Swan Dive (13 page)

I waited until Rory’s tears stopped and Zibby kissed the top of Rory’s blue-haired head.

“What about a different motive?” I asked. “We have to think like the police. If we take the cooking competition out of the equation, we’re still left with the girlfriend competition. You say you and Vigo are just friends, that Lexie wasn’t really his girlfriend. What’s that about?”

Rory sat up in her chair and pushed away her plate. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. Were you jealous? Did you want Vigo to be your boyfriend? Maybe he wanted you, too, and took Lexie out of the picture.”

She snorted and wiped drippy mascara from beneath her eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Not really. That’s what the police will think, I can tell you that much. You’re the likeliest in the group.”

“More like that kid Berg,” Rory said. “Lexie had him trailing her around, hanging on her every word. He loved her so much, he almost hated her. She tortured him. It was her idea to get that stupid condo and live with Vigo. Throw it right in Berg’s face and act like she didn’t know he was in love with her.”

“If you’re making a list of suspects, don’t forget Inga Dalrymple,” Jane added. “She pushed for the performances to continue immediately after Lexie died. Without a single missed performance, not even the day after. It didn’t ring an alarm with your crack detective skills, but she’s just as likely as Rory. That makes two suspects more viable than Rory. Certainly even you can do something with that.” Jane snapped her notebook closed and stood to leave. “I want to know everything you find out, the minute you find it out.”

Zibby came around the table and hugged me. “You’ll get this peccadillo tidied before Santa jingles into town.”

Rory and Jane didn’t look so sure.

I left them in the parlor and headed straight to my office. My phone rang and I almost didn’t answer it. Feuding chefs? Inquiring reporters? It was neither.

“Elliott! Are you there?!” Mr. Ballantyne shouted.

“Yes, sir, I’m here,” I shouted back.

“We’re at the station,” he yelled. “The trains just pulled out.”

He sounded as if he was standing next to me, the line was so clear. He shouted anyway. Mr. Ballantyne was like Jimmy Stewart in stature and nature, with a dash of Errol Flynn on adventure.

“How are you? Coming home Wednesday?” I asked.

“Absolutely! Four p.m. arrival. Unless we come home sooner. Vivi is distraught over Zibby and her darling Rory.”

“Us, too, sir. Jane and I just met with them both. They are doing well, and I’m dedicating every minute to helping them.”

“Exactly the words I needed to hear,” he said. “I spoke with the Allens this morning. They don’t believe Rory could’ve done such a thing, and I agree.”

“Me, too, sir,” I said. “I’ll get to the bottom.”

“Before the week’s end, I hope, Elli, dear,” he said. “We’re off to the next station. Adios and Godspeed!”

The week’s end! It seemed a ridiculous goal, but Christmas was coming and no amount of bemoaning would stop it.

Rory was the police’s main suspect (but not necessarily mine), and her being Zibby’s niece provided me with strong motivation to find the police a new main suspect.

How did I not know Lexie’s birth mother was locked up for murder? Or that Berg was practically stalking Lexie? Or that Lexie and Rory didn’t actually hate each other? Lexie had two distinct factions in her life: cooking and dancing. I couldn’t neglect one for the other. Time to put the spotlight back on the stage.

I needed gossip and I knew right where to go. Those snippy dance moms. I tucked my notebook into my hipster and left the Big House. Rory had a point about Berg. Perhaps he decided to act out those sketches. Vigo shouldn’t be overlooked either. He had Rory on the side and Berg fawning over Lexie, who got all the attention. Vigo could’ve gotten sick of it. He had access to Lexie, Rory, and those berries. And why not Courtney? Maybe she wanted a promotion in
The Nutcracker
. She certainly got one. Courtney & Co. knew her best. They were closest to her and if
Forensic Files
taught me anything, it was that people are nearly always killed by those closest to them.

