Tutu Deadly

by Natalie M. Roberts

  “Gee, thanks, Krystal. How good of you to help me out,” I muttered, trying to keep myself from reaching out and strangling her.

  “No problem. I told them all to bring the dough back here to the studio Monday morning. I’ll be here to help you round it up. After all, you can’t exactly expect people to eat the dough, knowing that it might be poisoned. I told them to expect their refunds when they bring the dough back.”

  “Krystal, I had to write a check to pay for that dough. I could only write that check because they all paid for it up front. I don’t have the money to give all those people refunds.”

  “Well, perhaps the cookie-dough company will reimburse you.” She put an immaculately manicured finger up to her cheek. “I should probably give them a call, too. Would you like me to do that for you, Jenny? I’m willing to do whatever is necessary to help out.”

  Alissa saw the look on my face and put a hand on Krystal’s arm, leading her to the door. “Thanks for your help. Jenny’s had a long day. I’m going to take her home now.”

  “Okay, well, bye. I’ll be here bright and early Monday morning to help with the cookie-dough return,” Krystal said, her voice low and breathy. She turned before she left. “Oh, just one more thing. Since Taylee is missing, you’ll need a Sugar Plum Fairy. Marilyn is the obvious choice. I’m sure you realize that. Just thought I’d mention that.”

  She sashayed out the door, aware that all eyes were on her. Wilson was eyeing her with something akin to confusion on his face. I wasn’t sure if he was interested in her, found her alluring, or just thought she was weird. She was that kind of woman. James was just disgusted; he couldn’t stand Krystal.

  “Well, thank God she’s gone. I better get, too. Lots to do, you know. Busy, busy,” James said, trying to head toward the door again.

  “Busy my ass. You are not going anywhere. Office. Now. We are going to talk.”

  NINE

  I left Alissa and Detective Wilson in the entryway to the studio, and shepherded James into the office, shutting the door.

  “You had better spill and spill now, or I will never, ever, ever escort you to another event. Ever! You can find another hapless moron to go with you.”

  “Hapless moron? Jennifer, I have never treated you that way. I am deeply offended.”

  “Good try. Not buying it. Spill.”

  He sighed, a big, dramatic, exaggerated sigh, and then finally spoke. “It’s getting serious now, Jenny. I don’t know what to do. My mother has decided she must have grandchildren before she dies. And since I am her only child, it is up to me to give her those grandchildren.”

  “Well, don’t look at me.”

  “I wasn’t. Jenny, as much as I love you, you’re hardly my type.”

  “Yeah? Well, your type is not capable of producing offspring, or did you miss that somewhere along the line?”

  Another big sigh from James. “Jenny, my mom is sick. She’s got fluid around her heart, and the doctors aren’t sure why, and so she’s getting frantic to see me do some of the things I’ve been promising her I would do for years.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to just tell her the truth?”

  If eyes could shoot daggers, I’d be dead. His handsome face contorted with emotion a few times, and then softened, despair settling in on him. That damn pity gene kicked in and I felt myself begin to soften. No, no stay strong. Resist. After another long silence, he spoke. “I can’t tell her. She has to have some idea, Jenny, because I am a walking cliché of gayness, but she lives in denial of everything I am. Sometimes I think I go overboard just so she will figure it out, but she never does. It’s like the more outlandish I get—the more stereotypical—the blinder she gets. Or she knows, and just thinks that if you don’t accept it, or talk about it, or think about it, it will go away. And I know this one’s not going away. I’ve tried every way I can think of, without coming right out and saying, ‘Hey, Mom, guess what, I’m queer.’ I’ve hinted. I’ve introduced her to friends. She remains blissfully clueless, probably because she chooses to be. And if I told her the truth, she would probably die right there on the spot.” Tears filled his beautiful blue eyes, and I caved. How could I hold up under that? James was my friend. I was a huge sucker.

  “Okay, so it’s not easy. But I’m not sure how you think this is going to turn out. My answer would be not well. Obviously, you and I are not ever going to be together, and there will be no wedding or grandchildren. Only bad things can come of this, James.”

