High Kicks, Hot Chocolate, and Homicides

by Mary McHugh

  “They probably couldn’t find anyone crazy enough to organize them after the woman who did them for years retired,” Caroline said.

  “Nana was always the best,” Stacy said. “She helped the ones who were stumbling around. But the whole thing was really fun. I wish they still did it.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Come on, Caroline. Show us what you’ve got.”

  Caroline smiled. She sang a verse of “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” in a still-young soprano, breaking into a time step and grapevine that brought applause from the crowd that had gathered around us.

  “How do you stay so young?” Mary Louise asked.

  “These two girls are the main reason. And tap dancing is great exercise. My sister and I taught dancing until a few years ago. Then I decided to travel and have a good time. But I miss the dancing.”

  “Come watch us whenever you want, Caroline,” I said. “I’m sure you could teach us a few steps—as well as a lot of other things. Here’s my cell – call me any time you want to find us.”

  “I’ll stay out of your way, but if you can put up with these two, they’d love it,” she said, reaching out to hug her granddaughters.

  “You got it,” Mary Louise said. “They’re welcome anytime they want to come watch us rehearse. We’ll put them to work.”

  A young man with shoulder-length blond hair tapped Janice on the shoulder. He was about twenty-eight, around 5′10” tall, a little taller than Janice. His features were handsome, delicate. “Excuse me,” he said, “but aren’t you Janice Rogers?”

  “I am,” she said.

  “I saw you in a play in Princeton one time. I always wanted to meet you. I’m an actor too. ”

  “Always glad to meet another actor,” Janice said, her face lighting up the way it usually does when she gets to talk about the theater. “What play did you see?”

  “ ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’ You were brilliant.”

  “That’s a great play,” Janice said. “I was lucky to get that part. What’s your name?”

  “Brad Sheldon.”

  “Are you working?”

  “Sort of. I’m going to be in an off-Broadway production in the fall. A new play.”

  “What’s your role?”

  “I’m a schizophrenic medical student.”

  “You are not!” Janice said, laughing.

  “I’m not kidding. Any help you can give me will be gratefully accepted.”

  “I’d like to try,” Janice said, moving closer to the young actor. “This is a real challenge. I always think the gestures you make are an important part of defining your character.”

  “What kind of gestures do you think my schizophrenic would make?” Brad asked.

  “I think he would use his hands a lot. He sort of talks with his hands. He’d get into the part physically—when he’s excited, he’d move his whole body a lot and use his hands to make a point. Like this,” said Janice, gesturing and reaching out to touch Brad while she talked. “See what I mean?”

  “You’re right,” Brad said. “I’ve been so busy concentrating on saying the lines that I didn’t think about my gestures. What else?”

  “It’s all about pretending you are schizophrenic. You should read up on that illness and figure out how it presents itself physically. Did you pretend to be different people when you were a kid?”

  “Oh sure,” Brad said. “Lots of times.”

  “That’s all acting is . . . What did you say your name is . . . Brad?” Janice said. “The best actors I know just pretend they’re someone else and have fun doing it.”

  “Is that what you do?” he asked.

  “Of course. It’s easy when you look at any part that way.”

  “This is really helpful,” Brad said. “What else should I—”

  The British chef, still in his stained whites, stepped in front of Janice. “Sorry to interrupt your acting lessons,” he said to Brad. “I noticed you before when Heidi was introducing us. I’m Ken Allgood. Are you an American?”

  “Yes, from New York,” Brad said.

  “Great city, that. I was there a couple of years ago and I’m going back as soon as I can. Maybe open my own restaurant. Best food ever there.”

  “Where did you go?” Brad asked, with an apologetic shrug to Janice.

  We moved to the rail to admire the scenery, but we couldn’t help overhearing the two men’s conversation.

  “All over. There was this one place—downtown somewhere. Right inside the door when you walked in there were all these apples—the smell was incredible. The dining room had dark red walls and an arched ceiling. And the food! Every mouthful was perfect.”

  “That sounds like Brigantine. I know someone who works there,” Brad said. “I’ll introduce you if you do get back to New York. Maybe he can get you a job.”

  “I say! You mean it? That would be great. We have to talk. What are you doing on this bonkers cruise ship anyway?”

  “Well, I—I was supposed to come with my friend Maxim,” Brad said, hesitating. He looked around the deck at the other passengers gathered in small groups, breathing in the clear, fresh air and talking to each other. “He’s from Russia. He was going to introduce me to his parents. And he wanted to show me St. Petersburg. He said it was the most beautiful city in the world. He wanted to take me to the Hermitage and to Catherine Palace, and everywhere. We bought our tickets six months ago and then – ” Brad stopped and turned away. There were tears in his eyes.

