talk to him. So, I grabbed the dancer by the shoes, figuratively speaking, and stepped around Roseanne.

  “If you’re an actual Wells, does that mean you’re the owner?” I’m not generally a flirty kind of person, but something about Matt brought it out in me, and it seemed like a good way to get some information. I started twirling my hair and batting my eyes, and I heard Dinah choking back a laugh. But it worked. Matt’s expression softened and his smile broadened.

  “I’ll take care of them,” he said. Roseanne’s eyes grew stern and she didn’t move. Nor did Hal. I explained our concern to Matt.

  “I’d just like to know who owns the dance studio,” I said, eyes batting all the while.

  His face lit with understanding. “There’s nothing to be concerned about. This is our flagship studio, and I can assure you, it’s not going anywhere.”

  “I understand that. I’d just like to know who owns the place.” I had to stop batting my eyes—it was giving me a headache, as was their reluctance to answer what seemed to be a simple question.

  The charm abruptly drained from Matt’s face and he appeared almost annoyed. “Why don’t you stop worrying about who owns what and just take your complimentary lesson.”

  The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation emphasized the utility of saying nothing. Silence—particularly in response to someone’s leading comment—made people uncomfortable and encouraged them to divulge all kinds of useful information. So I simply did not respond. I looked around at the two couples winding down their lesson. I looked out the picture window at the view of the street. I looked at Matt Wells and then Roseanne and then Hal. Dinah knew what I was doing and leaned against the counter. I could see the tension mounting in all their faces.

  “What’s wrong with you people?” Hal said at last. “It’s not secret information.” He turned his gaze to me. “The dance studio belongs to the Lance Wells estate.”

  Roseanne shot her husband another angry look, and he seemed to slink into the background. The tango music stopped and the two students headed toward the door. I had the feeling Roseanne had decided we were more trouble than we were worth. She gave up on trying to get us to fill out the forms on the clipboards and instead, with a sigh of resignation, just took them from us and told the instructors we were here for a complimentary lesson. When Vincent saw Dinah, his face lit up.

  “I’m taking her,” he said to his coworker. Dinah was making choking noises. “We’ll see who’s the teacher now,” he said with a smirk. I was about to say we’d changed our minds about the lessons, but both instructors were already pulling us out onto the dance floor.

  Mine must have been a bodybuilder in his other life, because he had an iron grip on me. Someone turned on the music, a waltz began and my teacher told me to watch his eyes and follow his lead. I did okay for the first few steps, but then I stumbled on the instructor’s feet and I saw annoyance flare in his eyes. When I made a move to pull away, he simply held on tighter.

  “We always start with the basic waltz,” my teacher said before taking off around the room. Things went from bad to worse when I looked away for just a moment and saw Detective Heather come in the door. I tried to steer my partner over to the front, but he kept pulling us toward the back of the room.

  Detective Heather was talking to Roseanne and Hal, neither of whom looked very comfortable, though Hal at least seemed to be enjoying ogling the blond detective. Matt Wells had disappeared into the side room when Dinah and I started our lesson, but now he came back out. As he approached the group, I could see him turn on the charm. But Detective Heather stayed all business. That is until she noticed me dancing by. Her eyes narrowed and she shot me a dirty look.

  The music changed and went into a polka, and my partner began to pick up speed. I swear my feet left the floor as we
began whirling around the room. Vincent was smiling as he swung Dinah to-and-fro. It was hard to keep my eyes on Detective Heather without getting dizzy, so I turned toward my partner, and when I looked back Detective Heather was gone. I was ready to cut the lesson short, but before I could suggest it, the music changed to a jitterbug and my partner held me by one hand and did some maneuver where he reeled me in and then spun me out. I was breathless—and so thankful when the music finally stopped.

  “Wasn’t that fun?” Hal said, coming up to Dinah and me. “Just like the TV show, huh?”

  We insisted we had to think about it as we headed toward the door. We ran down the stairs and out of the building, where we practically smacked into Detective Heather. She ignored Dinah and zeroed in on me. “I’m not even going to ask you what you were doing there. I’m just going to tell you straight out: Stay out of this investigation.”

