High Kicks, Hot Chocolate, and Homicides

by Mary McHugh

  “There are one hundred and sixty-one plants around this memorial,” Mike said, “Each one from a different country.”

  “I used to come here all the time after John was killed,” I said. “There was something so comforting about it. It seemed such a fitting memorial to John Lennon.”

  “My favorite Beatle was George Harrison,” Mike said. “He seemed the sanest of those wild four.”

  “Paul McCartney was the cutest,” I said. “I was torn between him and John.”

  “Ringo was my favorite,” the driver said, turning around to talk to us. “He didn’t say much. Just made a lot of noise. I like that. People talk too much these days. They’re even thinking about getting rid of these horses—some animal rights nuts. They think it’s cruel to hitch them to carriages to drive people around. My Daisy loves doing this. I take really good care of her.”

  “New York without these horses and carriages would lose part of its character, part of what makes New York New York,” I said. “This is my first carriage ride, but I always loved seeing all of you lined up outside the park across from the Plaza Hotel.”

  “You got that right, lady,” the driver said. “Ready to go?”

  I could have stayed there forever, but I knew I had to get back home and straighten things out with George. I dreaded it, but I knew I had to do it. This carriage ride was a blessing.

  “Yes,” Mike said. “Take us to Penn Station, please, driver.”

  RECIPE FOR SNICKERDOODLES

  Makes 24 cookies

  ¼ lb. stick of salted butter, softened

  ¾ cup sugar

  1 egg

  1½ cup flour

  1 tsp. cream of tartar

  1 tsp. baking soda

  ¼ tsp. salt

  3 T. sugar

  3 tsp cinnamon

  Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

  1. Mix the butter, sugar, and egg together.

  2. Mix the flour, cream of tartar, baking soda, and salt together, and add to the butter mixture.

  3. Chill the mixture until you can make little balls the size of walnuts out of it.

  4. Mix the cinnamon and sugar together.

  5. Roll the balls in cinnamon and sugar.

  6. Butter a flat baking pan.

  7. Bake cookies for about six minutes. Cookies should be crispy but not hard.

  Mary Louise’s cooking tip: Veal piccata doesn’t always settle a quarrel—but it can’t hurt!

  Chapter 5

  It’s A Good Thing I Know How To Cook

  I hated having George mad at me. I’ve always been afraid when people are mad at me since I was a little girl. I never did understand that people got angry sometimes, that it really had nothing to do with me. They were just mad at what was happening to them in their lives, and they spoke angrily to me. I guess children never really know that they didn’t do anything bad. They just get caught in the undertow.

  By the time I turned the key in the lock of our front door, it was almost time for George to come home. Tucker was there to greet me, his tail wagging.

  “Hello, you good old dog,” I said, giving him a hug. “Are you ready for your dinner?”

  He followed me into the kitchen where I piled some food into his dish.

  I checked out the fridge and decided to make veal scallops with pine nuts for our dinner. It was one of George’s favorites. I needed to come to some kind of understanding with him so we weren’t always mad at each other every time I left the house to dance.

  When I heard his key in the door, I came out of the kitchen and put my arms around him.

  “Hi honey,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” he said, already on the defensive.

  “George, we have to talk,” I said.

  “Must we?” he said. “I’ve been talking all day in court.”

  “I’m not one of your clients,” I said. “I’m your wife. I love you. And you’re always mad at me these days.”

  “You’re never here to be mad at,” he said, hanging his coat in the closet.

  “Do you want me to give up dancing with my friends?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “But you’ll never do it.”

  “I love dancing, George. Can’t you understand that? It gives another dimension to my life. I get to travel all over the world. And moving to music is as natural to me as breathing.”

  “Mary Louise, I love you. I know you love dancing, but I need you to be here with me when I get home from work. I want to talk to you, laugh with you, tell you what happened to me. I married you because I’d rather be with you than anyone else in the world, and for the last two years you’re off in Russia or Spain or Paris or Rio. I miss you.”

