Tutu Deadly

  I loved the atmosphere of my building, and the entire street. Of course, I didn’t share the history of the old structure with most of my dance moms. In the early days of Ogden, it had been a bordello, and there were still tunnels under the buildings—although most had been closed off in order to meet earthquake codes—where all manner of illegal activity used to take place. I found it ironic that such a history-filled building now saw most of its excitement from crazy costume designers, geriatric bladders, and little dance feet.

  As we walked in the front door of the studio, Amber stared wide-eyed as I came in trailed closely by Wilson, then Fallon, and finally Alissa, glaring at both policemen through lowered—and sexy—lids.

  “Yo, Lissa,” Amber said to our glowering friend, then turned to me and raised her eyebrows, but made no comment. She’d been with me a long time. Weird things usually happened around me, although I don’t remember ever being a murder suspect, or even showing up at the studio with two incredibly hunky lawmen.

  Amber was surrounded by three elderly women, who were already doing the geriatric version of the pee-pee dance, easy to identify since I worked with little girls every day. With the older set, there was a little less hopping, and their movements were a little more jerky, but these women needed to go. Since the class was scheduled for 2 p.m., and it was 1:55 p.m., I believed their bladders had been spurred on by the very thought that they might not be able to get into the bathroom if nature called. I prayed for them to be wearing Depends and went to the bathroom door.

  “No luck getting her out, huh?” I asked Amber.

  “Nope, but she’s been quiet for a while. No raving or blubbering. Just tell her whatever the hell she wants to hear and get her out of there. I have a date after this class.” Everybody had something going on, in the romance department, except me.

  One of the elderly women, a blue-hair dressed up in tight-fitting aerobics gear, wildly patterned in migraine-inducing pink and green colors, sidled up to Detective Wilson, and drawled, “How you doing, honey? Watcha doing here? Come to join our class? I could show you some moves.”

  Detective Wilson got a panicked look on his face and opened and closed his mouth a few times. I guessed he wasn’t used to being hit on by septuagenarians—especially septuagenarians wearing tight-fitting, not entirely flattering leggings and a tank.

  I turned away to face the bathroom door, ignoring his plight. About time he got himself into something he couldn’t get out of. Maybe then he’d have more sympathy for my necessity-driven fundraiser that had caused all this trouble.

  “Monica,” I called, rapping on the door gently. “Monica, you need to come out. People need to use the restroom.”

  There was no answer.

  “Monica,” I said, knocking harder. “Monica!” Still nothing.

  “Monica!” I yelled, my voice several octaves higher.

  James chose that moment to saunter in the door. He was dressed immaculately, and his nails were perfectly manicured. I wasn’t exactly sure why he was there, but was glad for the reinforcements. Someone who was on my side, instead of hoping I’d soon be locked up in county jail. Hearing me yelling Monica’s name, he asked, “What’s the nutbag done now?” His eyes scanned the crowd, and stopped on Detective Wilson, and then moved to Marshal Fallon. “Oh my,” he murmured softly but quite audibly. “It’s a smorgasbord!” Both officers moved back a bit, and I grinned, for the first time in days. About time someone else felt the heat of the furnace. This inspired me a bit. Maybe things were turning my way.

  “Monica!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “If you do not answer me, in my next performance, I will use pleather and bootie shorts in awful shades of puce and chartreuse on the Seniors, some of whom you know well should not be wearing pleather and absolutely not bootie shorts, and I will tell everyone in the local community that you did the designs, and you are open to more business of that nature.” Like me, Monica had a reputation to uphold. Although I didn’t turn students away, I did attempt to not dress them up in vulgar ways, and truthfully, bootie shorts were only cute on little girls. With little booties. And vulgar didn’t hold a lot of weight in our Mormon community.

  “This is like taking a left on Harrison Boulevard and landing in Oz,” Marshal Fallon commented.

  “It’ll get better,” Detective Wilson assured him.

