A Case for Love (10 page)

The clerk straightening the display of handbags near the front door greeted her by name. She waved in greeting but wasn’t going to let herself be distracted by purses today. She wended her way through the aisles of hundreds of shoes. In a small alcove in the back of the store lay the siren that had lured her in ... dance shoes of all makes, models, and sizes. Ballet slippers; tap shoes in a variety of colors, designs, and heel heights; jazz shoes; and on the end, the shoes she sought: the T-strap and X-strap pumps worn by ballroom dancers. Open toed for Latin dances. Closed toed for standard dances.

Lovingly, she picked up a silver shoe. Flexible at the ball of the foot, but, according to the shoe box, with a steel shank for stability. Suede sole. Slightly flared, two-inch heel—much lower than what she usually wore.

The mark of someone who danced.

“Finding everything okay?”

“Yes, thanks.” She didn’t even bother to tear her eyes away from the shoes she’d wanted since seeing her first Fred Astaire–Ginger Rogers movie at age six. Why she’d ever chosen art lessons over dance lessons, she couldn’t remember right now.

When she’d taken her first two dance classes in college, the first had focused on popular ballroom steps, like the waltz and foxtrot and tango. Much of the second semester had been dedicated to the instructor’s favorite areas of jazz and modern dance—and much of the routine they’d had to do for their final exam looked a lot like the routine the school’s dance squad performed in the pregame show at every home football game. If every class had been ballroom, she might not have dropped the minor.

Gingerly, she replaced the shoe on top of its box and pulled her hand away with great reluctance. Even if she did end up taking lessons, she couldn’t justify the expense of shoes she’d never wear anywhere else. Especially since she had two utility bills at home she was waiting to put in the mail until her next paycheck hit the bank.

She was almost back to her car when her cell phone rang. “Alaine Delacroix.”

“Ms. Delacroix, this is Ruth Arcenault of Arcenault Dance Studio!”

Alaine pulled the phone away from her ear to keep her eardrum from bursting at the woman’s excitement. “Thank you for calling me back.” She climbed into her car and pulled her day planner out of her bag. “I wanted to see if you would have time to meet with me for an interview before your ballroom dance class starts Monday evening. Maybe about thirty or forty-five minutes beforehand?”

“Yeah, of course. Whenever you want to come is fine with me. The class starts at six thirty.”

“Will people who don’t come on Monday still be able to sign up for the class?”

“Definitely. This first session will be just a basic overview of what the six-week program will include to give people a better idea of whether or not they really want to commit to it. That was why I’ve been doing a major promotional push this week, trying to get the word out to all the major media outlets in town, so that just in case people don’t hear about it till next week, they still have time to sign up.”

Alaine made a few notes in her planner. “Okay, that’ll help me in determining the direction of the piece.”

“I’m super excited that you’re coming. You know how to find us?”

“All I have here is that you’re located in Comeaux.”

“We’re three buildings down—south, I think—from The Fishin’ Shack restaurant. In the old karate studio.”

Alaine’s mouth instantly started watering at the thought of the crawfish bisque she’d had the one and only time she’d visited The Fishin’ Shack—when she featured it on her show right after it first opened. Maybe it was time to go back and do a feature on them again, since it had been at least five or six years. Something about the owner of the restaurant niggled the back of her mind, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Okay. I’ll be there between five thirty and six on Monday evening. If you have any information you’d like to send me to review between now and then, you can e-mail it to my address on the TV station’s Web site.”

After exchanging good-byes, Alaine started the car and headed toward the university campus. A huge raindrop spattered her windshield. Great. Now everything would be in an uproar as they moved the concert into the basketball arena. Hopefully the featured groups would still have time for the preconcert interviews she’d been promised.

The one benefit of being the social-scene reporter: backstage access to every big-name concert that came to town. Not that she listened to much but Christian indie-rock. But it got her face on the evening news broadcasts.

Weariness blanketed her as traffic slowed to a crawl in the now-pouring rain. Sometimes, all the time and energy she put into dreaming and desiring a move to main news didn’t seem worth the effort.

She blinked a couple of times. Effort. What had Bekka had said about making an effort to prove herself to the uppity-ups at the station?