  “Please, just play along. Just until I figure something else out, and until we find out if Mom’s heart is going to hold out.”

  “James . . .”

  “Jenny, I’m begging you.”

  “But she is trying to order me a wedding dress! She’s probably shopping for invitations! Booking the ward house for a wedding under the basketball standard.” I couldn’t help but shudder. That was not my idea of a wedding. I was more a “wedding-on-the-beach-under-the-stars” kinda girl, although the only beach we had close was the briny, salty, bug-infested shores of the stinky Great Salt Lake. Focus! “And, what if my mom hears about this?”

  “Just tell her we are talking about it, but we have not decided yet.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell James that my mother had long ago guessed that his sexual proclivities did not lend himself to the members of my gender. I can just imagine the lecture that would arise out of that discussion. I did not want to go there.

  “What about me? What’s going to happen when I get married and have my own kids? Well, I mean, if I decide to have kids. What then?”

  “Uh, Jenn? They aren’t exactly knocking down your door, are they? When’s the last time you even had a date?”

  I didn’t know why, but James’s comment stung and I felt the tears fill my eyes. I blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back, but of course he saw.

  “Oh, Jenny, I’m so sorry. That wasn’t very nice. I’m thinking of me, and not you, and you’ve had a rough time the past few days. Of course it works out great for me if you never get married or even have a boyfriend.”

  The tears started to flow after that comment. Never. Never was a long time, although it didn’t make a lot of difference if my “boyfriend” was named Big Bertha.

  “Don’t cry. I said I’m sorry. I wish that we weren’t such good friends and hadn’t been together so much, so then I could convince my mom that someone else was my intended.”

  “You wish we weren’t such good friends?” Even more tears. I must be premenstrual. This was nuts. I was hungry. That was it. I needed substantial food and that wouldn’t happen until tuition was due, four days from now.

  “Something tells me that it doesn’t matter what I say, you’re going to cry. So come here.”

  He opened up his arms and I fell against him and he held me while I sobbed a little. So much for being stern and in command while I told him he could not use me anymore.

  When I finally stopped crying, I sniffled and rubbed at my eyes, and then pulled away from him.

  “Hey, look at the bright side,” James said, rubbing at a mascara stain I’d left on his shirt, but kindly not commenting on it. “Those two law enforcement officials are pretty hot. Perhaps something will come of that.”

  “Yeah, sure it will. Prison orange will come of that. Not good. Not good at all.”

  “Oh, you are so right. Orange is just not a good color for you.”

  So much for being comforted.

  “You have two weeks to figure this out, James. I have enough on my plate without dealing with your mother’s delusions. Either come clean—and come out—or find another mustache.”

  “Another mustache?”

  “You know, when the girl covers for the gay guy, so people won’t know he’s gay, they call her the mustache.”

  James cracked up. “Jennifer, you are a totally delightful human being. It’s not a mustache, it’s a beard, but I think I like your terminology better.”

  There was a rap on the door, and then De
tective Wilson’s voice sounded through the door. “Uh, Jenny? Is everything okay in there?”

  Oh yeah, everything was just great.

  TEN

  ALISSA refused to leave until I assured her I’d be fine in Detective Wilson’s care. She gave me a warning look before exiting out the door. Of course, I had no idea what she was trying to convey with her glare. Perhaps, “Don’t sleep with him, he has a small Johnson,” or “This one uses them and loses them.” She gave me too much credit. I sucked at reading nuances. James left with a wink, following closely behind Alissa. Amber was still teaching dance to the geriatrics, who continued to file in and out of the bathroom every few minutes.

  “Well, since this is my day off, I think I’ll go home. Things haven’t gone too well for me today.”

  “I noticed,” Detective Wilson said, with a sardonic drawl coloring his voice. “Is your life always like this?”

  “Pretty much. Minus dead bodies and bonks on the head, of course.”

  “Let’s go get something to eat.”

