Dead Man Dancing (11 page)

‘Shit.'

‘I would have said hell's bells.'

‘Same difference. How did he find out?'

Eva closed her eyes and sank until the water bubbled over her shoulders. ‘Some helpful parishioner, I imagine. I've run into a few people from St Cat's at the grocery store.' She took another sip of smoothie. ‘But I haven't actually laid eyes on the guy.'

‘How do you know he's found you?'

‘Two weeks ago the van from Flowers by James pulled up to the St Anne's Parish office and dropped off a dozen long-stemmed roses.'

‘From Jeremy?'

‘Uh huh. The card said: To Eva. You are the Rose of Sharon and the lily of MY valley.' She groaned. ‘Lord help me I can remember every word.'

Holding my cup aloft, I slid down until my head was completely under water, my cry of
argh
! making bubbles in the water. When I came up for air, Eva was giggling just a bit hysterically, making me wonder what they'd put into her smoothie. I said, ‘So, did you keep the flowers?'

‘I did not. I took them over when I visited Bessie Brelsford at Manresa,' she said, naming one of Annapolis's high-end assisted living facilities. Manresa, a former Jesuit retreat, boasted a panoramic view of the Severn River from the Naval Academy all the way down to where the river spilled into the Chesapeake Bay.

‘Has the creep shown up to see how you liked the flowers?'

‘No, thank goodness. I haven't seen him at all, so I was counting my blessings, until yesterday.'

‘What happened yesterday?'

‘The UPS man paid a visit.' Eva sipped her smoothie and didn't say anything for what seemed like five minutes, but was probably only five seconds. The silence drove me nuts.

‘Eva! Don't torture me!'

‘Jeremy'd sent a box of See's chocolates. Dark chocolate-covered caramels, to be precise. This time the card said: Dear Eva, Your words are sweeter than honey to my mouth.'

‘Who'd you give the candy to?'

‘Are you kidding? I love See's chocolates. I ate them all, practically in one sitting, while feeling sorry for myself and watching a
Monk
marathon on USA.' She set her empty tumbler on the tiled floor next to the tub. ‘I've been catching up with Hollywood since I didn't have TV in Utah,' she said by way of explanation.

That wasn't the explanation I was looking for. ‘Have you talked to Hutch about this?' I asked, growing concerned.

Eva nodded. ‘Sort of. I called his office and left a message. But if Jeremy isn't actually harassing me, I'm not sure there's anything Hutch or the police or anybody can do.' She sighed, hoisted herself out of the water with both arms, and perched on the side of the tub, legs dangling. She retrieved her towel and started wiping her forehead. ‘I'll have to face Jeremy eventually when I go back to St Cat's. There he'll be, sitting out in the congregation and gazing at me as if I were Mother Theresa.'

‘Jeremy or no Jeremy, I can't wait for you to come back,' I said. ‘St Cat's has really missed you. The interim, Rory Chase, is a good man – and quite a fine preacher, by the way – but it's just not the same without you.'

‘You can't exactly forbid someone from coming to church, can you?' Eva mused, obviously referring to Jeremy Dunstan and not the good Reverend Chase.

Not like keeping pedophiles away from schools
. The thought leaped into my head, but I kept it to myself. Eva had troubles enough without being reminded of her late husband.

Eva slipped the rubber band off her ponytail, shook her head and used her fingers to fluff out her hair. ‘In anticipation of going back to St Cat's in two months' time, I'm counting on Wally to give me that professional cut you were talking about.'

‘Have you decided whether to color it?'

‘No, I find I'm rather liking the gray. I'm planning to ask Wally to cut off everything that's
not
gray, so my head doesn't look like a piece of candy corn.'

She noticed me staring at her hair: dark brown at the ends, reddish brown in the middle, with about three inches of white where it emerged from her scalp. ‘Don't ask how it got that way,' Eva said with a grin. ‘It's what happens when you do-it-yourself with products well past their sell-by date, bought over the counter at a combination pharmacy and farm supply store in rural Utah.

‘It'll be kind of short, Eva.'

‘I don't care if it is short. Although, that could set the man off.'

‘Who? Wally?'

