Tutu Deadly

  “Now, will you go inside?”

  “Yes, I think I understand now.”

  He chuckled, a deep throaty sound.

  I turned away and walked inside my studio, thinking how warm it had been in his arms—a little too warm, actually, except I wanted to heat it up with him even more—and how cold it felt in my studio now. Wait. Oh no. I breathed out and saw the cloud of fog that was becoming just a little too common. Not again.

  Tate opened the door and stepped inside and looked around. “You saving on heat?”

  “Stupid damn, damn furnace.”

  “I guess the answer to that is no.”

  “Marco is gone, and I don’t know squat about furnaces, but it keeps going out. I don’t want to have to call my dad again, but I can’t teach dance when my studio feels like a refrigerator.”

  “I’ll look at it.”

  “You know furnaces?”

  “Pretty well. Better than most. My dad was an HVAC guy.”

  “I have no idea what that means, but if it has something to do with furnaces, I am forever in your debt.”

  “Heating, ventilation, air-conditioning.”

  “Heating. Heating is good. Let’s go.”

  I led the way down the inner staircase and unlocked the door that connected my studio to Marco’s store. I punched in the key code to keep the alarm from going off, and from there, we continued to the basement, but not before Tate glanced in at the darkened store that was filled with junk and priceless antiques. Only Marco and the truly gifted seemed to know which was which.

  I flipped on a light in the cavernous basement, and the fluorescents flickered on, revealing more of Marco’s priceless treasures and more than a little junk, and in the front, facing 25th Street, the huge, ancient furnace.

  “Wow, that’s old.”

  “Yes, it is,” I answered. “Do you think you can fix it? I think my dad said it had something to do with a pilot light.”

  “I’ll figure it out,” he said, and then proceeded to tinker with the furnace until I heard a whoosh and a roar.

  “Yea! You did it!” I considered doing a happy dance, but thought it might scare him off, and frankly, I didn’t want that. I wanted him close.

  Tate brushed off his hands and then looked around, his eyes focusing on an alcove that was bricked in, but that had once clearly been an opening.

  “What’s that?”

  “An entrance to the tunnels.”

  “What tunnels?”

  “You haven’t heard about the tunnels of 25th Street?”

  He shook his head.

  “Back in the early 1900s, 25th Street was a pretty rough place. Rumor has it Al Capone said that it was too rough of a place for him to come. This building we’re in used to be a bordello. I guess they had the tunnels to hide from the police, and to run their moonshine and illegal gambling. The tunnels run all through 25th Street.”

  “Wow, I’d never heard that before.”

  “Really? Everybody around here knows about the tunnels. I guess being from Brigham City, though, you wouldn’t know. How long have you been here?”

  “Oh, two years. I spent about seven years with the Las Vegas PD, before I realized I was more a small-town kinda guy, so I came back. Tried the Brigham City PD, but it was just a little too small. Ogden came calling, and I answered. So why are the tunnels blocked up?”

  “Well, mostly because they are pretty ancient, and they don’t meet earthquake codes. See that beam? That is for reinforcement. And they had to close off the tunnels.”

  “Damn, it would be interesting to go into those tunnels.”

  I shuddered as I considered going into one of those dark, small tunnels. “No thanks.”

  “Claustrophobia?”

  “Yeah, along with a morbid fear of spiders and rodents.”

  “Still, it must be fascinating.”

  “I heard that some of the tunnel entrances are still open, but I never investigated more. No desire.”

  “Do most people know about their history?”

  “No, and I’m not sharing it. Pyscho dance moms are psycho enough. They sure don’t need to know that this building used to be a house of ill repute.”

  “Well, I’d love to explore those tunnels.”

  “When Marco gets back, I’ll ask him where the openings are, and you can have fun. Just don’t invite me along.”

  I started back up the stairs, and then stopped, a sudden rush of heat to my face reminding me what had happened when he had been walking behind me before. “Uh, you can go first.”