  My stomach rumbled at the mere suggestion. But did I really want to be in this man’s company any longer? It was exhausting, trying to decide whether he wanted to trip me up and get me to confess to a murder I had not committed, or wanted to strip my clothes off and make passionate love to me.

  I was slightly terrified that the “love” part of it was totally in my head, and very one-sided, so it was easier not to think about it.

  “Come on, my treat.” That decided it. I didn’t get that opportunity very often. And there was nothing to eat in my apartment.

  We ended up at Rooster’s Brew Pub, a hop, skip, and fairly substantial leap from my small studio on 25th Street. They made a killer French onion soup that was to die for. Erk. I really needed to watch those clichés.

  After the hostess seated us on the main floor, handing us two large menus, I looked at the handsome man sitting across from me and reality settled in. “Look Detective Wilson . . .”

  “Tate,” he said interrupting me.

  “Okay, look Tate,” I said, starting again, “I’m not sure if you invited me here thinking you could soften me up and then I’d spill all the sordid details of my plot to murder Sandra Epstein, but I just have to tell you there is no plot, and I did not kill anyone.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I’m not a criminal mastermind. And Sandra always paid her tuition on time. She was a huge pain in my ass, but she paid! Not everyone does that, and I can’t even begin to tell you how many people write me checks that bounce.”

  “Really? They realize that is illegal, right?”

  I stared at him closely for a moment. “I guess not everyone has your legal sensibilities, Det . . . er, Tate. And I also guess I understand it. I live day to hour every single month. But it doesn’t make it easier for me when people’s checks bounce. Sandra paid six months at a time, and always in cash. That’s kind of weird, huh, considering she had no job. At least that I know of.”

  “Kinda weird,” he agreed. Was he agreeing? Or just trying to lead me astray? His face was emotionless, and he stared around the restaurant, his glance serious, careful, controlled.

  “Hi, my name’s Cullin, and I’ll be your . . . Oh no.” The waiter who had just walked up to our table took one look at me and turned a pasty white, his mouth falling open on the “o” and kinda staying that way for what seemed like five minutes.

  “Uh, hi, Cullin. You should probably shut your mouth. Not attractive.”

  In compliance, Cullin shut his mouth, and then opened and shut it a few more times, like he was trying to regain control of muscles that had gone slack at the sight of me. Finally, he clamped it shut and it stayed that way. In both hands he’d been balancing glasses of ice water, and he slammed both on the table in front of us, with a resounding thwack, water sloshing over the sides and onto the table.

  Tate’s eyebrows lowered and his eyes tightened, and he gave Cullin a hard stare. “Is there a problem here, Cullin?”

  “You have no idea what you are getting into,” Cullin muttered, and then took off for the back without taking our drink order or even asking us if we wanted an appetizer. I really wanted that artichoke dip, so Cullin was going to pay.

  “What now, Jenny? Old boyfriend?”

  “Heck no,” I said, appalled he couldn’t see what to me was terribly obvious. Of course, I’d been around Cullin before. “Old boyfriend of James’s. He was always jealous of our friendship. Decided he hated me, and the horse I rode in on. Did everything he could to get James to quit teaching dance for me and stop hanging out with me. In the end, I, uh, sorta helped James see the light.”

  “You got him to switch teams?” There was a gleam of humor in Tate’s eye as he fought back a grin.

  “Uh, I think it’s pretty obvious that isn’t ever going to happen. No, no, see I spotted Cullin with someone else, and so I did a little reconnaissance work, and got some pictures of him in a compromising position.”

  “So, you blackmailed him?” Man, this guy really wanted me to be a criminal bad.

  “Blackmail is a harsh word. I just showed Cullin the pictures and threatened to out him.”

  “Out him to James? But isn’t he . . . Okay, now I’m really confused.”

  Another man approached our table, slightly wary, but determined. Who knows what manner of lies Cullin had told. “Hi, my name is Jake, and I’ll be your waiter.”

  “Where’s our old waiter Cullin?” Tate asked, his eyes taking on that “what-the-hell-is-going-on-here” look I’d seen more than a few times in the short time I’d known him.

  “Suddenly got sick. Had to go home. Can I get you an appetizer?”

