I hustled into the costume room, crowded with women transforming themselves into the belle of the ball. I scanned the racks, looking for my turquoise ball gown.
Aster sailed over. She wore the same three-tiered skirt and Birkenstock sandals, this time with a tunic-length peasant blouse. She snagged a gown marked “Daria D” and thrust it at me. “Don’t worry about your hair today; what they want to work on is choreography with the dresses. There won’t be any real filming, though they may take some footage for casting purposes. Tonight they just want to make sure you all know how to waltz with ten yards of silk around your ankles.”
I pulled on the dress, then fumbled in my purse for my cell phone. Feeling like a Farb, I dialed Pete’s number for the third time. I’d called from the hotel and again in the cab. Still no answer. I stashed the phone in my bag, trying to blot out the violent echo of Kinney’s voice in my mind. Pete’s tough, I tried to reassure myself. I pushed away an image of Pete’s shadowed eyes and willed him to be okay.
I tied back my hair with my silk scarf, which turned out to be the exact shade of turquoise as the ball gown. Its fringed ends floated luxuriantly down my back. Trying to shake my worry for Pete, I swept out of the changing room along with all the other extras: secretaries, hairdressers, and sorority girls who got a once-in-a-lifetime chance to be a princess for a few days. Impulsively, I twirled around in my absurdly wide skirt, feeling like I’d been transported into dreamland. I half expected Clark Gable to meet me on the dance floor. Then I saw Jim, dressed in his full military uniform, right down to his shiny black boots. I held out my hand and he took it with a deep bow. The warmth of his touch and his smile pulled me out of dreamland, right into a Civil War ball.
Several couples twirled around the dance floor: men in gray uniforms with flashing brass buttons, and young women in silk gowns in all colors of the rainbow. A string quartet played the Blue Danube waltz with the light from hundreds of tall candlesticks flickering over their dancing bows. The magic of being transported back to the nineteenth-century was enhanced, not diminished, by the hefty cameras hovering on the edges of the dance floor. Inside their electronic circle, the Civil War time period sprang to life for this one glorious moment. It couldn’t have been more perfect.
The magic lasted until I caught sight of Emmett McDowell, dancing with a tall blond woman in a scarlet gown. If anyone could mar perfection, it would be Emmett. I could hear his unctuous voice droning on about book royalties, as if anyone cared. His partner smothered a yawn.
Torey was also at the dance rehearsal, decked out in her Confederate uniform. She lounged with the boys on the edge of the dance floor. I wondered if she knew how to lead when dancing the waltz, or if she’d ditch her uniform for a ball gown for a bit of something different. I glanced anxiously around for Ivan and Karl, but they weren’t there.
Jim held my hands lightly and led me out onto the dance floor. I focused all my attention on my feet, trying to waltz like a pro.
“Relax,” Jim whispered. “Let the music take you. Trust me.” I closed my eyes and let him lead me. I could feel the music swirling over and around and through me—not the driving, urgent beat of Aileen’s band, but the gentle wash of a timeless river, carrying me in its ebbs and flows. I opened my eyes and smiled up at Jim, hoping he could feel the magic too. His face was close to mine, his eyes soft and bright. He leaned closer, his lips seeking mine. Four years of my life with Randall faded like an heirloom wedding gown. I closed my eyes, relaxing into the safe warmth of his kiss.
“Daria,” he whispered, pulling me close against his chest and stroking my cheek.
I laughed breathlessly and kissed him back. “The cameras are running,” I whispered.
A flash exploded in my face. I jumped, pulling back from Jim, and blinked at Sean McCarthy’s impudent grin. Of course. He wore his usual: a rumpled white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and faded jeans. “Daria,” he gushed, in an obvious imitation of Jim. The man was impossible! I fought an overwhelming urge to snicker.
Jim’s face flushed with anger. He grabbed my hands and whirled me away without a word. I heard McCarthy chuckle as we waltzed off.
Struggling to regain his composure, Jim sought refuge in his Civil War persona. “One of these days, I’m going to forget that I’m a gentleman.”
I laughed softly. But the magical spell was broken, and we couldn’t recapture it. Not with McCarthy and his camera hovering in the wings.