Inga Dalrymple’s Dance Studio was located in Palmetto Plaza off Cabana next to the Bi-Lo grocery. Johnnie Mae greeted me when I walked in. She sat behind a tall counter, but at a low desk. I peered over the ledge. Papers, books, CDs, and pens were scattered as if someone dumped a stuffed banker’s box onto the surface. Complete disorganization. It made my teeth itch.

“Hi, Johnnie Mae, nice to see you again.”

“You, too,” she said. “Elliott, right?”

“I didn’t know you worked here,” I said and inwardly cringed. It seemed “I didn’t know” was my most popular phrase this week.

“My third day on the job.” From a distance her frail figure and gray-haired bun painted a picture of an aging senior, but up close, even past her sad eyes and pale skin, she couldn’t have been older than fifty. “I’m here part-time, at least through the holidays. The last gal quit without notice. Up and left.”

“That sucks,” I said.

“I don’t have much experience,” she said. “But I couldn’t leave Inga. She’s a mess. The kids are unfocused, and the moms haven’t had this much to gossip about since Amber’s mother left town with her Pilates instructor. At least, that’s what I heard.” She grabbed a stack of file folders. “Sit here and you hear everything.”

Voices drifted from around the corner. Distant, but distinct. Women cackling and biting and snarking. Just what I was hoping for.

“Is Inga in class? I wanted to catch a quick word,” I said.

“It wraps in twenty, but you can wait with the moms,” Johnnie Mae said. “Inga won’t mind.”

“Thank you, I think I will.”

I followed the hen-pecking down the hall to an open door about twenty feet away, and then up five short steps. Three moms passed me on my way up and I entered a loft-like room. Two bleachers covered in carpet faced a wall of windows that overlooked a long studio. Seven little girls in white leotards and tights were forward-flipping on a line of blue padded mats, while up here in the observation room two mothers sat on separate benches.

I recognized them from the theatre. One mom with striped hair whose daughter was promoted to the Land of Sweets, the other with the blond pixie cut.

The talk faded when they saw me. “Are you a new mom?” the one with the pixie cut asked. By her scrunched up face, I figured being new was not welcome.

“I’m Ellio—”

“You’re the lady from the Ballantyne,” the striped-hair mother said. “I saw you from backstage.” She turned to the benches behind her with her arms wide. “The night Lexie Allen died in her dressing room. I was there, you know.”

“I know,” pixie cut said, smacking down her arm. “The others left, remember? To go get coffee? It’s just you and me in here.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” I said. “I came to talk to Inga about Lexie, but she’s still in class.” I looked through the glass and saw Inga clapping at a student. Not in the praise way, more like the pay attention right now way.

“Not at all,” stripes said. “We’re just so broken up about Lexie. She was such a sweet girl.”

“Very sweet. Everyone loved her,” pixie said.

“I’m Nora, by the way,” said the striped-hair mom. “This is Francine.” The two moms looked similar, yet completely different. Like two versions of the same person in different income brackets. Both blondes wore skirts and blouses. Nora was mid-level, as evidenced by her strip center salon highlights and cotton button-down. Nice, but off the rack. Francine was executive level. She wore her short hair swanky and glossy and donned a designer-cut tunic.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

I sat on the lower bench next to Nora and watched the tumblers below.

“You knew Lexie?” Francine said.

“Yes, she danced
The Nutcracker
for the Ballantyne’s production the last three years,” I said.

“To have her best friend carry on for her is amazing,” Francine said. “Though Courtney’s not nearly as pretty as Lexie.”

“No kidding. Lexie was a stunner,” Nora said. “Lucky break for Courtney.”

“Instant promotion, right?” I said. “I think the police might be wondering about that.”

“Really?” Nora said and scooted an inch closer. “That’s not how it works, though. At least not for this production. Too small.”

Francine laughed. “Yeah, but if we were talking Jacksonville or even a Charleston production…a whole new ball of wax.”

“Besides, Courtney has several auditions lined up after the holidays,” Nora said. “Much bigger than community theatre.”

“The Sugar Plum Fairy really has just the one dance,” Francine said. “Now, my Winnie is playing Clara, she’s the real star. In practically every scene.”

