Tutu Deadly

  “But, but, but . . .” I tried to stop him. It was too late. Perhaps worried if they didn’t act now, they would never get their money, the women divided off nicely into two lines and handed over their cartoons of cookie dough to Amber and James, who began stacking them against the wall.

  “What have you done?” I asked him, tears filling my eyes. “I don’t have this kind of money. In fact, I have no money. Did you miss that somewhere? Oh God, I’m going to have to borrow from my parents, or maybe Nana Marian, and they will all know what a failure I am and . . . Oh, how could you do this? Do you really want to see me in jail this bad?”

  He gave me a puzzled look and then pulled me toward my office. “We’ll be right back,” he told Marlys, who nodded and continued to add up containers of frozen cookie dough.

  After he shut the door, I turned to him and just shook my head, unable to find words to express what I was feeling. “I . . .”

  “Before you speak, or call me names, or any of that, let me explain. I grew up in Brigham City, which is where Ponds Cookie Dough is made. In fact, my mother taught all of the Ponds children in school, and they still invite her to every family occasion. I simply reminded Mr. Ponds that refusing to refund money in light of a possible disaster, where people could be hurt, was not good business. Especially since the person who sold the cookie dough was a small business owner—a dance teacher—just trying to make a living. And since he was a multi million-dollar conglomerate, it wouldn’t look good to have him refuse refunds to that teacher, and to have that teacher go under, due to his sheer greediness. He agreed. After I threatened to go to the press.”

  Stunned, I could not find words. Finally, I spoke. “He gave you the money?”

  “Not exactly. But he will be giving you the money. It takes time to get things rolling in the corporate world.”

  “But the vultures out there want their money now.”

  “And they shall get their money.”

  He pulled out his wallet and took out a folded check, and handed it to me. I could see it was from his personal account, signed by him, but the amount was blank. It was made out to me.

  “You’re going to pay for the dough?”

  “It’s a temporary loan. As soon as Ponds pays up, you will pay me back.”

  “You have that kind of money? Do you know how much it is? We sold four thousand dollars worth.”

  “I’m single, I own a small condo, a modest car, and I don’t have kids or pets. It’s easy to save when you live that way.”

  A glimmer of hope was replaced by complete darkness. “I can’t do this. What if Ponds doesn’t pay up? It would take me years to repay you. Literally. I barely scrape by, Tate. I make just enough each month to pay my rent here, my rent at home, put gas in my car, and buy a week’s worth of groceries. I scramble the rest of the month.”

  “We’ll work it out some other way then,” he said, a strange glimmer lighting his eye.

  “I am not that kind of girl,” I said, putting all the disgust and anger I could find in my voice, all the while thinking how much fun it would be to work off all that money. I was bad.

  “You aren’t?” he said teasingly, and I knew he didn’t really mean it as a proposition. He really wanted to help me.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly, leaning into him and standing on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I don’t know how I’ll repay you—and that’s probably literal—but somehow I will.”

  Tate pulled me into him and I gasped as electric shocks coursed up and down my body, my breasts pressed against his firm, sturdy chest, my legs pressed up against his, and me, on tiptoe, wondering if my body was going to spontaneously combust.

  He leaned his head down and kissed me on the lips, not too gently, and I swear I heard sparks fly somewhere around us. Then he let me go.

  “Go out there and pay those crazy women back. Then I want to buy you some food—so your stomach won’t complain—and then take you home and get to know you a little better.” There was promise in his voice, and my eyes opened wide as I considered it. Perhaps I had not been imagining, all along, that he found me attractive.

  “I can’t,” I said, a mixture of disappointment and relief tingeing my voice. “I have classes until 9 p.m.”

  “Damn,” he said, a sexy smile turning his handsome face into an irresistible lure.

  “But maybe if you came by after lessons . . .” What was wrong with me? This man was dangerous. Eh, who was I kidding? This man was hot. Dangerous or not, I wanted him.