The choreographer called a break, and McCarthy made a beeline for me. Jim flushed scarlet again, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “What are you doing here?” I said. “Are you taking pictures of the rehearsal for the newspaper?”
“I’m working on a photo montage.” He held out a hand to me. “May I have this dance?”
I glanced at Jim. He gave me the barest nod and turned away. I shrugged and let McCarthy lead me onto the floor.
Much to my surprise, he was a beautiful dancer. Where Jim danced flawlessly, gracefully, McCarthy danced with a strength and energy that could scarcely be contained. He made me feel like I could fly. His eyes sparkled down at me. “I was hoping I might find you here.”
I frowned. “You’ve been stalking me again.”
He twirled me around and back against his chest. I didn’t remember that part of the waltz. I felt his heart beating against my back, and then he spun me out.
“I just go where the action is, and you’re usually right in the thick of it.” He twirled me under his arm, my hoop skirts swishing. “Daria, you’re not really interested in that Civil War wannabe, are you? For all you know, he could be a murderer.”
“For all I know, you could be a murderer,” I retorted.
“Ouch.” He waltzed me around the dance floor.
“But you’re not, right?” I whispered, lifting my eyes to his, pleading.
He looked at me in some surprise, and then smiled. “No, Daria, in point of fact, I am not a murderer. Just a humble, obnoxious photographer, at your service.” He clicked his heels together, bowed, and kissed my hand in a parody of the Southern gentleman—a parody of Jim.
“Oh, stop.” I laughed and pulled away from him, relief rushing through me. I probably shouldn’t believe him—if he was a murderer, he wouldn’t say so, would he? But Aileen’s words echoed in my mind: “What you see is what you get with that one.” I didn’t see a murderer . . . at least not today.
Jim walked over stiffly and extended his hand to me. I gave McCarthy a dazzling smile and walked off with Jim.
The music began again; the dancers were twirling, spinning, swooping through the room. I wasn’t flying anymore, just waltzing with a lovely partner. I heard the click and whirr of a camera and smiled. I would have to visit the “Daria Photos” exhibit when it hit the Tremington.
Jim danced silently, probably still nursing a grudge against McCarthy. I floated in the circle of his arms, feeling like Scarlett O’Hara, capturing the hearts of all the eligible bachelors at the ball. Still, I didn’t want to hurt this handsome soldier with the dreamy eyes.
“Can I come see your battle tomorrow?” Somehow the request sounded obscene. Since when were battles spectator sports? Scarlett O’Hara would never cajole a sulky beau by requesting to watch him fight. But it worked on Jim—he perked right up.
“We’re attacking at ten a.m.,” he said. “I’m commanding the second division artillery.” He bowed deeply as the dance finished. “Excuse me a moment.”
A small crowd laughed in the corner of the room. I wandered over to see what was up. Soldiers and belles gathered around, all their attention focused on Torey. Today she was an antebellum circus performer, juggling a dozen brightly colored handkerchiefs. She tossed each one into the air. It hung suspended for an instant, then drifted back to earth. Torey plucked each handkerchief out of the air with fingers moving almost too fast to follow. She laughed softly as the handkerchiefs floated before her eyes. The crowd laughed with her.
“He’s been at it for ten minutes now, and he’s only dropped one,” a young soldier told his redheaded partner. “He juggles tin cups at the camp before every meal—it’s become a tradition.”
I smiled at the success of Torey’s deception and looked over my shoulder for Jim. He should see this.
I spied him across the room in earnest conversation with Emmett. A frown creased Jim’s brow. I looked away. I didn’t want to know what they were talking about—whether they were discussing a fine point in Emmett’s book or remembering the grim scene in Colonel Windstrom’s tent. This was a dance, a chance to have fun and forget the horrors of war. I caught myself with a rueful laugh—I was getting a little too sucked in to this reenactment stuff.
The waltz music began again, and the crowd around Torey melted away. She pocketed her handkerchiefs and held out a hand to me. “Care to dance?” I looked around for Jim, but he had vanished. I shrugged off a slight feeling of annoyance and let Torey lead me out onto the dance floor.
“You’re a great juggler,” I said as she tentatively led me through the dance.