‘No, Jeremy Dunstan. I can hear him now: “But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her.” First Corinthians, chapter eleven, verse fifteen.' She snorted. ‘Right now it's closer to something from the Song of Solomon: “Thy hair is as a flock of goats.”' She gathered the offending tresses together at the nape of her neck, wrapped the rubber band haphazardly around it, then rejoined me in the spa.

‘If Hutch or one of his associates doesn't call you back by tomorrow, you let me know. Promise? He won't intentionally ignore you, but he's had a lot on his mind lately. Have you heard what he's up to?'

‘He's an attorney. That can cover a lot of territory. Are you going to make me guess?'

‘No, sorry. Here's the thing: Hutch has been encouraged by his dance instructor to audition for a reality show on television, something called
Shall We Dance?
Have you heard of it?'

She raised a hand, dripping water. ‘No TV, remember?'

‘It's like
American Idol
meets
So You Think You Can Dance
.'

‘Hannah, you might as well be speaking Serbo-Croatian. Explain, please.'

‘Couples audition to be chosen as one of twelve pairs who compete for the title of best dancers. The winners each get $10,000, a Chrysler Crossfire Roadster, and the use of an apartment in New York City for a year.'

Eva sat up straight, adjusted the headrest. ‘Sounds wonderful, but when are the auditions, and will Ruth's leg be healed in time?'

‘Alas, no. With Ruth out of commission, Hutch has agreed to enter the try-outs with another one of Jay's students, a young dancer named Melanie.'

‘And Ruth's OK with that?'

‘She seems to be.'

Eva closed her eyes, apparently mulling that over. After a few minutes had ticked away, she spoke. ‘What's Hutch going to do with an apartment in New York City? Commute to Annapolis?'

‘I guess he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it,' I said. Just like everyone else in our family, though, I was already mentally planning museum excursions and theater weekends to New York City.

Like Momma always said, It pays to plan ahead.

‘I'
ve been thinking,' Ruth announced from the depths of her recliner when I showed up the following day to help her survive yet another day on crutches.

‘Call the
New York Times
!' I quipped.

‘Hannah, be serious, for once.'

I put down the clothes hamper I'd been in the process of lugging to the basement and gave Ruth my full attention. ‘OK, I'm listening.'

‘I don't think the attack on me was just a simple mugging.'

‘You don't? Is that what the police told you?'

‘No. They're still working on the theory that the punk followed me from Mother Earth, thinking I'd be taking the receipts to the BB&T night deposit like I normally do. When I went straight to J & K, they believe he followed me and waited until I got out of the car before he pounced.'

The police's theory sounded plausible to me. ‘What makes you think the police are wrong?'

Ruth adjusted a knitted afghan over her knees. ‘Remember what Tanya Harding did to Nancy Kerrigan?'

‘Vaguely. Wasn't Harding the Olympic ice skater who hired a hit man to kneecap her rival?'

‘Uh huh. Then there was that Texas cheerleader-murdering mom, Wanda somebody-or-other, who asked her brother-in-law to hire a hit man to murder the mother of her daughter's cheerleading rival.'

‘Ruth, surely you're not suggesting . . .'

‘That's exactly what I'm suggesting, Hannah. Somebody didn't want me to audition for
Shall We Dance?
and that someone made damn certain of it.'

My sister had always been spacey in a superannuated flower child sort of way, but this cockamamie idea was a bit far out, even for her. Right-wing nuts went in for conspiracy theories, not citizens of the Woodstock Nation. Or so I always thought.

‘Since when did you start believing in conspiracy theories, Ruth? The next thing I know, you'll be telling me that NASA faked the moon landing, Bill Gates designed Wingding fonts to deliver subversive messages, and that Paul McCartney is really dead.'

Ruth flapped a hand. ‘Hear me out, Hannah. Jay may think I'm stupid, but I can see right through that smarmy veneer. He never thought I was a good dancer.
Never
. You know what he had us doing, Hutch and me?'

I shook my head.

‘It's called a showcase move. You teach a beginner – that would be me – some simple steps, and then the expert – that would be Hutch – dances fancy all around me.'

If that was a problem, I simply wasn't getting it. ‘So, what's wrong with that?'

