Tutu Deadly

by Natalie M. Roberts

  Luckily, the Ogden Fire Department had not come in with blazing hoses. A quick investigation showed the damage done by the bomb was minimal. Since they investigated first, before shooting water out of the enormous hoses, the studio, and all of the priceless antiques below it, were not waterlogged and ruined. Thank God.

  Now the police were trying to figure out why someone would want to blow open the tunnel, and who would do such a thing. The only person I had let into the building that morning had been Camari and her daughter, and so I was more than a little worried. I couldn’t see what Camari would have to do with such a horrible event, and she certainly couldn’t know how to make a bomb—could she?—but the police told me they would have to question her. I told them to get my twenty bucks while they were at it, but they just gave me a funny look.

  Camari was nuts, but not bomb-making, tunnel-blowing nuts. Was she?

  After all of the hullabaloo settled down, and Tate called in the Disaster Cleanup Company, who promised to get rid of all the soot and most of the smell, he pulled me away from the studio, and put me into his car. I was too drained to argue.

  “Guess I’ll cancel dance tonight,” I said dully, after I heard his car door shut with a snick. He started up the car and moved away. He’d given the key to the studio and the key to my car to one of the uniforms and instructed him to watch the cleaners carefully, then lock things up and bring the key to my apartment, along with my car. I stared out the window, not looking at him. “I certainly can’t afford to cancel dance tonight, and God knows these girls need the practice, but hey, the gods are telling me to cancel dance, and I guess it is about time I started listening. Of course the gods aren’t going to have to listen to the psycho dance moms who are pissed off that I’m shorting their darling daughters one dance lesson, but hey, such is life. It happens. It’s the way things go. It’s . . .”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sure, fine, just fine. Oh, hey, I need to go pick up costumes at Monica’s house, although I’m sure the way things are going I will have no need for them. Since you have kidnapped me and are driving, can you take me there?”

  Tate chuckled. “You are not fine. You are in shock. The only place I am taking you is to your home.”

  “No, I really need to go to Monica’s and get my costumes.” The despair and wooziness was starting to wear off, at least slightly. I was going to pick up my costumes. I was. “If you don’t take me, I will walk.”

  “Jenny, do you ever just back off and let someone help you, or just listen to their advice?”

  “Sometimes. I’m sure I do. I’m sure I have. Really.” I listened all the time. I just didn’t agree, usually. “I’m not trying to be stubborn, but the truth is, I am. I’m very stubborn, and I’m independent, and I have a lot at stake here. I know someone is trying to kill me, or hurt me, or at the least frame me and scare the hell out of me, but I don’t know who that is. And so I have to keep on going, because I am not going to let this destroy me. Now if you don’t . . .”

  “Stop.”

  “I can’t. I have to explain why . . .”

  “Jenny, I’ll take you to Monica’s to get your costumes. Why don’t you call Marlys and ask her to call and cancel dance.”

  “You and Marlys are tight now, huh? Fine, I’ll call.” I reached for my purse, only to realize that I’d left it behind in my studio. No phone. “Ah, no phone. Oh well. What else is new?”

  Tate pulled his phone out of the hip holder where he kept it, dialed a number, and instructed whoever answered on the other end to find my purse and retrieve my phone, keeping it where they could see it in case Taylee called. They were to bring both my purse and phone to the apartment, when they brought my keys and my car. I was starting to feel like my life had shattered into a million pieces, and Detective Tate Wilson was being forced to try to pick them all up. After he hung up, he handed the phone over to me.

  I dialed Marlys’s number and she answered, “Hello?” I told her to call the team moms and have them call all their team members and tell them there had been a mishap at the studio, and there would be no dance tonight. Instead, I would reschedule for tomorrow night, which was normally one of the Golden Agers nights, but they were just going to have to wait.

  “Why are you calling on Tate’s phone?” she asked me, after she’d assured me that she would take care of getting the word out.

  “How’d you know it was Tate’s phone?”