Her mind whirled. She had a good video camera at home, and the bookcases in her third bedroom–turned office would make a great backdrop. She’d promised her parents she wouldn’t
broadcast
anything about the case. She’d never said anything about not recording an audition tape to show the news director that she could not only report hard news but could do the investigative work behind it as well. And if it happened to create a stir and help stop the Guidry family from ruining Moreaux Mills, all the better.

As soon as Alaine saw the Fishin’ Shack restaurant Monday evening, her memory kicked in. The owner was a Guidry. One of Meredith’s younger sisters, if she remembered correctly. She made a mental note to add a sidebar investigation into just how many properties and businesses that family owned in Beausoleil Parish for her reel.

Nelson slowed the van, and Alaine shook herself out of her thoughts. “There it is, on the corner.” She pointed to a stand-alone building a few doors down from the restaurant. A hastily printed vinyl sign draping the existing one announced: ARCENAULT DANCE STUDIO NOW OPEN.

“Pull up on the side of the building—that way the van can still be seen from the street, but we’re not blocking the main strip of parking spaces.” As soon as the van stopped, Alaine climbed out and opened the side door to get her large, overstuffed canvas briefcase as well as the tripod for the camera so Nelson didn’t have to hold it while she interviewed Ruth Arcenault.

What Alaine had learned of the woman’s story in her initial research fascinated her—good thing, as it would make a good story for the program instead of coming across as Alaine giving in to a local business’s desire for self-promotion.

A young woman so rail thin she couldn’t possibly have eaten anything in the last three years jogged out from behind the reception desk to hold open the door for Alaine and Nelson. “We’re so glad y’all’re here. Come in. Come in.”

Music faintly wafted out into the lobby—a jazzy, instrumental recording of what sounded like “Cheek to Cheek.” Alaine’s heart quickened. Finally, after so many years of regret, she was going to be the closest she’d ever been to actually stepping back out on the dance floor.

“Ruth and Ian are warming up right now, but she said for y’all to come on in once you arrive and she’ll give you a tour before the interview.”

Alaine nodded and extended her hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

The girl turned redder than her cayenne-colored hair. “Sorry. Talia.”

Alaine cocked her head and pulled out her steno pad and pen. “You’re gonna have to spell that one for me.”

Talia complied, while Nelson shouldered his camera and began shooting footage of the decor of the reception area.

“I’m going to go get some exteriors.” The string of bells hanging from the door clanked against the camera as he went outside.

Alaine asked Talia a few questions—the girl had been a ballet dancer trying to make it in New York when she met Ruth and Ian and they offered her room and board and to train her in ballroom, modern, and jazz dance as part of her salary if she moved down here to work as their receptionist.

As soon as she could break away from her, Alaine moved down the long, narrow reception room that overlooked the parking lot to the archway at the far end that led into the studio itself.

The music switched to another jazzy trumpet interpretation of “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face.” Alaine stopped in the arched doorway and let herself be transported. On the other side of the large room, a tall, dark-haired couple glided across the shiny hardwood as effortlessly as clouds through the sky.

Before the song ended, Nelson had joined her, shooting film of the reigning International Dance Grand Prix champions. As soon as the music stopped, the couple seemed to transform from unbelievably elegant to so tall and gangly they looked like they’d been stretched lengthwise.

Dressed in a formfitting, one-shoulder, asymmetrical-hem dress that showed off just how toned she was, the owner of Arcenault Dance Studio approached. “I’m Ruth Arcenault.” She held out her hand. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Alaine had never felt as short as she did right now. She shook hands with Ruth, who towered over her by almost a foot. In what looked like almost two-inch heels, Ruth was even a little taller than her dance partner. “How tall are you?”

What idiot would let that just blurt out?

Ruth laughed. “I get that all the time. Without shoes, I’m six-foot-two. Ian is six-three. He usually wears shoes with a little lift in them for competitions so that we’re at least the same height. Oh, sorry, this is my husband and dance partner, Ian Birtwistle.”

Alaine greeted him as well. She always made an effort to not notice when a married man was extremely good-looking, but in this case, she couldn’t help but be affected by his dark good looks. He’d been created to ooze sex appeal without even trying. The British accent didn’t help matters much, either.