  That deep, sexy chuckle caused electrical pings in my body, and it was all I could do not to knock him to the floor and take advantage of him. Of course, the floor down here was dirty, and there were probably mice droppings and spiders and . . . Whew, that cooled me off.

  And if that didn’t work, there was the air in the building. When we reached the top floor, I sighed in relief to hear the noise of the furnace. It would be a bit before the studio warmed up, but we had come here straight from lunch, and so by the time the Tots filed in, it would be much warmer.

  To me, anytime Tate Wilson was around, it was too hot for comfort.

  SIXTEEN

  SINCE I had my own version of The Nutcracker, I got to create roles for all of my dancers. This wasn’t always wonderful, since many of my dancers were greatly dance-challenged, but somehow, I usually managed to find a way to make all of them look decent in one role or another. For example, my Tots were of the age where the cute factor was big. Dress them up in a pretty costume, curl and fluff up their hair, and it didn’t much matter what they did on the floor. Everybody oohed and aahed and laughed over how cute they were. I’d made my Tots swan babies for the past two years and it brought in entire passels of families to see their little ones act cute. Probably one-third or less of the girls actually had any dance talent, but at that age, it didn’t matter. Sometimes I longed to be that age again myself, where skill and talent were not a big factor, but being cute was. I could do cute. Really.

  Today, I was trying to get a bunch of Tots to do the unthinkable—hold a leg extension without hopping off to Nevada. They would lift their chubby legs up, holding them high, and then hop, hop, hop until they looked like a bunch of mutant frogs instead of swan babies. Granted, real swans did not do leg extensions, but this was dance, and there was not going to be a passel of frogs performing in my Nutcracker.

  Finding your center, an integral part of dance, was a feat too advanced for four- and five-year-olds. After Marlys’s daughter Marble crashed into Abby Fredericks, and both of them ran to their mothers in tears, I decided to pull the leg extension from the choreography, going instead with a simple grapevine move.

  Tate was in the back, sitting on a folding chair with all the other dance moms, who were supposed to be sitting in the waiting area and not watching class. I really had to enforce that rule again. I kept glancing back at him, and it was making me really nervous. He was deep in conversation with Marlys and Angie Jones, one of the other Tot moms, and I couldn’t imagine what had them so engrossed except discussing just how strange I really was. I couldn’t help it. I was an artist. We were supposed to be weird.

  I finally got the swan babies working in unison—somewhat—and then it was time for the Minis and Smalls classes. Amber and James sauntered in at the same time, almost late, but not quite. Made it hard to complain. However, James was toting the rat under his arm, and today, the creature was wearing a sweater. A sweater!

  “Hello, you ravenously beautiful creature,” James said, smiling widely at me.

  “Good try, Pied Piper. Get rid of it.”

  “Jennifer, but then I would be late for class, and who would teach the Smalls?”

  “Me, as I always do. You came in today to help, remember? You can’t help with a rat attached to your side. It’s too distracting.”

  I really should just stop talking, you know, because the moment I said that, all the Tots spotted the little dog under James’s arm, as di
d the incoming stream of Minis and Smalls, and soon it was a small dance riot, as everyone tried to pet the rat that James called a dog. Big problem was no one was dancing, and our performance was getting awfully close. Damn James.

  “Phreee-wweeeet.” A sharp whistle pierced the air and Amber clapped her hands and all the little girls scattered back to their proper positions. The Tots headed out the door, and the Smalls and Minis were on the floor stretching. How the hell did she do it? It was a good thing Amber was not a choreographer, or I would be out of a job—and a dance studio. While she was a fabulous dancer, she did not have the skill or artistic vision to create dances. Thank God for me.

  Marlys lingered behind and I walked up to her and gave her a hug. “I’m sorry about the bus, Mar. I really am.”

  “It’s cool. The news stations interviewed me, and now my bosses think I’m the neatest thing since sliced bread. Somehow, you always end up smelling like roses, Jenny. I don’t know how you pull it off.”