  “It came up on the caller ID, and so I . . .” her voice trailed off. I was kind of technologically impaired, but one thing I did know was phones. At least I knew how to destroy and lose them. But I’d had enough of them to know a few things, and one of those was that caller ID registered only if you had that person’s phone number registered in your phone address book. Which meant that . . .

  “Why do you have Tate’s number programmed into your phone?” I asked Marlys, hoping that it wasn’t jealously that was coloring my voice, and rather just confusion and some other emotions I could not identify.

  There was silence, and then she sighed. “Because you are in deep shit here, Jenny, and as someone who really cares about you, I intend to make sure you get out of this okay. And Tate is one of the good guys, so I am trying to help him help you stay safe.”

  Why did I suddenly feel like I was in kindergarten, and as helpless as a newborn kitten?

  “Just call the moms, Marlys. Thanks for doing that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay, Jenny, I will.”

  I clicked the disconnect button and was so surprised when the phone’s bells pealed that I dropped it on the floor under my feet, and had to reach over to pick it up. As I grabbed it, I accidentally hit the On button. I’d intended to hand it over to Tate, but the voice I heard coming from the phone stopped me cold. “Hello, hello? Tate, what are you doing? Why aren’t you answering? Tate, are you there? I hate these phones. I really do. Tate, can you hear me?”

  It was Alissa’s voice on the phone, and followed so closely by the revelation that Marlys had Tate’s number in her phone, I was entirely unsure what to think. Were all of my friends really his friends, too, or was he trying to take over my friends and my life? Now that was a crazy thought. Damned crazy. A more likely reason was that they all thought I was totally incapable of taking care of myself, and so they were treating me like a child. I imagined three-way conversations that started with, “Whatever are we going to do about Jenny?”

  “Why are you calling Tate, Alissa?” I said calmly into the phone, although I was boiling inside.

  “Jenny?”

  “Bingo.”

  “You sound different. A little stressed, and maybe kind of angry. Are you okay?”

  “Why are you calling Tate, Alissa?”

  “Because I’ve been calling your phone for more than two hours, after I heard about the explosion, and you weren’t answering. And I’m damned worried about you, and now I’m wondering why you would even ask. I work for the cops, and we have all of their cell phone numbers.”

  It made sense. I knew it, but suddenly I was becoming Queen Paranoia. My entire life was being hit from all directions, and everything was turned upside down. So I was paranoid. Could anyone really blame me?

  “I’m sorry, Alissa. I’m a little on edge. I’m okay, and it’ll all work out. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Jenny, who are you trying to convince? Me or you?”

  “Maybe both of us. At least no one got hurt.”

  “Okay, I’m on break at work, so I have to go, but I have been worried sick. I’m glad you’re okay. Call me tonight.”

  She disconnected and I handed Tate’s phone back to him. He tucked it back into the holder and gave me a sideways glance, before turning back to watch the road.

  “You’re acting really weird,” he said.

  “Well, if I had my cell phone here, I’d just go through and give you all the numbers I have programmed in it. That would make things easier for you, wouldn’t it?”

  His jaw
tightened and his lips thinned, and I immediately regretted my words. But, like all spoken words, I couldn’t take them back, and it did seem like all my friends were suddenly turning to him, whether it was for me, or about me.

  “Where are we going, anyway?” he asked, his voice tight and controlled, and I realized he needed directions to Monica’s house. I gave him the address and then stared out the window as we drove, me not really seeing the familiar landscape, but rather indulging in a self-pity party.

  Tate pulled up in front of Monica’s house and turned to me, reaching out with one hand and placing it gently on my shoulder. I shrugged him off and opened the car door. Pity party was over. I could not give into my self-indulgent tendency to cry right now. I had to stay tough.

  I walked up to Monica’s front door, and Tate followed. As I attempted to knock, the door swung in slightly. It was not shut tight, which was strange considering it was December 1, and remarkably cold.