  I couldn’t help myself; I just had to ask her one question. “Did you know that Barry was married more than once?”

  She looked at me directly with a little self-satisfied smile. “Of course.”

  CHAPTER 16

  ALL THAT DANCING LEFT US PARCHED AND NEITHER of us had had breakfast, so we went back to Le Grande Fromage for café au laits and croissants.

  “Maybe we should sign up for some lessons,” Dinah said, sinking into a chair after we had placed our order. “We shouldn’t be so pooped after a partial lesson. But if we do, I’m insisting that somebody other than Vincent be my instructor.”

  I agreed with our need for exercise and took out my little notebook and pen. Dinah watched as I flipped it open.

  “What’s that?”

  “You know how Barry and Detective Heather always take notes when they talk to people. I thought it was about time I started doing it, too. But if I’d taken out my notebook at the dance studio, I think it would have seemed kind of weird.”

  Dinah nodded with comprehension. “They already thought we were kind of strange—that would have pushed it over the top.”

  I showed her the first few pages where I’d drawn a diagram of the crochet piece and written in the meaning of the motifs we’d figured out.

  I held the pen over the paper. “Let’s see. Now we know Mary Beth had a bossy sister with a wimpy husband. I don’t think she and Matt Wells get along,” I said, beginning to write. “And the studio is owned by the Lance Wells estate.” I blew out some air. “I wonder what that means.” I started to slump, then straightened. “Ah, but I know how to find out.”

  Mason took my call right away. “Hi, sunshine,” he said cheerfully. “The other night was nice. Calling for a repeat?”

  “It was nice,” I said, smiling at the memory. “But I’m really after some information. I found out the Lance Wells estate owns the Lance Wells Dance Studio, but what does that mean? Also, what else do you know about Matt Wells besides what you told me about his dancing ability?”

  “I don’t know off the top of my head, but I can find out. However, I’m sorry I can’t give out any of that information on the phone. It has to be in person, preferably someplace dark with good food,” he said, a tease in his voice.

  Telling myself this was in pursuit of finishing Mary Beth’s mission, I accepted.

  Dinah listened to my end of the conversation and was grinning when I clicked off. “Good move. No downtime. Get right back on the horse.”

  She was trying to make me feel good, but it had the opposite effect. I got a queasy feeling in my stomach.

  “Doesn’t that make me seem pretty shallow and man hungry? It’s just dinner, and it’s really about information,” I said. “Though I do like him.”

  “Molly, you’re not twenty anymore. Time is moving on and you need to, too. When the issue with Barry was that he wanted to get serious, I didn’t understand your problem. But this is different. You’re objecting to Barry’s lifestyle, which isn’t going to change, and the fact that he didn’t mention a whole other wife and daughter. Just because he has no contact with them doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” She gave me a solidarity arm squeeze.

  “I LIKE PLAYING DETECTIVE,” MASON SAID THAT night as we were led to our table. “Particularly since I have a staff to actually get the information.” He had found a place nestled in Laurel Canyon I’d never been to. The walls were a brick red, and the candles flickering on each table softly illuminated the dining room.

  “Roseanne and Hal have been married for twenty years and have two daughters in college. One is nineteen and one seventeen. I’m sure Mary Beth worked it out so they would get the job managing the dance studio,” Mason explained once we were seated.

  He stopped for a moment, caught the waiter’s eye and ordered a bottle of merlot, then continued. “All I’ve been able to find out so far is what the Lance Wells estate owns. The house in Catalina, the one in Tarzana, all of the dance studios and a portfolio of investments all belong to it. It’s just a guess, but I would imagine with Lance Jr. and Mary Beth both gone, the estate will go to Mary Beth’s sister and Matt Wells.”

  He tasted the wine when it was delivered, nodded with approval, and the waiter poured us each a glass.

  “So Lance and Mary Beth had no children?” I said before taking a sip of mine.

  “No, and Lance was an only child so he had no siblings. Lance Sr. had a whole slew of wives. When he died he was married to his nurse,” Mason said. The waiter had returned and Mason ordered for us. The restaurant featured a tasting menu, which meant you ordered a lot of different items and got small plates of each.