“Winnie doesn’t get up on her toes like she should,” Nora said. “Inga stuck her with the role of Clara, who basically sits through most of the performance. Not like my Queenie in the Land of the Sweets.”

I’d never witnessed such brazen insulting behavior—directed toward someone else’s child, mind you—dealt so casually. By both women, straight to their faces, without any reaction.

“Lexie’s been with the studio since she was little, right?” I asked, getting the conversation on track.

“Both her and Courtney. Thick as thieves those two,” Nora said. “All the way back to kindergarten. Always up to something.”

“Courtney was the better dancer,” Francine said. “But Inga favored Lexie. Everyone knew it.”

“Well, of course she did. Everyone did,” Nora said. “How could you not after what that child went through. No one begrudged her the lead.”

“What did she go through?” I asked.

“You don’t know?” Francine said.

“I heard her mother went to jail,” I said.

“Prison,” Nora said and scooched another inch closer. “For murder.”

“Twenty years hard time,” Francine said. “Surprised it wasn’t more.”

“It should’ve been,” Nora said. “Killed her neighbor and abandoned her child.”

“She killed her neighbor and abandoned Lexie?” I asked.

“Yes, indeedy,” Nora said. She tucked her striped-hair behind her ear and geared up to tell the story. “Lexie’s mother, her real mother, lived in this duplex in Beaufort—”

“In an alley,” Francine interrupted. “Real cheap seats, you know? No garages or driveways, just these side-by-side houses crammed together. Pelican Alley, of all things.”

“Courtney’s mother still lives there,” Nora said.

“No surprise,” Francine said.

“I went over there once, and never again would I let my daughter in that neighborhood,” Nora said.

“Your kids are too young to have gone there,” Francine said.

“It was for a work thing, when I was younger,” Nora said. “Never mind, that’s not the story. Anyway, Lexie’s mother was a drunk. What was her name? Something apropos...” Then with a finger snap, “Truby Falls!”

“More like Truby staggers,” Francine said.

“Seriously. Anyway, Truby Falls was a drunk and smoked like a chimney. Never bothered to read the warning on the side of the pack.”

“She should have, might have saved her life,” Francine said.

A flurry of little ballerinas rushed into the studio below. Some picked up the tumble mats, some tied their hair into tiny buns, others ran up to Inga.

“Let me tell the story,” Nora said. “Now one night, Truby gets drunk, and it’s late, and she’s smoking, and she passes out. Burns down the duplex.”

“Not the whole thing,” Francine said. “Truby saved herself, of course. Passed out, she said, in the bathroom after puking. Yeah, right. But the living room went up in flames and burned through to the unit next door.”

“I’m telling this story, Francine,” Nora said. “It burned through to the unit next door. By the time the fire department arrived, Truby’s neighbor was dead.”

“Where was Lexie?” I asked.

“Across the alley at Courtney’s,” Nora said. “They all woke up with the sirens and the trucks. Poor Lexie sat on the lawn and watched the police take her mama away.”

“Poor Lexie? Poor neighbor lady who ended up dead,” Francine said. “Lexie got adopted and she was better off for it.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Nora said.

That was a hell of a story and I’d never heard it. Made me think I spent too much time isolated on the island. This all happened in Beaufort. Only a thirty-minute drive through the lowcountry, Beaufort was like a tiny Charleston, minus the money and history. It had a petite downtown of shops and galleries on the water and was gateway to dozens of smaller islands and even poorer people.

“I think Inga’s waving at you,” Nora said to me.

I peeked into the studio below. Inga was pointing toward the door.

“Thank you, ladies, for keeping me company,” I said. “Good luck with
The Nutcracker
. Maybe I’ll see you at the theatre.”

They stayed silent until I hit the bottom step. Then they practically spoke over each other. I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. They’d reduced their volume to whisper level.

I met Inga in the hall. “Do you have a second to chat?”

“Not really,” Inga said. “But make it quick and I’ll tell you what I can.”

She grabbed a messy stack of folders from the front desk and led me to a squat bench outside the front door.