  “I haven’t pulled anything off. I have no clue who killed Sandra Epstein, and any minute now bullets could start flying again, so I’m not sure what you mean, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “It’s going to be okay, Jenn. Tate has everything under control.”

  Nothing like an hour of watching mutant frogs to put people on a first-name basis.

  “And Jenny? This one’s good. He’s golden. Don’t let him go.”

  With that, she grabbed Marble’s arm and headed out the door. Great. She was all but planning the wedding.

  “Jennifer, can I speak to you alone, please?”

  “Only if you lose the rat.”

  James sighed deeply.

  I ushered him into the office, while Amber continued to warm up the Smalls and Minis. I needed to run the Buffoon and Snowflake routines with them, but if I didn’t listen to James now, he would drive me crazy with anguished sighs and tormented glances, so I knew I’d better get it over with.

  After I shut the door, I leaned against the desk and folded my arms, waiting for James to speak.

  “Now, Jennifer, please do not freak.”

  That was not a good start. This wasn’t going to go well.

  “James, just spill. What is it?”

  He put the little dog down, and Winkie promptly wandered over to my garbage can and made good on his name, lifting his leg and going winkie on the floor.

  “James!”

  “Oh, bad dog. Bad, bad, awful, annoying, despicable little piece of hairless . . .”

  “Uh, James? I thought you liked this dog.”

  “This creature is not a dog. It’s a walking fleabag alarm clock, mother . . .”

  “James! Then why do you have it?”

  “Stupid Cullin. Stupid, stupid Cullin. He bought it for his wife, and she was repulsed by it, so he came by, and sweet-talked me, and got me into bed, and next thing I knew I had a dog and what the hell was I supposed to do?”

  “Oh, James. You have got to stay away from him. When did this happen?”

  “He says the same thing about you, Jennifer dear.”

  “That’s just because I know what a two-timing weasel he really is. I don’t care that he’s gay, but I suspect his wife might! And he’s not honest.”

  “A judgment that is easy for you to make, Jenn. You don’t know what it’s like to be a gay man in this culture. It’s hard in any family, I suppose, but here in Utah, it’s even worse.”

  “Fine, you’re right. I don’t know what it’s like. But I do know that he is cheating on his wife, and apparently, with you—again—and I don’t understand how you can . . .”

  A sudden sharp rap on the door made us both jump. “Everything okay in there?” Tate called through the door.

  “Yes, fine. Be out in just a minute,” I called. Winkie chose that moment to lift his leg on the fake palm plant decorating my office.

  “Winkie, no!” James and I hollered in unison, and the dog stopped, turning to stare at both of us with a perplexed look on his face, leg still raised.

  I sighed deeply. “James, you need to just say no to Cullin. He’s bad news. He’s playing on both teams. How do you think that is going to turn out for you?” Urk. I’d become my father.

  “Not well. He’s hard to say no to, but Jenny, I have to talk to you about something else. It’s this . . .”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly bent lilac-colored envelope. While I knew James liked lilac, I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach about this particular lilac-colored envelope. He extended it toward me, and I reached for it with trepidation, scared about just what I was going to find inside. I opened it up, and pulled out a folded card. The card matched the lilac hue of the envelope and featured a darker-colored purple ribbon tied on top. The front of the card featured the names “James” and “Jennifer” in elegant calligraphy handwriting. This was bad.

  “What is this?”

  “Jennifer, please, just read.” James offered up one of his long-suffering sighs, and I fought the desire to wring my hands around his neck.

  I opened up the card, and saw words that welcomed guests to an informal gathering at the Chez Panisse restaurant—James’s uncle’s restaurant—this Friday night. The same night that my annual Nutcracker production was scheduled to go on at the Eccles Center. This was an invitation to an engagement party. An engagement party for James—and me. Blood rushed to my head and spots swam before my eyes. How could it have gotten this far? How could this lily-livered coward standing in front of me have allowed it to get this far?