  I turned to Tate, alarm bells ringing in my ears—God, I hoped that was imaginary—and I could see from his face he was just as concerned. He motioned me back with his left hand, and drew his gun from the holster on his side, then moved to the door and yelled, “Monica, are you in there? Monica?” There was no answer. He yelled again, then pushed the door open and carefully went inside, using all those cop stances you see on television. Technically, I supposed, the real cops had invented the moves, and the TV cops just copied them, but . . . “Jenny!” Tate hissed, apparently for the second time.

  “What?” I whispered.

  “Go get in my car, lock the doors, and wait.”

  “Shouldn’t you call for backup?” I asked, my voice still a whisper.

  “This is not television.”

  I thought about that one for a moment. “You’re right, it’s not television, which means we have no idea what’s going to happen. If it were television, what was going to happen would be scripted and you would know whether or not to . . .”

  “Oh God, all right. I’ll call for backup. You are very annoying, you know?”

  We weren’t really whispering anymore, so I put a finger to my mouth in a “shhh” sign and he shook his head as he called for a patrol unit to come assist. It was just minutes later when a police car drove up and two uniformed officers jumped out and joined Tate. They also motioned me to get back. Geez, I wasn’t that dumb.

  “My car, now. Lock the doors,” Tate ordered. Another patrol car pulled up and the cop got out and ran excitedly to the door, only to be told by Tate that he got to babysit me. I couldn’t blame him for being disappointed.

  Tate and the other two officers slowly entered the house, doing the evasive cop moves again, while the third uniformed officer escorted me back to Tate’s car and told me to get in.

  I slammed the door shut, feeling peevish, although not sure why. I was pretty worried about Monica, because she was just a little bit bonkers.

  It was only a few minutes before Tate and the two officers came out the front door, guns holstered.

  I opened the car door and almost ran to Tate. “Is Monica okay? Is she in there?”

  “No sign of her,” he said, his expression strained, his voice taut. “Place is a mess. Looks like someone has torn it up, looking for something. Or someone.”

  “Place is a mess?” I asked.

  “Yes, trashed.”

  “Can I see?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Tate led me back through Monica’s front door and I carefully surveyed her house. Colorful fabrics of all texture and length covered every inch of furniture. There were feathers on the living room side table—black. My ostrich feathers. Sequins scattered over the carpet and led, almost like a trail, to the kitchen. Spools of thread could be seen scattered all across the floor, and a tape measure was wrapped around the neck of a sewing mannequin. Wrapped tightly. Damn, she’d done it again.

  I knew that the mannequin’s name was Jenny.

  “This is not trashed,” I announced.

  “Huh?” Tate asked.

  “This is how Monica’s house looks right before a costume deadline. She has about six breakdowns and tizzy fits before she finishes up. It’s just her way. And that,” I said, pointing to the mannequin, “is me. She calls it Jenny. I see today I have been strangled. Last time I had pins poking in my eyes.” I walked over to the mannequin, turned it around, and pointed out a gash in the back. “One year it was scissors in the back.”

  The three uniformed officers had come back into the house and were listening to the conversation with great interest.

  Tate came close to me. “Are you telling me that she physically threatens you, and you didn’t tell me this? You said she was nuts, but you didn’t mention that she was this nuts. I thought you just meant like one of your other psycho moms. This is lunacy. She is fucking batwing crazy.”

  I shrugged. “She’s a genius when it comes to costumes.” Tate pulled out his phone and hit a speed-dial number. “I need an ATL on one Monica . . .” He covered the phone with his hand. “What’s her last name?”

  “No, no, no. You can’t do this. She probably drank a pint of vodka and is sleeping it off in the house, somewhere.” I’d worked at the sheriff ’s office long enough to know that ATL meant attempt to locate, and generally it was used on a suspect.

  “There is no one in this house. Now what is her last name?”

  “Tate, please. I need these costumes. I can’t afford to have her arrested, or worse, in the loony farm, this close to my performance.”

  “Tell me her name, and I’ll cancel the ATL for now.”

  “Fine. Monica Finch.”