  “Artichoke dip,” I said, speaking up quickly before Waiter Jake could discover some connection to me—please God, don’t let him be a relative of the woman I’m accused of murdering—and bolt, too.

  “Right. I’ll get that coming.”

  “I’ll take a honey wheat draft,” Tate interjected.

  “Oooh, can I get one of those piña coladas? With the little umbrella?”

  “It’ll be right out.”

  “A piña colada? A foo-foo girlie drink.”

  “I’m a girl. I’ve had my foo-foo moments, too.”

  “Yes, I am aware you are a girl. All girl. I guess you’re entitled to your foo-foo drink.”

  Be still my beating heart. He thought I was all girl. Whoa. Hey, wait a minute. Did that mean he thought I was immature, because technically I was a woman. Argh. I had to stop overthinking things.

  “Back to Cullin and his story. I’m kind of curious what happened.”

  “Well, Cullin plays on both teams. He’s married with two kids. Something he didn’t bother to tell James. Marlys drives a school bus, and she picks up Cullin’s oldest. Of course, she didn’t know the child belonged to him until the day she saw Cullin standing there, waiting for the bus, holding his daughter’s hand.”

  “Who is Marlys, and how does she know James?”

  “Marlys’s daughters Carly and Maribel dance with me. And since Marlys has four kids, and they are all in one sport or another, and her husband is a teacher, she works for me in trade for her tuition. She does books, answers the phone, and mollifies the psycho moms before they go postal.”

  “And she drives a bus.”

  “Yes, she works for the Weber School District.”

  “So, Marlys saw Cullin. How did she know it was him?”

  “Because James was parading him around like arm candy at one of our competitions last year.”

  “Competitions? I thought you did a Nutcracker performance.”

  “You don’t know much about dance, do you?”

  “Only child.”

  “And of course you don’t have any kids, so you wouldn’t have a daughter who . . .” I stopped as the realization that he could certainly have some children running around hit me. I was assuming he was feetloose and fancy-free, but he could very well have luggage—perhaps even luggage of the small
human kind.

  “I don’t have any kids, Jenny, and I’ve never been married, and I don’t have a fiancée or anything else lurking in my closet.”

  “Why haven’t you ever been married?”

  “Why haven’t you?”

  “Me? Isn’t it obvious? I’m weird, I’m unstable, I live from foot to mouth week by week, and I spend all my time around raving lunatic dance moms and little kids with hygiene problems.”

  “Hand to mouth.”

  “Huh?”

  “You live hand to . . . Never mind.” He leaned back in his chair and shrugged off his suit coat, turning to drape it over the back of his chair, his strong arms rippling through the light fabric of his dress shirt as he completed the motion.

  “So back to this competition thing. How does that work?”

  “Well, I have teams that compete in local and national competitions. Usually just local, because I’m so poor I can’t afford to take them anywhere but places that I can drive to. There are hundreds of dance teams up and down the Wasatch Front, so there’s plenty of competitions to attend.”

  “And do you earn money when they win? Assuming they win.”

  Pride filled my heart, and the invisible voices of Nana Marian and alternately Grandma Gilly played in my head. “Pride goeth before a fall, Jennifer,” said Nana. “You’re going to hell in a handbasket,” was Grandma Gilly’s contribution. You’d think the two old women were dead and speaking to me from the otherworld, instead of both alive and kicking and, at least in Grandma Gilly’s case, playing Bingo every Friday night at St. Joseph’s. I shook them off.

  “I win. My teams are good and they win almost every time. Usually they win overall awards. Best of show awards. But no, I don’t get money. We get trophies. I have a lot of them.”

  “But no money?”

  I sighed. “No, that’s not the point. What I do earn is a reputation, and that attracts kids to my studio. I started out with fifteen dancers. Now I have more than seventy. There are a lot of bigger studios around that make a ton of money, but they have become businesses, and are no longer about the dance, in its pure form. I can’t stand to have someone with my team name out there dancing and doing a crappy job. Dance is not a business. It’s an art.”