  “Now Jennifer, before you get too worked up, I want you to know that I had nothing to do with this. My mother cooked it up all herself, and I told her it isn’t going to happen, and that we aren’t ready to even think about setting a date, but . . .”

  More spots. Maybe some shooting flames. Could heads literally explode? Since all I could hear was a roaring noise in my head, but James appeared to be still blathering on, I was very worried that this might be true.

  The office door opened and in came Monica, holding about fifteen shimmery peacock-colored costumes, trimmed with what appeared to be genuine ostrich feathers. Her timing, as always, was impeccable. And of course I could not ask her to wait, because she was nutty and flighty and might threaten to jump out of my two-story building if I got her even slightly upset. The relief crossing James’s face told me he was well aware of this, and once again he was off the hook. But this time, not for long.

  “James, as soon as these fittings are over, I am getting in my car and driving to your mother’s house and setting her straight as to exactly who and what it is you are interested in, and also making sure she knows there will not now, nor will there ever be, a wedding between you and me.”

  Sheer terror crossed his features as he backed out, apparently trying to gauge just how serious I was. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to know me as well as he thought. This was messing with my livelihood. I wouldn’t be a mustache for anyone if it stood in the way of my yearly Nutcracker performance, the only thing that kept me solvent the rest of the year. Could I be considered solvent? Probably not, but that was not the point. It kept me from being homeless and unemployed, and that was all I cared about.

  “We’ll chat after the fittings, okay?”

  “I am not kidding, James. You have about two hours to fix this. That’s it. That’s all I’m giving you.”

  He chuckled weakly, his face pale and wan.

  Monica stood holding the costumes, her big brown eyes traveling back and forth from James to me, and back again.

  When he turned and disappeared, Monica moved forward and set the costumes on my desk, a few stray feathers floating up from the pile and hanging in the air like tiny turquoise birds.

  “I have the rest of this stuff in my car. I’ll go get it, and then we’ll do fittings,” she said, her voice calm and moderate, and, I thought, a bit smug. Could it be that she was enjoying this circus that had become my life?

  “You seem
remarkably calm and happy today, Monica. New man in your life? Win the lottery?”

  “Prozac,” she said with a straight face, and then she turned and walked out the door.

  Maybe I should get myself some of that.

  MONICA did a remarkable job on the costumes, and the fittings went smoothly. She stayed calm, cool, and collected throughout the entire thing, and I was starting to get worried. Nothing around Monica ever went smoothly. Usually there was a costume that was too big, or too small, and as soon as she realized she had changes to make, the hyperventilating and threats started up. Not this time. Everything fit, with only minor alterations, except for the Sugar Plum Fairy costume. The reason for that, of course, was obvious. It had been designed for Taylee, who was two inches shorter and much thinner than the other two Seniors who were currently vying for the role.

  Things were going too well. I didn’t even want to bring this up, but I had no choice. While making a costume smaller was no big deal, making it bigger was an entirely different thing. In other words, it didn’t happen. We would have to start from scratch, and I would have to accept that Taylee was not going to be here to dance the role.

  I closed my eyes and dove in, headfirst, waiting for the explosion. “Monica, I need a costume that fits these two,” I said, indicating the two Seniors I was considering giving the Plum role to, as the girls sat next to each other on the hardwood floor. They were chatting idly, and you would hardly know their moms were bitter enemies, the result of a front-row-fifty feud a few years back. Both girls were pretty even tempered, and although talented, they had not picked up the sharp-edged ambitions that both of their mothers had—even though the ambitions were for them.

  I waited for Monica’s head to pop off.

  “That’s fine, Jenny. I ordered extra material for this costume, since you usually change your mind at least three times, so I should have it done by Thursday. That gives us time for any last-minute alterations.”

  Good God. Who was this person, and what had she done with the real Monica? I was totally puzzled. Surely this complete turnaround would require more than a simple antidepressant like Prozac. Knowing Monica, I would suspect she would require heavy-duty drugs like lithium, and maybe some electroshock treatments.