  He spoke back into the phone. “I need a BCI search on one Monica Finch, approximately thirty to thirty-two years old, blond hair, blue eyes. Petite build. I have no social or DL number. Cancel the ATL for now, but call me back as soon as you have anything on her.”

  He hung up the phone and turned to me. “I’d like you to think about something. Someone has been murdered, and the murder is tied to you. They used poisoned cookie dough, and then snuck into your house and put some dough in your freezer. Someone has also tried to attack you outside your house—and you told us you were sure it was a woman—and also, someone tried to shoot at you and run you off the road. Now a bomb has gone off at your studio. And you want me to believe that a woman who is obviously absolutely crazy, and who has a mannequin she calls Jenny and regularly strangles that mannequin, or stabs it, is not something I should worry about?” His voice rose with each sentence. I guess the wackiness of my life was starting to get to him. I could understand that. It got to me, too, most of the time.

  “Look, Monica has been doing this for years. It’s like her ritual. She acts like she can do it all, then, as the pressure builds and deadlines come close, she gets a little . . . strange. This is how she releases steam.”

  “By strangling you.”

  “It’s not me. It’s just a mannequin she calls Jenny. And one she regularly tries to kill, but of course it can’t really die, because it’s not real.”

  “Well, I almost shot that mannequin myself, when I ordered it to hit the floor and it didn’t obey!” Tate said, almost yelling.

  I couldn’t help it. A small guffaw escaped out of my mouth, and I clapped my hand over it, not wanting to let the laughter boil over, but I couldn’t stop it. I threw back my head and laughed.

  At first, Tate looked pretty mad, but then his lips started to quirk up in twitches, until finally he was laughing with me.

  It probably wasn’t that funny, but the stress was getting to both of us, and it felt good to relieve some of it with a little laughter. The three officers just watched us.

  “What are you people doing here?”

  We turned to see Monica standing there, in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in bright red sequins. She had on sequined Dorothy high-heeled shoes, red fishnet stockings, and a tight-fitting sequin dress. A red feather boa was wrapped around her neck, and she had on a sequin cap, her blond hair sticki
ng out in tufts around it. In her left hand she held one of those long cigarette filters old movie actresses used to carry, and in her right was a martini glass. Her eyes were glazed, and she was swaying slightly. Yep, she was on one of her benders. Guess my extra costumes were going to be late.

  The three uniformed officers put their hands back to their guns, almost in unison, but Tate gave them a signal that must have meant “don’t pull them” because they moved their hands back to their sides.

  “Where were you, Monica?” I asked gently, using my “Monica’s a lunatic again” voice. “We came over, and the door was ajar, so we were worried something had happened to you. We’ve been looking for you.”

  “Oh, I was out back on the porch swing. It’s a lovely day today.”

  It was freaking forty degrees. Lovely, all right. “And look at you, all dressed up to enjoy it,” I said, placating her the way I always did when she went completely over the edge. So much for that meditation. I knew there was a reason I never took that up.

  “Oh, this. It’s just shumthing I threw together. I’m good at that. Did you know that, Jenny?”

  “Yes, Monica. I knew that. Let’s get you into bed.”

  I took her arm and led her into her bedroom.

  “But I’m nawt tired. And I have to finish your costumes.”

  “Tomorrow, Monica. Tomorrow.”

  Monica’s bedroom was in the same state as the rest of her house, and I knew when I came back tomorrow it would all be spotless and shipshape, and she would be normal—as normal as she gets, anyway—with no indication she had gone off the deep end. And the Jenny mannequin would be back in the closet.

  I pulled down the covers for her, and she kicked off the Dorothy shoes, one of them hitting a mirror just above her dresser, shattering it. “Great. Sheven years bad luck. Just great.”

  “That’s just a silly superstition, Monica. Everything will be fine.”

  “Sheven years. Sheven years. Sheven years,” she muttered rhythmically as she curled up into a ball in her bed, still wearing the feather boa and sequin dress, along with the fishnet stockings. I pulled the boa off her and tucked her in, covering her with the blankets.