Tutu Deadly

  “She’s not there,” Tate said roughly.

  “What?” Alarm filled me. No costumes? Or something worse? Had she been kidnapped, too? “Where is she? What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Monica had four warrants out for her arrest, so we went to her house to take her in,” Andrew said, his voice gentle and placating.

  I wanted to hit him. I was getting more irrational by the minute. “Warrants for what? This better be good. I need costumes. I have a performance. Did you miss that somewhere along the line?” I was starting to sound strident, and I certainly wasn’t being logical. I didn’t care.

  “She had two counts of felony embezzlement and one for felony evading. And her name is not Monica. It’s Karen Littlefield. She’s been living here in Utah under an assumed name, and since she had no Social Security number, she could only work for people like, well, you. People who wouldn’t ask for specifics like references.”

  “Oh no. Wow, that explains a lot, like why she is seriously nuts, but oh no. How could you? How could you arrest her? You knew I needed those costumes. You knew I have this performance, and my whole life is riding on it . . .” Sneaky tears leaked out the corners of my eyes, and I tried to wipe them away, but they kept coming. I was becoming my mother. Or maybe my cousin Kim, wishing for something that had no hope of ever happening. Planning for something that just plain was not going to work out, ever.

  When Tate spoke, his words filled me with a bunch of emotions I had absolutely no hope of ever putting ID tags on. “Jenny? We didn’t arrest her. Monica, er, Karen was gone when we got there. Somehow she got away.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  SOMETIMES, in life, you spent all your time building fences, only to have the wicked winds keep blowing them down. Sometimes, you needed to just admit that too many things were going wrong, and the wind was blowing too hard, and it just wasn’t going to work to rebuild the fence that day. Maybe next week.

  While I was no philosopher, I knew enough to realize this time was one of those times.

  Monica/Karen was gone, on the lam, and I had all the costumes but the most important one—the one the Sugar Plum Fairy wore. Last year’s costume had met with an unfortunate pink juice incident, and so was not usable.

  My studio was closed—by order of the fire marshal, no less—and I was going to have to practice in the gymnasium of a Mormon ward house, where my aunt and her bishop would undoubtedly sit watching, making sure I wasn’t violating any principles of morality or decency.

  If I didn’t do the performance, I would lose the huge deposit I’d paid the Eccles Center to rent it. That deposit money had come from my father’s retirement fund, and I’d promised to pay it back.

  In addition to that, most of Ogden was probably now convinced I was a lesbian, because I didn’t really trust James’s dedication to righting this wrong, and therefore outing himself, so my reputation was probably already shattered.

  Considering all this, and even weighing in my dad’s retirement money, how could I do it? How could I put this show on? Too many things were working against me. It had to be a sign that it was time to give up. Surely, that was what God was trying to tell me. Either that, or “Get your ass to a church, Jennifer.” I wasn’t too good at listening to God, or anyone for that matter.

  But I was pretty desperate right now. Very desperate.

  We pulled up in front of my apartment building, and I quickly opened my car door and got out, before Andrew and Tate could fight for the right to show me whose penis was bigger.

  I walked swiftly to my door and opened it, striding through and waving at Marshal John Doe—who was reading People magazine at my kitchen table—as I headed to my bedroom. Once there, I shut the door securely and locked it, then threw myself face-first onto my bed, and just laid there. What the hell was I supposed to do? This was getting too hard.

  “Jenny, are you okay?” Tate called to me through the door.

  “No, not really. I just need a few minutes alone, okay?”

  There was a pause, and then he spoke. “Okay, but I want you to think about something. Right about now, I know you are thinking of giving up, and I understand that. But I’ve gotten to know you pretty well over the past few days, and I just have to tell you this. You aren’t a quitter. You keep going no matter what. You get upset, and mad, and feisty, and you cry easily, but you don’t quit. And you can’t quit now. You can make this work. I’ve never seen someone so gifted at just making things work. It’s almost magical. You can’t quit.”