‘Nothing,
per se
. But did you notice how quick Jay was to cut me off last night when I started to tell Melanie about our routine.'

‘Sorry, I didn't.'

‘Well, he did, and that's because it's a shit routine, Hannah. It's not going to impress anyone except my nearest and dearest – that would be you. It's certainly not going to impress any judges!'

‘Ruth . . .'

‘So when Melanie suddenly became
free
. . .' Ruth's voice trailed off.

Before she could launch another sentence, I made a time-out sign with my hands. ‘Whoa! You're going way too fast for me.'

‘Think about it, Hannah. Jay's been teaching Don and Melanie Fosher for two years, and they're really, really good. He knows that the Foshers had a good chance of acing the auditions, right?'

I had to agree with that.

‘Hutch and me . . . well, I don't know what he was thinking about us. Maybe Jay thought I could be brought up to speed, and then – ta-dah – he'd have
two
couples in the show . . .'

Ruth swung her legs from the footrest to the floor and reached for her crutches which were propped against a folding tray table. ‘I need a cup of coffee. You?'

I stepped forward. ‘I'll get it.'

Ruth waved me aside with the tip of a crutch. ‘No, my butt will go to sleep if I sit in that chair a minute longer.' She turned and clumped her way into the kitchen. Since the laundry room was on the way, I picked up the basket and followed close behind.

When Ruth got to the coffee pot, she turned to face me, resting the aforementioned butt against a kitchen cabinet. ‘With Don suddenly gone, Melanie's out of the running, and it's just Hutch and old Twinkle Toes here.' Ruth used her crutch to tap lightly on her cast.

‘So, if I hear you right, you're suggesting Jay hired somebody to make sure you'd be out of the competition so Melanie could partner with Hutch?'

Ruth sucked in her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘Or, maybe
Melanie
hired somebody to do the deed, and then talked Jay into teaming her up with Hutch.'

‘Oh, for heaven's sake!' I'd just met Melanie, but we'd bonded instantly. If she was the type to put out a contract on somebody, well, move over Elizabeth, I'm the Queen of England.

Ruth's eyes narrowed. ‘You saw how buddy-buddy Jay and Melanie were last night.'

I had to admit that I had, but I'd thought the relationship more of a proud teacher/talented protégé kind of thing. ‘Ruth, all you had to do was say no when Jay asked Hutch if he'd partner with Melanie. Hutch would have bowed out in an instant.'

A fat tear ran down my sister's cheek. ‘I couldn't do that to him, Hannah. You should have seen him after everyone left last night. Flying high as a kite, up until the wee hours researching dance costumes on the Internet.'

‘Oh, so what's he wearing?' I asked, welcoming the opportunity to steer the conversation in a safer direction.

‘They're doing a tango, so he's been looking at Latin pants with gold stripes, and one of those shirts that's slashed to the waist.' She grinned. ‘He's tentatively picked out a velvet devoré animal print.' She fanned her face rapidly with her hand. ‘It's going to be hot, Hannah. I won't be able to keep my hands off the man.' She tapped her crutch on the floor, emphasizing every word. ‘And little Miss Marlee Matlin better keep her hands off him, too.'

‘Hard to do that when you're tangoing with somebody,' I said reasonably. ‘What's Melanie wearing, then?'

Ruth shrugged. ‘Dunno. They'll be meeting with Jay about it on Friday when they start working on the choreography.'

Ruth finally remembered what she'd come to the kitchen for. She located two clean mugs in the dishwasher, and poured us each a cup of . . . sludge. If Hutch had made the coffee, as I suspected he had, the pot had to have been sitting on the warming plate for at least three hours.

She took a sip of coffee, grimaced. ‘So, I take it you don't think much of my theory.'

‘Look, Sis, what I think isn't important. Have you shared your theory with the police?'

‘They'll just think I'm crazy.'

‘Think about what you've just said.'

‘I know, I know, but I just can't shake the feeling, Hannah. I swear, when the police catch that little creep and shake him down, when it all comes out in the wash, they'll find that somebody
did
hire the guy to do this to me.'

‘And speaking of wash,' I said, hoisting the laundry basket, ‘I'd better get this load into the washing machine, or your live-in lover is going to appear in court tomorrow with a ring around the collar.'