  I ignored them both. There was a brief silence, and then we heard, “I am not coming out until you promise I can use the faux feathers.” Her voice was high and tinny, a mixture of Mickey Mouse and helium. I used to think she was faking it, using that voice, but soon came to realize that no, this was Monica, creative design genius with the Betty Boop voice. When she got excited, dogs everywhere dove for cover.

  “Come out and we’ll talk,” I promised, my voice within normal range now.

  “No, no, I can’t. I can’t do this anymore, Jenny. You put too many demands on me, and I just can’t handle it.”

  Demands? Good God, I paid the woman more money than I made, and I was making demands? I needed a new life. A new career. Disgust filled me and I turned away from the door, only to spy both Detective Wilson and Marshal Fallon watching me intently, unfathomable looks on their faces. There were also four elderly ladies standing there watching me, their eyes starting to look slightly yellow, and I knew time was running out. I gazed back at the two cops, and their intent looks, and I knew they were probably wondering what strange or kooky thing would happen to me next.

  I turned back to the bathroom door.

  “Dangit, Monica, get the heck out of there, or I am going to freaking kick your ass!”

  “Did she just say ‘dangit,’ ‘heck,’ and ‘freaking’?” Marshal Fallon asked.

  “She works with kids. And Mormon kids, to boot. You have to understand,” Alissa said gently, giving me a knowing glance. I didn’t like it when she got gentle. It meant she was explaining away my eccentricities, like she used to do when I worked—briefly—for the sheriff ’s office. I might be weird, but I was capable! My blood began to boil. I could swear with the best of them, except I didn’t choose to. Another reason I didn’t fit in at the sheriff ’s office. Even the most Mormon of the law enforcement agents put sailors to shame. And I’d never really picked up the cursing habit.

  “She did say ‘ass,’” James piped up helpfully.

  “Monica, you are seriously pissing me off,” I screamed at the door. Even though she was part of the problem, she didn’t deserve my intense anger. But my life had gone to hell in a go-cart in the past few days, so she was getting it.

  “I will not make your wedding dress if you don’t stop yelling at me, and if you don’t agree to use the faux feathers,” was her reply. It was as loud as she got, and I knew she meant it. “I have spent days trying to find the real ones, at a reasonable cost, and it’s a nightmare you cannot . . .”

  “Wedding dress?” Wilson said, interrupting the helium voice from the other side of the door. “You’re getting married?”

  Things went from bad to worse in the blink of an eye.

  EIGHT

  “OOOPSIES, forgot about an appointment I have,” James said rapidly, backing toward the door, staring at his left wrist where there was no watch, since he couldn’t afford a Rolex just yet and he wasn’t about to settle for anything less.

  “Do. Not. Take. Another. Step,” I said to James, putting my hands on my hips in my best dance-teacher authoritative stance. Amazingly, he stopped. I’d had enough happen in the past few days that he must have realized I was about to go dancing off the edge.

  “Monica, get your damned ass out here, now!” Compelled by my tone, and of course the profanity that I rarely used—because I was afraid that once I started I wouldn’t be able to stop—Monica unlocked the door and stepped out. Tiny, with short blond hair, she was almost elfin, and she looked more like a kindergarten teacher than a costume designer for dance teams. But she had a gift. I could tell her what I wanted, and she could produce it, sometimes inside of an hour. Of course,
it didn’t take much to push her off the edge.

  “Move aside, I gotta go,” boomed the most aggressive of the elderly women in aerobics gear, as she pushed Monica out of the way and zoomed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. The other ladies continued their pee-pee dance, lining up in front of the door.

  “I asked for ostrich feathers, because that is what I wanted. The others don’t flow right. You, Monica, can do anything. I’ve seen you create miracles with a bolt of fabric and some sequins. You can find the right feathers. Now go do it.”

  Chagrined, Monica lowered her head and aimed her body for the door, where James was standing, probably looking for a good opportunity to skedaddle before I got hold of him.

  “Wait, Monica,” I called. “Why did you think I needed a wedding dress?”

  I pretty much already knew what had happened, or at least some semblance of what had happened, but I wanted as much information as I could get before I tried to fix this latest mess. Ogden was not a big enough town for this type of information to stay undercover. I was going to have to do damage control.