  “Maybe,” he agreed. “Maybe.”

  Then he leaned over and gave me another soft kiss, one that hardened and turned passionate and which resulted in me throwing my arms around his neck and wishing we weren’t in my little office so I could rip off his clothes and find out . . .

  “Later, Jenny. Psycho moms? Outside the door?”

  “Psycho moms,” I parroted, not really comprehending. “Oh, psycho moms!” Yikes.

  I straightened my hair and dance clothes, and he watched me, his arms crossed and muscles rippling, leaning back against my desk, as I opened the door and went out into the fray, emboldened and strengthened by the fact I was not going to go to jail today, or anytime in the next, oh, week. At least.

  Each mother gave the total amount of containers they had returned to either Krystal or Marlys, and I sat down on a chair and wrote out check, after check, after check. I’d never written so many checks in my life. But finally, the moms started to file out, just in time for afternoon classes to begin. The Tots came early, since they did not have school, and would be arriving in less than thirty minutes.

  And of course, some of them came with their mothers to return the dough, so they were already here, milling around, and in some cases, looking for something to destroy.

  I grudgingly thanked Krystal for her help, and tried to get away before she could corner me about making Marilyn the Sugar Plum Fairy again. It didn’t work. “Now, Jenny, you are going to need a new fundraiser. Perhaps the full Krystal mobiles were too much. How about I make a mini version, and you can sell them for ten dollars, and I’ll give you three dollars of that?”

  While it was a much more reasonable deal than the one she had pitched to me before, I knew it was still too costly for a fundraiser, and besides, if I never did another fundraiser again, it would be too soon.

  “Can we talk about it later, Krystal?”

  “Of course. Now, about Marilyn and the Sugar Plum Fairy . . .”

  I sighed, and everything that had built up over the past few days came rushing back. I just couldn’t take any more. “Krystal, Marilyn will never be the Sugar Plum Fairy. In case you haven’t noticed—and apparently you haven’t—Marilyn does not like to dance. In fact, she hates it. She despises it. She tells me every week she despises it, and the only time she actually dances is when you are here, glaring at her. The rest of the time, she does nothing. She is not gifted in dance. I’m sure she has other gifts, but dance is not one of them.”

  Krystal gasped. “How can you say something like that? She has my genes! Of course she can dance. I was Marvelous Miss Dance and Drill Utah for all three years of high school. I was the drill mistress of our drill team. I danced in college. She can dance. Oh yes, she can dance, because she is my daughter, by God, and she can and will dance. And you better put her in that role and give her a chance to show you that she can dance, or I’ll make you regret the day you were born.”

  With that, she turned and stomped out of the studio.

  Some of the other mothers tittered at the display, and then turned to each other and started gossiping, and I sighed heavily. Marlys came over to me and put her arm around me.

  “That woman is a whack job,” she said.

  “Unfortunately, she’s one of many. This is a pretty frustrating business.”

  “I’d say,” Amber added from behind us. James was showing Winkie off to the Tots and their moms, who apparently had more appreciation for rat dogs than I did.

  “Jenny, I don’
t mean to pry, but how are you going to cover all those checks you wrote?” Marlys asked, hesitation filling her voice. But she had a right to ask. After all, she did my books for me.

  “It’s covered. Don’t worry.” I didn’t want to tell anyone that Detective Tate Wilson had floated me a loan. I wasn’t sure why, but I just wasn’t comfortable with that. It implied intimacy, which I wanted to believe we had shared—or at least were going to share—but it was all too new, to unsure, to talk about it.

  “Okay,” she said. Four-year-old Maribel, her youngest daughter, who had just started the Tots class, came up to me and tugged on my leg. “Jenny, can we do stensions today? I like stensions.”

  “Stensions? What is she talking about?” Marlys asked.