  “What about the nurse? Would she be an heir to the estate?” I asked once the waiter left.

  Mason didn’t think so. He imagined she’d been awarded a lump sum when the elder Lance died; she would have gotten her share long ago. Then he went back to talking about Lance Jr. and how surly he’d been when he was sober.

  “If he was so unpleasant, why did Mary Beth stay with him?” I asked.

  Mason raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You really don’t know?”

  I shrugged, and he tilted his head and blinked. “I didn’t realize you were such a romantic. She stayed with him because she liked the money and position. I don’t know for a fact, but I bet she signed a prenuptial agreement, and with no kids as a chip, she wouldn’t have gotten much. Her sister and husband would have lost their gig. Mary Beth would have had to give up the big Tarzana house, the one in Catalina and all that went with being Mrs. Lance Wells Jr. And she would have gone back to being a nobody. My people checked. She grew up in Van Nuys and was working for a caterer before she married Lance Jr. I think her goal was to get on the other side of the tray.”

  “Oh, yuck,” I said. “I can’t imagine marrying someone for a reason like that.”

  Mason’s face and voice softened. “That’s what is so wonderful about you—and rare around here.” Then his tone changed back to business. “Mary Beth was young and beautiful and ambitious. I’ve seen lots of women like her. They’re bold and go after what they want, planting themselves and ignoring rejection while treating the guy like he’s a god.”

  “You sound like you know about it from personal experience,” I said.

  “Let’s say, I saw through it,” Mason said as our dinner began to arrive. It took two waiters to handle all the tiny plates.

  Hearing all these details was changing my perception of Mary Beth and Lance Jr.; I could see them now as three-dimensional people instead of just names. I picked up my fork and prepared to eat the tiny mound of Caesar salad. I almost laughed at the artful presentation: baby romaine lettuce mixed with dressing and neatly arranged between two large croutons, a shaving of Parmesan cheese set like a tent over the top.

  “The house on Catalina was probably a refuge for her. And maybe a rendevous spot,” Mason suggested.

  I put down my wineglass. “I don’t know about that. The caretaker seemed to know everything, but he didn’t mention anything about that.”

  Mason seemed unconcerned. “Maybe he was being discreet, or maybe s
he was, or maybe she just went to be alone.”

  I told him about the fireplace motif and the book about Lance Sr. and his fascination with magic. “I’m thinking there is some kind of secret panel in the fireplace and that Mary Beth hid some important clue there.”

  Mason turned serious. “Don’t even think about it, Molly. As your lawyer, I am advising you to stay away from Catalina. You saw how small it is. Do you think there’s any way you can avoid being seen by that deputy?”

  What could I say? He was right. I changed the subject as the main course arrived. We each got four plates, each one with a tablespoon of food and a lot of fancy garnish.

  “Did you find out anything about Matt Wells?”

  Mason’s expression darkened. “Is this about the murder or are you interested in the guy?” It was my turn to look surprised.

  “It’s about the murder—only.”

  Mason ran down the information quickly. Apparently, Mason had gotten a staff member to call the dance studio claiming to be writing an article for Dance Journal. She found out Matt was divorced and had had a few small parts in some musical movies and plays but had never really broken through. When Lance Sr. died, he stepped in as the artistic director of the studios. In the old days they sent around movies of the dance methods. Later they sent videos and now it’s DVDs. It was the artistic director’s job to make up the DVDs and travel around to the studios. To ensure the quality of the instruction he was also the spokesman for the commercials.

  “Pretty good job of getting you information, huh?” Mason said as he poured the last of the wine in my glass. I nodded and he appeared pleased with himself. “I shouldn’t jinx my good luck, but what happened? How long have I been trying to get you to go out with me, and now two dinners in a couple of nights. Did you finally have enough of being abandoned all of the time?”

  “How’d you know?” I said, looking at the wineglass stem.

  Mason had his usual easy smile. “I told you, I’ve dealt with a few homicide detectives. I know how they work.”