  She looked at me for a moment, a wary look on her face, her eyes darting frantically back and forth, as if she were trying to discover whether this was going to get her into more trouble with me. Monica was in deep need of some psychological counseling, but I was afraid if they ever got hold of her, they would lock her up and throw away the key, so I’d never suggested she seek help. I needed her warped genius. I needed costumes.

  “Sister Marriott called and said you’d finally come to your senses. She said probably to figure on June for the wedding dress.”

  “She did, did she?” I started to steam. I didn’t mind helping James out with his impossible mother—who, by the way, seemed to like me, but never let an opportunity to convert me to Mormonism pass her by—but planning a faux wedding? My mother was going to have kittens. “And tell me what else she said.”

  I knew Sister Marriott wouldn’t have left it at that. She didn’t approve of me as a partner for her baby boy, but I was the only female she’d seen in James’s company in the past five years. She probably figured she was stuck with me. She had no idea. I liked to imagine she wouldn’t find me nearly so abhorrent if she compared me to the artsy males James preferred.

  “Well, she mentioned maybe you could start going to church a little bit,” Monica said, using her prevaricating skills, finely honed from years of telling me costumes would be ready weeks before they actually were. Did I mention her design genius, which is why I still dealt with her? Oh, and I kind of liked her, too, in a strange way.

  “Monica . . .”

  “Oh, hell, Jenny, she’s in denial. She has no idea James is a flaming queer, and if you don’t know that by now, you are never going to!”

  James gasped, putting his right hand to his chest. “I beg your pardon. How could you . . .”

  “Oh shut up, James,” I said crossly. “Nobody here is fooled. We all know you’re gay and we’re all wondering when the hell you are going to find the balls to tell your mother. You do still have those, right?”

  There was another indignant gasp from James, and then he turned and stalked off into a corner, very dramatically. I knew he’d be mad for about ten minutes. He knew he was gay, too. Although the balls comment might stick in his throat a little.

  I turned to Monica. “You thought I didn’t know?”

  “Um, well there was that whole wedding thing from his mom, and the dates and stuff, and well . . .”

  “You know, I have been dealing with all of you nuts for quite a while now. And I’ve never said anything. But I really need some help now, Monica. Right now, my whole life is riding on this performance. Hell, it is always riding on this performance. I run my whole studio for the year based on what I earn from The Nutcracker. And so I need your help. Please help me. Just get the costumes done. Please.” I knew desperation tinged my voice, but I was unable to control it. I glanced at the two cops watching the whole scene, and saw a funny expression cross Detective Wilson’s face. God, please tell me it wasn’t pity. I didn’t want his pity. What I did want from him was more complicated.

  Monica paused for a moment, and then spoke. “I’m not a nut, Jenny, but I do understand. I’ll find the ostrich feathers somehow.”

  She turned and scurried out of the studio.

  During the entire event, old women had been entering and exiting the bathroom, giving the two cops a once-over and me strange looks.

  I could hear the sounds of KC and the Sunshine Band pounding out from the main studio, where Amber was teaching aerobics to the geriatrics.

  “Well, that was fun,” Wilson said, amusement in his voice. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Jenny. Things are never boring around you. This is the most fun I’ve had investigating a homicide in . . . well, ever.”

  Homicide investigations were supposed to be fun?

  “Look, it’s been a long afternoon. Ask me any questions you have, and then can I please just go home and die?” I winced as I said the words. “I mean relax.”

  James was trying to inch his way toward the door. “Stop!” I ordered him. He froze.

  “Sure, Jenny. We’ll pick the questioning up tomorrow. I’m sure you’ve told us all you know,” Detective Wilson said, surprising both me and Alissa. She raised her eyebrows and stared at him. Fallon’s face remained blank.