“Is there a place where we can sit to do the interview?” Alaine bent to hoist the tripod from where she’d set it on the floor.

“Yes, of course. Our office.” Ruth motioned for them to return the way they’d come. Over her shoulder, she said to Ian, “Can you run over to the restaurant to see about the refreshments?”

“Yes, love.” He kissed her cheek and returned to the studio.

“I don’t know what I would do without him.” Ruth smiled. Alaine returned it, trying to push jealousy aside, and followed her through the door on the other side of the reception desk.

After getting set up, she began the interview ... and got so involved in learning everything she could about the world of competitive ballroom dancing that Ian had to interrupt them to let Ruth know clients were arriving.

Alaine quickly conferred with Nelson about getting some on the spot interviews with the customers before the lesson started, and moments later, he followed her out of the office, camera on shoulder, floodlight beaming.

“Neither of you have dark soles on your shoes, do you?” Ruth asked when they reached the studio.

Alaine lifted her foot to look at the bottom of her black pumps. “No. Tan.”

Nelson’s athletic shoes had white soles. Ruth waved them in.

Across the dance floor, Alaine immediately spotted the person she wanted to talk to first. Tall—but not quite as tall as Ruth Arcenault—and full-figured, Anne Hawthorne Laurence stood in a small group, conversing animatedly while her husband stood off to the side, speaking with Ian Birtwistle, no doubt talking about their home country of England.

Nelson hung back while Alaine approached the group. “Excuse me, Mrs. Laurence?”

Anne’s smile glowed when she turned around. “Yes? Oh, you’re Alaine Delacroix.” She extended her right hand. “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Alaine couldn’t stop a genuine smile, Anne’s warmth proving contagious. “I hoped I could ask you a few questions for a piece I’ll be doing on the studio.”

“Of course.” Anne turned back to the others. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Alaine motioned her over to where Nelson stood. She positioned Anne, then took her place beside the cameraman. She started out with a few general questions about what kind of dancing most people did at wedding receptions these days and let Anne talk about the subject from the point of view of someone who actually had experience helping couples choose places to learn classic dance steps.

“A few of my clients are here, if you’d like to speak with them as well.” Anne motioned to the two couples she’d been talking with.

“Yes, that would be great.” Alaine motioned Nelson to follow her over to get some more sound bites. Anne stood by, looking like a proud parent ready to offer any assistance necessary to the twenty-somethings.

As the two young women answered Alaine’s final question, she glanced around to find her next interview—and her breath caught in her chest. In an open-collared, cobalt blue dress shirt and dark gray pants, Forbes Guidry strode across the floor toward them.

Nelson cleared his throat. Alaine snapped her attention back to the people in front of her. “Thank you all, very much, for your input. Nelson, I think we’re done here.”

“Didn’t you want to get some footage of everyone dancing?” he asked.

Why’d he have to remember that? “Yeah. I did.” And they couldn’t start soon enough.

Forbes waited until Alaine lowered her microphone and turned to her cameraman before approaching. Her being here, at the very last place in the world he wanted to be tonight, must be a sign. The cameraman walked away, apparently getting shots of the studio’s interior.

Forbes had to detour slightly to put himself in Alaine’s path to stop her from walking away. “Ms. Delacroix, I do believe you’ve been avoiding me.”

Alaine’s dark eyes narrowed coolly. “Mr. Guidry. I thought I’d explained sufficiently over the phone. Things in my life are complicated right now and I can’t...” She shrugged and shook her head, dropping her gaze from his.

Not the reaction he’d hoped for—it seemed to confirm his suspicion that she was connected with Delacroix Gardens and knew his parents were trying to buy up all the property in Moreaux Mills. Surely she couldn’t blame
him
for that.

“Alaine, I—”

Forbes broke off when Anne joined them. “Where’s Jenn?”

He looked around the studio for the first time. “She’s not here yet?”

“Do you think something came up at the restaurant to keep her from leaving?”

“She wasn’t supposed to be working today.”

Alaine backed away from them. “If y’all will excuse me, I need to get back to work.”

“Of course,” Anne said graciously.