  “You know, Mommy, stensions.” Then Maribel lifted up her right leg and tried to hold on to her foot and pull it into the air, all the while hopping all over the room, a small pink tornado in a leotard, tights, and dance shoes. Marlys and I both started laughing, and I said, “Sure, Marble,” using her nickname, “it’ll be an extension kind of day.”

  I was glad to teach, to get back to safety.

  There had been far too little of that going on in my life the past few days. And with an unsolved murder hanging over my head, Taylee still missing, and a hard to explain relationship with a certain detective investigating that unsolved murder, I would be happy to do extensions until the chickens came home.

  FOURTEEN

  DANCE classes did not go well, particularly with the Seniors, as they were all fighting for the plum role—heh heh, get it, plum?—of the Sugar Plum Fairy. I wasn’t promising it to anyone else, holding out in case Taylee was found, but still, I had to find a backup. Someone else needed to know the part. Marilyn Glass was, unfortunately, at dance, although Krystal did not show up, and so, she did nothing but glower in a corner and incessantly text message someone.

  Ariel Fox was tall and pretty graceful, but she landed like an elephant. Loni Richards was pretty good, but very unreliable, and she missed more classes than she made. The rest of them simply didn’t have the technical skill to pull off the role. But I started Ariel and Loni both learning the routine, wishing I had a bigger pool of talent to pull from.

  Of course, that would mean more psycho moms. Just what I needed.

  Classes ended at 9 p.m., and I was glad to see the last of the girls go. Amber packed up and left early because she had a hot date—of course—and James had to go home and make sure little Winkie hadn’t piddled all over his expensive rugs.

  When the last student left, I sighed with relief, and turned on my favorite CD, a mix of songs good for stretching. I did a series of exercises intended to relax my tense neck and shoulder muscles. It wasn’t working, so I knew I needed to dance. It was the only thing that relieved my tension. I walked over to the stereo and rustled through my CD holder until I found the Pussycat Dolls’ CD, and I stuck it in the player. I couldn’t exactly use that music during class time—unless I wanted to have seventeen million parents trying to wring my neck—but I loved the sensual rhythm of the music, and it was very, very danceable. The exotic Middle Eastern rhythm of the song “Buttons” filled the room, and I began to stretch to the music, then began to dance full out. I did jeté turns as the Dolls sang about a man they wanted to loosen up their buttons, proving he was a real man. I felt my body move with the music and I lost myself, leaping and moving in time with the music. I did a series of pique turns and ran into a solid body mass, and almost screamed, except I recognized the shirt covering the muscular chest.

  Detective Wilson had returned.

  He watched me with a silky, sultry look on his face, and the song ended, neither of us saying anything, just staring at each other, his arms lightly around me, holding me just where I had landed, fresh from a turn.

  “Well, I guess I should have locked the door,” I said, breathless both from my dancing and the fact that I was now in the arms of the man I had naughty dreams about—or at least had since meeting him a few days before.

  “Considering you were attacked just last night—something you forgot to tell me—I’d say the answer to that is yes.”

  “I figured the troops would let you know about it. It’s not like you were so concerned you showed up or anything.” The words came out before I realized what I was saying, and it was only then I fully realized how much it bothered me he had not come over to see if I was okay. I moved away from him and walked over to the stereo to turn it off.

  “Jenny, I had a good reason for not being there, okay?” His lips tightened, and I could tell that he was bothered that—what? That I was bothered? And why wasn’t he sharing his reason?

  “No big deal. Marshal Fallon was there, watching me, of course, so he was able to chase her off, whoever she is.”

  “Considering what I saw in here today, it could be any one of these women.”

  “She was kind of big and very soft, not muscular at all. It was probably Emma. I don’t know why she is trying to frame me, but there is no telling the mind of a psycho dance mom. She really wanted Ella to be the Sugar Plum Fairy, instead of a dancing buffoon.”

  Tate chuckled. “God, I love this case.”

  “You are not supposed to love murder cases.”