  “Okay, but tomorrow is Sunday. Surely you won’t be working tomorrow?” I needed a day off. I would stay in my bed and not move. I wouldn’t answer the phone, I wouldn’t answer the door. Unless I could find a place that delivered potato salad. I’d answer the door for them, but they’d want money. I considered inviting myself to my parents’ house for dinner, but that would require answering questions. I’d already said I was not answering anything. Maybe I could make my own potato salad. No, that would require money to purchase ingredients. Although today had seemed eternal, it was still four days until tuition was due. Also, cooking anything would require an ability to do more than boil water. Maybe I could afford some Top Ramen.

  “Earth to Jenny,” Alissa said. “Are you okay, girlfriend?”

  “I’m fine, just beat. It’s been a trying couple of days.”

  “When I’m on a case, I work it until it’s solved,” Wilson said. “But we’ll let it go tonight.”

  “Okay, I’m out of here,” Marshal Fallon said, but not before casting a lingering look over both me and Alissa, and a look of sheer terror at James, who was gazing at him longingly from his self-exiled corner, apparently having forgotten he was in deep doo-doo with me.

  Fallon quickly exited the building, holding the door open for someone entering. Rushing through, along with the cold air, was a voluptuous, overly made-up woman with big hair. And she was making a bee path right for me.

  Not now, I moaned to myself. Please not now. I closed my eyes tightly, then opened them, hoping she would be gone, but she wasn’t.

  Krystal Glass was larger than life, even though she was extremely petite, and when she moved into a room, it became suddenly smaller. She knew all eyes were on her, and that’s the way she liked it. I personally felt like she had been reading too many magazines like People and US Weekly, because she seemed to be channeling Paris Hilton, albeit not the bazillionaire version. As it was, I think Krystal had plenty of money; I wasn’t sure what her husband did, but I knew that now he was semiretired and worked with her in her shop. And whatever he had done before was still providing at least enough to keep her little Krystal Klear Designs alive. I wasn’t thinking her shop and business alone were enough to survive on, but I could be wrong. She might make more money than I did. Everyone made more money than I did.

  Krystal had a New York hairstyle and clothes, a year-round California tan (courtesy of a fake bake, of course), and the aspirations of a social climber. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much “social” to climb in Ogden, so she’d kinda already reached the top of the pile. After that, she had to turn her attention to her washed-out, overweight,
bland daughter Marilyn. And that’s where I came in. Marilyn despised dance, and the woman who taught it—me. Still, Marilyn’s mother was extremely forceful, so week after week the brutish teen glared at me and reluctantly clomped across my dance floor.

  The fact I didn’t give Monster Marilyn—a moniker assigned to her by Amber, who claimed she was about as graceful as Frankenstein—the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy really pissed off Krystal. Even worse, when I’d chosen the cookie-dough fundraiser over her more expensive, and lower profit margin, crystal mobile fundraiser, she was livid.

  Given the way my day was going, I knew she was there for one reason alone. To make me regret I’d ever agreed to the cookie-dough fundraiser.

  She didn’t even have to try. I never wanted to see another tub of raw cookie dough as long as I lived.

  “This isn’t really a good time,” I told Krystal, before she could even say a word. She stared at Detective Wilson, Alissa, James, and the never-ending line of old ladies entering and exiting the bathroom, and smiled smugly at me. Her long blond hair was teased high, and her makeup was intense, with a dark red line around her lips, emphasizing their fullness. Black eyeliner ringed her eyes expertly, and her lashes were long and lush. She wore tight, frayed jeans—the style that was in now, which she probably paid $130 for and which she could have found in my closet for free—and a long camisole top with a lacy bottom, covered by a short jacket, which couldn’t possibly keep someone warm in this weather. But Krystal was all about the fashion.

  “Jenny, I just came by to see how you were,” she cooed at me. “I heard about Sandra. It’s just terrible. And cookie dough! Who would have thought it? But don’t worry. I called up everyone, and let them know that there was a problem with the dough. So no one else will die.”

  Alarm bells went off in my head. Good God. Poisoned cookie dough meant that every tub of dough we’d sold, and delivered, and even those already consumed, were suspect. And that also meant that I would not be getting any money for the dough, and that it was entirely possible I was going to end up in the hole, and since I was already always in the hole, this could be the end of me. The end of Jenny T. Partridge Dance Academy.