  The chef touched his arm. “What happened?”

  “He met somebody else. We lived together for a year and then he just left. At first, I wasn’t going to go on this cruise, but I really wanted to see Russia because I had heard so much about it from him. But it’s not the same. This trip would have been so great with him along. Now it just reminds me of him.”

  He stared at the river stretching ahead of us. My heart went out to this fragile young man who was obviously in so much pain. I was about to invite him to join us for some coffee later, but before I could say anything, Allgood put his arm around Brad’s shoulder.

  “Maybe I can help,” he said. “Come on. I’ll buy you a coffee and help you forget. We’ll talk about New York. I still have some time before I have to get back to the kitchen.”

  Brad hesitated, then took a deep breath and smiled at the chef. “You’re on.”

  “There’s something about that Ken guy I don’t like,” Janice said to me. “I don’t know why exactly, but I don’t trust him.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “He’s got this sneaky way about him. Let’s hope he can cook.”

  “Good luck on that one,” the man who had been sitting in back of us at breakfast said. Up close, he was tall, and even better looking than I’d noticed in the dining room. He had one of those craggy faces—like Harrison Ford when he made the Indiana Jones movies about raiding lost arks. His hair was mostly brown with a little gray at the temples, and he was wearing the rimless glasses I love on a man. Bill used to wear them and so did my father. To me, they meant a man who is really smart, really in charge, really sexy. My kind of man.

  “Hi,” he said to me. “I’m Barry Martin. How did you get to tap dance in the middle of the Volga River?”

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m Tina Powell. My friends and I made a short video of our act and put it on YouTube. The agent for this cruise line saw it and hired us. We decided we were up for an adventure. What are you doing here?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he said, smiling. He was even better-looking when he smiled. “I’ve been everywhere else but I’ve never been to Russia. Now I’m not so sure it was a good idea.”

  “You can’t judge by the first couple of hours. Give it a chance. Maybe the food will be better than you think.”

  He looked at me and hesitated. I could see that he wanted to ask me something but wasn’t sure if he should. I waited. I was feeling really good about myself that morning. I had on a light blue top that made
my eyes look bluer, and my hair curved around both sides of my face the way it’s supposed to when I use the dryer just right. I’d had it highlighted before we went on the cruise, so it was exactly the color I wish I had been born with. I could tell he liked the way I looked.

  “Did your husband come with you?” he asked.

  “My husband died last year,” I said.

  I swallowed hard. It’s still hard to talk about Bill. I can’t believe he’s really gone. We married young—I was twenty-three and he was twenty-five. We both read everything that wasn’t locked up, traveled whenever we had enough money, loved foreign films, saved every Friday night for a date, just the two of us, and never ran out of things to tell each other. I fell asleep in his arms every night for nearly 30 years.

  “I’m sorry,” Barry said. “You must miss him a lot.”

  “Every day,” I said, the words catching in my throat. “He was my best friend.”

  “Did you say your name was Powell?” he asked. I nodded, and he said, “You know, there was a guy named Bill Powell in my class at law school. I don’t suppose it’s the same guy.”

  “Bill graduated from Yale Law School in 1982.”

  “It is the same guy. I knew him—not well, but I knew him.”

  I did a double take. “You’re kidding. You really were in the same class with Bill? I don’t believe it. Oh, we have to talk.”

  “How about right now?” Barry said, taking my hand. “Let’s get some coffee.”

  “I can’t, Barry,” I said, torn between pleasure and duty. “I have to gather my troops and rehearse for our dance tonight. But I’d love to talk after our performance.”

  “Looking forward to it. See you then.”

  He leaned over and gently smoothed my hair back. Something I hadn’t felt in a long time, that feeling that I wanted a man to kiss me, enveloped me, but I stepped back and said, “See you then.”

  Photo by Susan Hamovitch

  Mary McHugh graduated from Wheaton College in Norton, Massachusetts, with a bachelor of arts degree in English Literature and studied at the Sorbonne in Paris. She is the author of four previous books in the Happy Hoofers series: Chorus Lines, Caviar, and Corpses; Flamenco, Flan, and Fatalities; Cancans, Croissants, and Caskets; and Bossa Novas, Bikinis, and Bad Ends. She has also written nineteen nonfiction books and two other novels. She was a contributing editor for Cosmopolitan, an articles editor at Woman’s World, Travel Holiday, and Bridal Guide, and has written articles for the New York Times, Good Housekeeping, and Family Circle. She loves to tap dance and to travel—two passions that inspired her to write the Happy Hoofers series. She lives in the New York area. Visit her at www.marymchugh.org.