  I looked at his face. He was in pain. I was causing it.

  I kissed him and pulled him over to the sofa. “Let’s compromise,” I said. “If you’ll put up with my going off to New York every day to rehearse for this Christmas show—oh, George, we’re going to be Santa Clauses, it’s hilarious. If you can be okay with that, I promise to be here every night when you get home to make your dinner and talk to you. No late night rehearsals. How does that sound?”

  He looked relieved. “That would be great. But what will you do if the others have to stay late to rehearse? You can’t just get up and leave.”

  “I’ll make sure they understand that’s what I’m going to do, and they can either go on without me or leave too.”

  He held me close. “I love you so much,” he said. “Thanks for working this out. I know what this means to you.”

  I kissed him. “How about some veal piccata?”

  “Sounds wonderful,” he said.

  I went back into the kitchen and got out the ingredients for the veal dish. I needed to fry some bacon first so I could cook the floured veal briefly in the bacon drippings mixed with a little butter. When the veal was cooked, I took it out of the pan and kept it warm under foil. I added some white wine to the frying pan and scraped up all the yummy pieces left in there and mixed them into the wine. When the wine was reduced, I added some more butter, some pine nuts, capers, sage, and the bacon bits.

  Meanwhile I had made some rice and stirred up a salad. I poured the sauce over the veal, served the rice, and took the whole meal to the dining room table. I lit the tall red candles in the center of the table, put some fresh water in the vase with the pink and white carnations, and poured a couple of glasses of Côtes du Rhône red wine.

  I called George, and he sat down, raised his glass of wine to me, and said, “To my love.”

  I started to tell him about Radio City and the police and the Frick, but he wanted to tell me about the case he had tried in court that day, so for the millionth time, I shut up and listened to him. I realized I was looking forward to tomorrow when I could talk to Mike, who listened to me.

  RECIPE FOR VEAL PICCATA

  Serves 2

  4 very thin veal scallops

  3 bacon slices

  1 c. flour 4 T. butter

  ½ cup dry white wine (Chardonnay or Chablis

  are good)

  3 T. pine nuts

  1 T. capers

  ½ tsp. dried sage

  1. Chop up the bacon slices and fry them until they’re crisp. Put them on paper towels.

  2. Sprinkle salt and pepper on the veal scallops and dredge them in the flour.

  3. Add one tablespoon of the butter to the bacon drippings and cook the veal very quickly on both sides and take them out of the pan. Put some foil over them to keep them warm.

  4. Add the wine to the pan and boil it until there’s about four tablespoons left.

  5. Put the other three tablespoons of butter in the skillet.

  6. Add the pine nuts, capers, sage, and bacon bits.

  7. Pour the sauce over the veal, and serve to your lucky eating partner.

  Mary Louise’s cooking tip: Croque Madame is pronounced Croak Madame, but you don’t really have to kill her—maybe just raise her cholesterol a little.

&
nbsp; Chapter 6

  And Baby Makes Three

  I got into Peter’s car the next morning ready to tell my friends about my agreement with George, but they were all talking over each other, comparing notes about the police, the Rockettes who were questioned, and what happened after Tina and I left the theater.

  “Bring me up to date,” I said. “What happened?”

  “We were sitting around calling people and making plans to meet them when Danielle came out of the room where the chief was questioning her and the other four Rockettes,” Janice said. “We thought she’d leave right away, but she came over to us and you could tell she wanted to talk to us.

  “So did she tell you anything?” I asked, my story about George and rehearsals and all that shoved aside.

  “She sure did,” Janice said. “Wait till you hear, Weezie. Tell her, Gini.”

  Gini handed me a cup of coffee and a muffin and continued. “She kept saying, ‘I shouldn’t talk about this’ and looking toward the office. It was obvious she didn’t want the others to know she was talking to us. But she couldn’t help herself. She talked in a really low voice and . . .”