  I heard his footsteps as he walked away from the door and his words sunk into me, making me feel both warm and slightly nauseous at the same time. He was wrong. I’d quit everything in my life. I’d quit cheerleading in the eighth grade, because the other girls were poor dancers with weaker toe touches, and also mean and spiteful. I’d quit catechism classes because I always fell asleep in the first ten minutes. I’d quit the sheriff ’s office, and every other mundane job I’d ever held because I didn’t play well with other grown-ups.

  I was the queen of quitters. I was really good at it. The only thing I hadn’t ever quit was dancing. I’d dance in the morning, and I’d dance in the night, and I’d teach other people to dance as long as I lived, or could walk, or until I danced right off the edge.

  I sighed and sat up, the realization that Tate had been at least somewhat right hitting me squarely between the eyes. I would not quit on this performance, and I would not quit on my students or my studio, no matter how bad things got.

  AT six o’clock I stood in front of the Latter-day Saints Ward Building on Madison and watched as the bishop unlocked the door, Auntie Vi standing next to him, beaming, and opening her arm as an open invitation to all my students to come inside the bosom of the church.

  Since most of them had more than a passing acquaintance with an LDS ward house, all of which were pretty much built from the same plan, they ran haphazardly to the gymnasium, like lab rats to the cheese, and sat down on the floor, pulling off sweatpants and shirts and pulling dance shoes out of bags.

  The lights turned on in the rapidly brightening gym, and the bishop came out beaming at all the little dancers. Then the smile slowly left his face as he watched the girls, ranging in age from four to sixteen, as they stripped down and got ready to dance, pulling on costumes and plumage, and helping each other fasten hairpieces and tighten straps.

  He blushed and turned away, and looked at my aunt with alarm on his face. “Here, Bishop Wendt, let’s just go to the kitchen and get you a nice glass of water while the girls get ready to dance.” She ushered him out, and I gave her a look of thanks. She smiled, and then turned away, and I didn’t miss the smug look on her face. Damn, now I was going to owe her big-time, even more than I did for procuring the building.

  James and Amber walked in together, again just a little bit late, but not enough for scolding, and soon music was playing loudly from the big boom box I’d brought. James didn’t get too close to me. He was probably afraid if he did I would reach out and wrap my hands around his neck. I almost had to shout directions to him.

  We had to practice each number at least three times, and run walk-ons and walk-offs for each routine, as well as the finale, which featured the whole company.

  Three hours flew by as I yelled at the girls, and made more than one cry, and we finally got the whole thing looking . . . passable. Not great. The Sugar Plum Fairies were decidedly lacking. Both Ariel and Loni had the technical skills to pull the role off, but they didn’t have the heart and passion for dance that Taylee had stored deep in her soul. That, and they didn’t have a costume, either. With all the other girls decked in feathers and shimmer, and multicolored materials of shine and gleam, they stood out even more in their everyday dance clothes.

  Around eight thirty I dismissed all the little dancers, and gave them the notes with instructions neatly typed up on them, provided by Marlys, of course. What would I do without her? I said a quick prayer I’d never find out, before I remembered
that God was mad at me.

  After the little ones left, I said good-bye to James and Amber—James practically ran out before the words “you can go” were out of my mouth. Then I ran the Seniors through the climactic Sugar Plum Fairy dance, one that only the more mature advanced dancers had the skill to pull off, choreographed to a great upbeat jazzy version of “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” from Rudy and the Surf Kings.

  I still hadn’t decided who would dance the role—Loni or Ariel—and they were both starting to get a little anxious. I’m sure most of that came from the fact both of their mothers were sitting in chairs, watching me like vultures, and projecting all kinds of angst at their progeny. We had two performances—a matinee and evening—so I decided to give each of them a performance. I’d held off as long as I could, but it was time to accept that Taylee would not be here.

  Krystal Glass had arrived about five minutes before, and she was glowering at me from the corner, as though trying to burn holes in my body with her laser-beam eyes. Marilyn sat on the floor, part of the corp that would dance backup to the lead dancers. As usual, Marilyn was not happy to be here. As usual, her mother had made her come.