Her face lit up. “It’s fun. I learned when I was a kid. My brothers and I used to give shows for the neighborhood, twenty-five cents a ticket. It was better than a lemonade stand.” She twirled me around and stepped on my hoop skirt, nearly ripping the hem. I would have crashed to the floor, but Torey caught me. Her grip was surprisingly strong, given her slight build. “Oops,” she said, grinning. I smoothed the silky flounces on my skirt, hoping that McCarthy hadn’t documented that awkward moment for the Daria Photos. A quick glance reassured me—he was nowhere in sight.
Torey bent to retrieve a folded slip of paper that had dropped out of her coat pocket. She shoved it deep into the breast pocket and straightened her lapels. She bowed low and extended her hands to me. “Take two?”
I laid my hands in hers, and we were off at a dizzying pace, more galloping than dancing. None of the cameras would be following us; that was for sure.
Jim’s hand fell on Torey’s shoulder, “May I cut in?” She yielded with a relieved smile, and Jim swirled me into the heart of the dance.
“You were dancing with a woman, you know,” he said to me in a stage whisper.
“You’re not supposed to tell,” I said.
He laughed.
As we circled around, I spied McCarthy on the edge of the dance floor, his camera following a couple of women dancing together, their full skirts twirling in tandem. I saw several movie cameras hovering on the edges of the dance and prayed once again for Pete’s safety. Suddenly I couldn’t wait for this dance rehearsal to be over, for this day to end so I could be sure that Pete was okay.
Jim squeezed my hands. “I meant to ask you, Daria. How was your lunch with Marsha today? How’s she holding up?” He sounded genuinely concerned for a woman he’d never met. I smiled up at him gratefully.
“She’s having a hard time, naturally. She’s so worried that Chris won’t get out of jail in time for the wedding next Saturday. She’s desperate to find out anything that could help him.”
“What has she discovered so far?”
“Torey told us at lunch today that Colonel Windstrom saw somebody with diamonds and jewels in the isolation tent.”
Jim caught his breath. “Diamonds and jewels? Who was it?”
“She didn’t know. At least, that’s what she said.” I thought about her odd hesitation when we asked her who Colonel Windstrom was talking to. Suddenly it made sense. “It was almost like she did know, but she didn’t want to say. She was sure it couldn’t have been Chris, though.”
“So you think she knew who Colonel Windstrom was talking to? And that person killed him?” Jim whistled softly. “Sounds like we’re getting somewhere. Did she tell the police?”
I nodded. “She said she would. I hope she does.”
“So we’ll have Chris home by the weekend,” he said with satisfaction. He ran his fingers lightly down my arm. “Did I mention how lovely you look in that ball gown?”
I leaned in to whisper in his ear. “I discovered that the hem was put in by machine, using a serger. I think I might be a Farb.”
Jim laughed and tightened his hold around me. I rested my head on his shoulder, and he swept me through the dance. In the circle of his arms, I felt safe. The specter of Colonel Windstrom’s blood-spattered body and the look of panic on Pete’s face receded from my mind as the gentle rhythm of the waltz carried me in the arms of the handsomest soldier in the ballroom.
* * *
At the end of the waltz, the choreographer called it a day. Aster bustled out, shooing all the women to the changing room. I slipped off my dress, putting aside the fantasy and returning to the calico skirt and white eyelet blouse I’d worn to the warehouse. I carefully hung the turquoise dress on its hangar and gathered up my purse. I fished out my cell phone for one more try.
There was no answer.
“Pete, you’re getting on my nerves,” I muttered out loud. A buxom blonde stared at me like I was certifiable. I flashed her a big smile and slipped out of the costume room.
Jim waited for me outside the dressing room. He broke into a smile when he saw me.
“Maybe you’d like to go out for a drink?”
“Oh, Jim, that’s sweet of you to ask, but I think I need to get going.” I looked at my watch—it was just past eleven.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw McCarthy snapping photos of the antique chairs along the wall. He drifted over.
“I’ll come watch the battle at ten tomorrow,” I said in a loud voice to be sure McCarthy heard me. “I’m sure there’ll be lots of action there.”
McCarthy laughed. “I’ll be there with bells on.”