  “What did she say?” I asked.

  “She was mad that the police were questioning her. She kept saying ‘I didn’t do anything.’ She emphasized the do. I felt like she knew what had happened but wasn’t an active participant in it.”

  “Active in what?” I said. “What are you talking about, Gini?”

  “Well, she said something like, ‘It wasn’t my idea.’”

  “What wasn’t her idea?” I asked, getting more and more exasperated.

  “We got the distinct impression that she knew but was afraid to tell us,” Pat said. “It was just a feeling, you know? She never actually said, ‘I know what happened to her,’ but she looked like she was about to tell us when the others came out of the office, and she shut up right away.”

  “You’re making this whole thing up, based on your feelings,” Peter said, driving out onto the main road. “Lawyers are taught from the first minute in law school that you base your case on facts, on what actually happened, not on people’s feelings.”

  “You can’t dismiss feelings and instincts, Peter,” Pat said. “They can lead to the facts.”

  “Maybe,” he said, stopping for a red light.

  “So you have this feeling that one of those Rockettes the police chief questioned killed Glenna?” I asked. “And anyway, who said she was murdered? It might have been an accident.”

  “Right,” Gini said sarcastically. “I don’t think the detective would keep coming back to question everyone if Glenna’s death was a simple accident. Besides, you should have seen the way Marlowe glared at Danielle when she came out of the office, and Danielle left the stage right away. I did hear Nevaeh say to Marlowe in a low voice, ‘Why did he question the five of us and none of the other Rockettes?’ Marlowe stared pointedly at us and said, ‘We can talk about this later, Nevaeh,’ while trying to pull her off the stage.”

  “What’s with that Shelli girl?” Janice asked. “She seems to have some kind of relationship with Marlowe. She didn’t say anything, but she kept hovering near Marlowe and left with her at the end.”

  “I noticed that too,” Pat said. “Maybe I’m just overly sensitive to woman-to-woman relationships, but I thought there was something more there than friendship.”

  “I think she’s more of a hanger-on than a lover,” Gini said. “She’s the type that always wants to kiss up to the boss. There’s one in every crowd.”

  “I still don’t understand what you found out that you didn’t know before,” I said.

  “Me too, kid,” Peter said. “Come on, Gini. What else did you find out?”

  Gini took a bite of her muffin. “These are really good, Peter,” she said. “I love blueberry muffins.” She handed one to him and continued. “I don’t have any real clues to prove this, you understand, but Detective Carver must have had a good reason to single out those five Rockettes, out of 80 dancers, to question. Oh, I forgot to tell you: Andrea Shapiro, the first one he questioned, left his office before the others because she wanted to go to the Frick and help Tina with her reception plans.”

  “I was glad to see her,” Tina said. “She was a huge help.”

  “Yeah, but before she left the theater, she came over to us,” Gini continued. “And in a low voice, she said, ‘Glenna wasn’t the perfect, I-love-everybody efficient leader of the Rockettes, you know.’ I almost fell over. I wasn’t expecting her to say anything bad about Glenna. I said, ‘What do you mean?’ She started to say something more, but she must have realized she had said too much because she muttered something and left.”

  “So Glenna wasn’t loved by every one of the Rockettes,” Peter said. “You need a better motive than that to kill someone, or we’d all be dead.”

  Good old Peter. He always brought us down to earth.

  “I still say all five of those Rockettes are hiding something,” Gini said. “You’ll see.”

  * * *

  When we arrived at the theater, Danielle was the only person waiting for us on the stage. She had a big pile of Santa jackets next to her.

  “Hi there, Hoofers,” she said. “Come on up here. I thought it would be a good idea for you to rehearse in these jackets today, so you can get used to dancing with this extra weight.”

  “Good idea, Danielle,” Tina said. “I’ve been wondering what they would feel like.”

  We all grabbed a jacket, and I almost fell down when I put mine on. There was this giant round ball sewn into the front of the jacket that felt every bit of its forty pounds. How were we supposed to dance in these things?