  Both of the lucky Sugar Plum Fairy psycho moms beamed as I made my announcement, and then Ariel’s mom started to glower as she considered that her daughter was given the matinee and Loni would be dancing the evening performance. I decided to hustle everybody out of there before things got ugly. Krystal’s look grew even darker, and she snapped at Marilyn to get up and go get in the car.

  “I’m going to ride with Aileen, Mom, okay, because I have homework.” She knew her mother well. Krystal always berated me for at least twenty minutes.

  “Fine,” Krystal told her, then turned and headed toward me.

  I decided to cut her off at the pass. “Look, I know what you’re trying to do, and it isn’t going to work. Just go home, Krystal, and stop trying.”

  She stopped about a foot away, a puzzled look on her face. “You know?”

  “Yes, I know. Now, please, let me get this mess cleaned up and go home.”

  She backed up, which surprised me, and I saw a look of fear in her eyes, then she turned and moved quickly out the door of the gymnasium.

  That was a weird reaction. Usually, she would spend at least twenty minutes arguing with me, then ordering me to fix things, then yelling because I wouldn’t.

  I knew this was not the last I would hear of this, but I shrugged it off for tonight.

  The bishop had left Auntie Vi with the key and had headed home an hour before, apparently so flustered by the ease with which young dancers disrobed, he had to rest. Since she was looking very tired and drained, I told her I would lock up and bring the key to her home.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Jenny.”

  “I promise to just finish gathering up the things left behind, and then I’ll lock up and bring the key, Auntie Vi.”

  I swept my hand over the sea of dance shoes, jackets, pants, and a few unmentionables like panties and bras that had been left behind by my dancers, and she blanched a bit and decided to take me up on my offer.

  “You’ll be careful, right?” She had to be considering all the things that had happened to me lately, and I couldn’t blame her for being worried. But Tate Wilson stood right next to me, and he assured her that he wasn’t going anywhere. He’d help make sure the place got locked up tight.

  After she left, I began picking up the items, and soon my arms were full, and I wasn’t even halfway through. “I need a bag or something,” I said, looking around.

  “There’s probably one in the kitchen. Let me go see,” Tate said, and he walked out of the gym and across the hall to the kitchen, and I saw the remnants of light as he began rustling around. In almost all Mormon churches, the kitchen was located directly across from the gymnasium, for ease in serving food for functions. Functions like Mormon weddings, like the one James’s family had been planning for me until he convinced them I was a lesbian.

  I sighed heavily, put the clothes I’d been carrying on the floor, and reached down to just build a big pile of abandoned dance paraphernalia. The fact that Tate knew exactly where to find the kitchen also had me wondering. Of course, I wasn’t Mormon, and I knew how to find an LDS ward house kitchen myself, but I was seriously addicted to funeral potatoes. Was he Mormon? Did it matter?

  A sound from the other end of the gymnasium caught my attention, and I looked up to see a shadowy figure disappear through the door. The gym was located smack dab in the middle of the building, and so there were entrances on both sides. Tate had gone out the one closest to the kitchen. The other entrance led to areas of the church with which I was not familiar. I didn’t really know who had headed out the door, but my first thought was one of the dancers hadn’t been picked up, and was off playing in the dark recesses of the building. Since I was responsible for all of them, I sighed.

  “Hey, who is that? Who’s there?” There was no answer. I headed toward the door, but stopped in the entrance, not willing to go into the darkened hallway. While I did not want to be responsible for one of my dancers being locked up tight in a Mormon church overnight, I’d also seen enough teen horror flicks to know that if you wandered into a darkened hallway, you were gonna get killed. The only surer way to get killed was to have sex, but since Detective Tate Wilson was in the church kitchen on the other side of the gym, and we hadn’t exactly “progressed” to that stage anyway, I figured I was safe there.

  I decided to get Tate, and his gun, and then we’d go looking for whoever was still roaming the church.