  “Thank you for that, Suzy Sunshine.” The way he was looking at me made me squirm, and alternately, made me want to jump on him and hold him tight, never letting him go. But then I remembered his vague answer about being busy last night, when I was being attacked, and I wondered just what had kept him so enthralled. Another woman? I did not want this man to be playing me. I could feel it so bad it ached. But if my luck ran true to form, he might be. I had to protect myself.

  “Well, I guess I should close up the studio. Did you just come by to make sure I hadn’t left town?”

  His mouth hardened. “No, I came to make sure you were okay, and taking care of yourself, which, obviously, you were not, considering the door was unlocked and you were dancing around without a care in the world.”

  “That is not fair. I have more cares than anyone would ever care to have,” I nearly shouted. “I just needed a release. I needed to get rid of some of this tension.”

  “I could help you with that,” he said, stepping closer, his voice low and scratchy. I took a step back and swallowed. It didn’t seem to matter which way I turned with Tate Wilson. He was always getting the better of me.

  But I was no longer sure of his interest in me, and whether it had to do with the case. Just this morning I’d been ready to pledge lifelong allegiance to him, but all it had taken was for him to clam up about his whereabouts the night before, and I started second-guessing myself.

  Either I was very, very smart and cautious, or I was the world’s biggest doehead. Experience told me it was the latter, but I wasn’t going to examine that too closely tonight.

  “Okay, thanks for coming to check on me. I’ll close it up now, and get home. I’m very tired. It’s been a trying day. Uh, thanks again for helping me out with the cookie-dough fiasco. I’ll find a way to repay you.” Maybe Mom and Dad could get a second mortgage on their house, and somehow I could explain how this was all necessary because of cookie dough.

  He sensed that I was shooing him off, and his eyes narrowed, as he watched me closely. “Well, you were just all thankful earlier today. Now you are shutting me out like I’m yesterday’s garbage. Which means one of two things. You just met the love of your life, and he’s waiting for you at your apartment, or you are second-guessing everything because I was busy last night and I won’t tell you where I was.”

  Damn him.

  “Ah, it’s the second, I see.”

  “Look, Tate, I’m a big girl. I haven’t reached this age without running around the block a few times, and I guess . . . I guess I’m tired of getting hurt, plus I’m all caught up in something pretty bad right now.”

  “Yes, you are. But I’m still going to tell you that where I was has nothing to do with you, or with another woman. And th
at’s all I’m going to say, because I don’t really know you well enough. And if you can’t accept that, we’ll probably never know each other that well.”

  Could I accept that? I guess I didn’t have a choice.

  “Okay. I accept it. But I still need to lock up the studio and get home.”

  He sighed and asked what he could do to help. He helped me straighten up a bit and then watched as I gathered my coat and scarf, helping me with the coat and watching me wrap the scarf around my neck. He stood outside on the landing as I locked the dead bolt and then waited for me to pass him and walk down the stairs. I could feel his breath on my neck as I passed, and could feel the metal staircase vibrate with his heavy steps as he followed me down.

  I reached my Bug and unlocked the door, then turned to tell him that I was going to start it and let it warm up. He caught me by surprise, pulling me close, and then kissing me deeply. I lost all thought of everything.

  When he pulled away, finally, I was sure hours had passed—or was it just seconds? He gave me one more deep gaze and then told me to get in and start my car.

  “I’ll be following you home, so don’t panic if you see headlights behind you.”

  “You’re still following me,” I said, sadness coloring my voice. I wasn’t sad because he was following me, but because he was following me for the wrong reasons.

  “I’m following you because someone is trying to frame you for murder, and you are in danger, not because I think that you are guilty, Jennifer T. Partridge.” His voice was soft. “And right in the middle of a case is not a good time to get involved, despite what you’ve seen in movies and on television. Actually, you might have an idea, based on those movies, just what can happen when a police officer gets involved with . . .”

  “A suspect?”

  “No, someone integral to his case. I think you’re a witness, and I think you’re a potential victim, and that is why I will be watching you until I solve this case.”