  Gini, of course, was the first to complain.

  As she struggled to zip up her jacket, she said, “Danielle, I can’t move in this thing. Can’t we get rid of the heavy ball that’s in here?”

  “We’ve all complained about it,” Danielle said. “Believe me, Gini, we all hate these jackets. But the dance just isn’t right without them. We move too fast. We’re supposed to be fat Santas, dancing in spite of our stomachs. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to them. We all have.”

  Gini looked skeptical.

  “Let’s give it a try, gang,” Tina said, putting her arm around Gini. “We can do it.”

  Danielle turned on the music, and we lined up in back of each other to do the step, step kick, bend, lift, kick of this dance. At first I could barely step, let alone kick, but as we got into it more, I found it a little easier. It would take hours of practice to do this easily, however.

  When the music stopped after our fifteen-minute dance, we were all puffing and sweating. We flopped down on the floor, and Danielle applauded us.

  “Not bad for the first time, Hoofers,” she said. “You’ll get there. Don’t give up. Now, take the jackets off, and we’ll do some leg exercises and push-ups to strengthen your muscles.”

  We pushed and strained and grunted and groaned for the next couple of hours.

  “Go get some lunch,” Danielle said. “Be back here at two, and we’ll try dancing in the jackets again.” She didn’t seem to have any inclination to continue her confession of the day before, concerning Glenna’s death.

  We showered and changed into the clean shirts and pants we had brought with us and separated: Gini off to see Alex; Janice to catch Tom before he went onstage in the matinee of his play: Pat to meet David, who had a week off from school, at the zoo; Tina to the Frick, where she would meet Andrea. I called Mike, who asked me to meet him at Le Bateau Ivre, a small, intimate restaurant in the East Fifties.

  * * *

  He was there, waiting for me. It was very quiet in this small, dark, cozy room. It was a nice enough day so that the windows in the front were open to Fifty-First Street, where there was an occasional sound of cars going by. The couple next to us were speaking in French. Perfect.

  “Hi Alice,” he said. “How’s the dancing going?”

  I told him about the Santa jacke
ts. He laughed. “Can’t wait to see you in one of those.” He took my hand. “I think it’s wonderful that you do all these off-the-wall things like dancing in a forty-pound jacket, or sambaing with a member of the audience you’ve never seen before in Rio, or all the other things that most women don’t have the skill or the nerve to do.”

  It was so good to hear someone actually praise me for doing what I loved to do.

  The petite waitress asked if we were ready to order, and I told her I wanted a croque madame.

  “What’s that?” Mike asked. “I’ve heard of a croque monsieur but not a croque madame.”

  “It’s just like a croque monsieur only it has a fried egg on top,” I said and asked the waitress for an iced tea to go with it.

  “What the heck,” Mike said. “I’ll have one of those too.”

  When the waitress left, Mike took my hand again and said, “Tell me. What’s happening?”

  I took a deep breath and dived in. “I had a long talk with George about my dancing last night,” I said.

  Mike took his hand off mine and took a sip of his water. “What did he say?”

  “He said if I have to dance, and he knows I do, would I please be home in time to make him dinner every night, and to be there to talk to him and—”

  “And love him,” Mike said, the muscles in his face tightening.

  “Right,” I said.

  “And you’re going to do that because of the kind of person you are,” Mike said. “Which is one of the reasons I love you.”

  “Oh, Mike,” I said, “What am I going to do? I owe him the chance to make our marriage work, but I think all the time how much I want to talk to you. About everything. Especially about what’s going on at the theater. I’m in the middle of a murder mystery, and George only wants to talk about elevator shafts.”

  “I always love talking to you,” Mike said. “Who else is surrounded by falling bodies wherever you go? And you’re certainly the only one I know who wears everything from a skin-tight black dress to a forty-pound Santa suit when she goes to work.”