  I turned to go back into the gymnasium but before I could take a step, hands grabbed me and a rough cloth was shoved over my nose, filling my head with an acrid smell. I became too dizzy to stand and I felt hands on my arms, pulling at me roughly, dragging me. And I saw a head full of big blond hair. Krystal Glass had never left the building.

  Then the world went black.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I awoke to the same utter darkness I’d collapsed in. My head hurt, and I was woozy, my throat dry and aching. My hands were bound behind me, and flashes of memory ran through my head.

  Someone had dragged me out of the church—or at least I assumed I had been taken from the church—although I did not know where I was now. I vaguely remembered blond hair and thinking, “Krystal.” I moved around restlessly, disturbed to realize I was bound at my feet as well as my hands. My hands were asleep, and so I rolled over onto my side, trying to wiggle them awake. My cheek pressed into a soft blanket, but not soft enough, for I was lying on a hard cement floor. Where was I?

  I heard a rustling noise and my heart began to pound, nearly jumping from my chest, and the soft noise grew closer. If it was a person, they had a very soft step, and even a child would make more noise than that, so the alternative had to be some sort of creature, and that made me even more anxious.

  A squeaking sound told me rodent, and I scrambled and kicked, trying unsuccessfully to sit up, as the creature drew nearer. Panic pulsed through my veins, and I tried to contain it, but I couldn’t. The thought of a mouse, or worse, a rat, nudging at me, running over me, possibly biting me, was more than I could handle.

  I started thrashing and kicking and a scream of sheer terror involuntarily erupted from my throat.

  I heard another noise, this one from farther away, and then a light flashed on, down what appeared to be a long tunnel. Tunnel? Good God, I was in the tunnels underneath 25th Street.

  The bomb that had opened the entrance to my building had been no mistake. Someone wanted a place to put me, a place where no one would look. I couldn’t think of a better place. I was going to die here, and whoever had done it was apparently headed toward me.

  “Well, well, well,” came a voice I recognized. Krystal Glass. One of the psycho-est of the psycho moms. Apparently, I had not realized that soon enough to save myself. “You’re awake. What the hell are you screaming about, anyway? I didn’t realize how much sound echoes in
these tunnels. You really need to be quiet.”

  “Krystal?”

  “Yes, it’s me. And before you get all huffy and puffy, you need to think about all the attempts I made to get you to stop snooping. You brought this on yourself. I had no choice but to bring you here, especially after you threatened me. You just don’t take advice or warnings very well, Jenny. You’re too stubborn for your own good.” Krystal’s voice didn’t sound good. It sounded, in fact, a lot more psycho than usual. Which could explain why she thought I was snooping, when I thought I was just living my life.

  “Krystal, why did you do this? Why did you kidnap me? I don’t understand why you would resort to this. You psycho moms are crazy.” Hmm. That probably wasn’t something I should have said.

  I couldn’t see her face, because her flashlight was pretty much shining right in my eyes. The bright beam hurt and I blinked.

  “I’m not crazy, Jenny. Just determined. I’ll do whatever I have to in order to keep what’s mine. When you said you knew what I was doing, I knew I had to take action.” I heard an edge to her voice that told me I was in deep trouble.

  “What are you talking about?” Then my own words, spoken to Krystal in the church gymnasium, flooded back to me.

  “Look, I know what you’re trying to do, and it isn’t going to work. Just go home, Krystal, and stop trying.”

  Of course, I’d meant she was trying to get Marilyn the lead role. She’d thought I meant I knew what she was up to, and now because of that miscommunication between a scatterbrain and a psycho I was probably going to die.

  “I don’t know how you figured me out, because I had such a great plan, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve handled it. Now I just need to shut you up, on the off chance someone hears your silly screams.”

  She reached down and pulled me to a sitting position, and every muscle in my body protested. My feet were hopelessly asleep, but the change in position sent some blood running back into them and soon I felt the pinpricks of agony that meant some of my circulation was being restored.