Forbes wanted to argue, but right now he had a bigger concern. “I’ll call her and find out where she is. She’s probably just running late as usual.”

He stepped out into the front room that ran the length of the dance studio and overlooked the parking lot and street and hit the speed dial button for Jenn’s cell phone number.

It rang four times before he heard a click.

“What do you want, Forbes?”

He frowned at her harassed tone of voice. “Jenn, where are you?”

She groaned. “Oh, don’t ask. But I’m not going to be able to make it tonight.”

Warning bells sounded in his mind. “What’s going on?”

“You’ll just get mad if I tell you.”

He was already getting mad because he could tell from the background noise that she was, indeed, at the restaurant. “Tell me anyway.”

“Okay, fine. Wait, hang on...” She hollered a couple of commands to her staff over the din of the kitchen. “He lied about his credentials.”

“Who?”

“The restaurant manager I hired.
Don’t
say, ‘I told you so.’”

“I thought you checked him out with Major.” Forbes paced the length of the lobby. He had a mind to march out the door and down the block and have this conversation face-to-face.

“Well ... he listed Major as a reference. I never actually called. I mean, why would he list my brother-in-law as a reference if it weren’t true? Come to find out, though, he did work as a
commis
a few times at large B-G events a long time ago, but Major didn’t even remember him.”

“Two questions ... what’s a
commis,
and I thought you said you hadn’t checked with Major.”

“A
commis
is an apprentice—basically someone who comes in and does prep work to learn the ropes in a kitchen from more experienced chefs. And I talked to Major today after ... after it happened.”

He sank into one of the molded plastic chairs. “After what happened?”

“He seemed to be fine when I worked with him Saturday and Sunday. Nice guy. Seemed to know what he was doing in the kitchen and in front of house, which is a rare find these days.” Jenn paused to yell something else at one of her staff. “Anyway, I figured he’d be okay handling things by himself today. But then my head waitress called me during lunch service to tell me she’d seen him making photocopies of people’s credit cards.”

Now it was Forbes’s turn to groan. “And?”

“And so I came in and confronted him. Things got a little hairy—”

“Jennifer!” Forbes sprang from the chair and jogged toward the door.

“Cool off! The sheriff and three of his deputies were here for lunch so they sorted everything out. Ended up arresting him for disorderly conduct. But now, until I find another restaurant manager, I’ll be here every day for the foreseeable future. Sorry about the dance lessons.”

“I’m coming over. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“No!”

While he’d heard her use that tone with her employees occasionally, he’d never heard it directed toward himself. He stopped just outside the dance studio doors. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, I’m at the beginning of what looks like it’s going to be a very busy dinner service, and I don’t need you underfoot, getting all up in my business when I don’t have time to deal with you right now. It’s handled; there’s nothing you can do here except get in my way. Now, I have to get back to work, and if I’m not mistaken, that dance lesson should be starting any minute now.”

Consternated by Jenn’s sudden show of self-reliance, Forbes couldn’t decide what to do. She needed him. He knew she did. But as Meredith had been continually saying for the past several months, Jenn was thirty-two years old. It was time for her to stand on her own two feet.

He turned and went back into the lobby. “Okay. I won’t come over. I won’t even ask you any more questions about it. But if you decide you want me for any reason, you know I’m just a phone call away.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

He bade her good night, closed the phone, and set the alert to vibrate-only. Inside the studio, everyone was just taking seats in the chairs lining the mirrored walls of the large room. While the owners gave a brief introduction of themselves and talked about all their international dancing awards, Forbes quickly gave Anne the rundown on what Jenn had told him.

Then there was nothing for him to do but watch as the championship dancers took the floor and exhibited a grace of movement Forbes would never be able to achieve. Dancing with his sisters and cousins at wedding receptions was one thing; gliding across the floor with arms at weird angles and faces angled away from each other was just strange.

His gaze drifted over the others in the studio. Half were silver-haired; he, Anne and George, and the two young couples Anne had brought with her ... and Alaine Delacroix, whose feet moved in rhythm with the music and whose eyes never left the dancers, made up the other half.

Forbes flexed his jaw to hide his grin. Jenn might not be able to do this with him, but it looked like he might not be partnerless after all.