Jim took my hand and walked me outside. “Can I take you home?” he asked softly. His fingers twined through mine.
I chose to misunderstand his intentions. “It’s okay, I’ve got a cab waiting. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jim.”
He kissed me gently. “Good night, Daria.” I closed my eyes, melting into the kiss. “Good night, Jim,” I whispered.
Sighing, I slid into the cab. Fumbling with my purse, I realized I didn’t have my scarf. I leaned forward to talk to the cab driver. “I must have left my scarf in the dressing room. I’ll just run back and pick it up, if you don’t mind waiting.”
The cabbie grunted; his eyes locked on his phone. He could wait all night.
All the lights were out in the ballroom, and the cavernous room brooded in the near-darkness. Shadowy shapes loomed in the corners, like huge birds of prey waiting for their next victim. A chill crawled up the back of my neck as I hustled to the dressing room.
The dressing room was dark—Aster must have gone home for the night. I stopped on the threshold, feeling like an intruder. I held my breath as I entered, listening to the silken whisper of the ball gowns as I brushed against their crowded racks.
I couldn’t find my turquoise scarf anywhere. Looking around, I could just make out the shape of a door on the far wall.
I felt for the door handle, but there was none. The rough wooden door pushed slowly outward. Total blackness greeted me. A nauseating stench filled the air. I found a light switch and blinked in the sudden glare. It must have been the janitor’s closet—a bucket stood in the corner; mops leaned against the wall, a steel shelf overflowed with cleansers. My eyes were drawn to the huge black garbage can in the middle of the room.
I crept closer, a hand pressed over my nose. The stinking can was filled to the brim with dense, wet garbage. Rising out of the mire—next to a battered Phillies cap I recognized instantly as Pete’s—was a human hand.
Chapter Twelve
I tried to scream, but I was trapped in a nightmare where I couldn’t make a sound. My heart felt like it stopped beating, as I stood frozen, gaping at my brother’s hand protruding from the muck. “Pete!” I squeaked, barely getting the word out. The putrid stench swirling up from the garbage settled in
to my lungs, and I couldn’t breathe. I choked and gasped as nausea swept over me. I threw myself against the heavy can, grabbing with both hands as I struggled to upend it. Risking a gulp of the reeking air, I took a deep breath and tried to scream. “Help! Help! Somebody help!”
I must have been loud enough. A few seconds later, Jim and McCarthy burst through the door, shoulder to shoulder. Jim ran to fold me in his arms, looking only at me. McCarthy snatched up his camera and snapped a picture of the grisly garbage can.
I pushed Jim away and slapped McCarthy’s camera out of his hands. “It’s Pete!” I threw my shoulder against the unyielding can. “I can’t get him out!”
The men glanced at each other, then together they heaved the can onto its side. Garbage spilled onto the floor. I knelt in the slimy mess, scrabbling in the muck to release the body. “Pete,” I whispered, tears running down my face. I found his hand and gripped the cold fingers. I followed his arm to the shoulder, flinging off the garbage to uncover his face. Then I screamed again. It wasn’t Pete at all. My horrified eyes stared into the lifeless eyes of Emmett McDowell.
The rush of relief was so strong, I nearly fainted. I staggered to my feet and backed away to let Jim and McCarthy uncover the body. “It’s not Pete,” I whispered over and over, twisting my hands in my filthy skirt. “It’s not Pete.”
I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t stop staring at the thin cord twisted tightly around Emmett’s neck—the murder weapon. I shuddered.
Jim put his arms around me, once again leading me away from the body of a murdered man, leaving McCarthy to check for signs of life. I knew he wouldn’t find any.
“Are you okay, Daria?” Jim murmured, his hands warm on my trembling shoulders. “It’s not your brother. Why would it be?”
I shook my head, closing my eyes to blot out the entire scene. But then all I could see was Pete’s baseball cap, perched next to that horrible hand. How did Pete’s cap end up on a pile of garbage hiding a murdered man? A dreadful thought struck me: Could my brother have killed Emmett McDowell? Yes, they hated each other; yes, Emmett was a first-class jerk who may have deserved it; yes, Pete was in the middle of more trouble than I could even imagine. But did it lead him to murder?
Uniformly Dead Page 15