Flamenco, Flan, and Fatalities (A Happy Hoofers Mystery)

by McHugh, Mary

  “Oh, Jan, I’m sorry,” I said, to be safe. “How do you feel?”

  “Relieved, more than anything, Gini,” she said. She smiled at me. “There were lots of other reasons it probably wouldn’t have worked out, so this gives me a good excuse. I think he’s relieved too.”

  “Didn’t I see you with Tom before?” I asked. One more thing I had to know the answer to. I pushed my cup forward on the bar for another refill. I should have ordered decaf. Probably wouldn’t get to sleep for hours.

  “Yes, he wants to see me when we’re back to New York. He said he’s breaking up with Sylvia.”

  I almost choked on my coffee. “You’re kidding,” I said. Much as I disliked Sylvia—once thought she might be the murderer, for heaven’s sake—I just thought obedient Tom would stay with her because it was easier that way. “Are you going to see him?” I asked. “I can’t keep up with you.”

  Janice shrugged. “Listen, Gini,” she said. “I can’t keep up with myself. I know, it sounds crazy, but he said he just couldn’t live with her anymore. That she was too negative. He said he really loves me and has loved me since we were in that play in New York.”

  “So . . .”

  “I don’t know, Gini. I’ll certainly see him when we get back home. But who knows whether he is really going to divorce Sylvia or if it’s just a temporary split. I want to give it a chance. Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “Of course not, Jan. I think you’re right to go slowly.”

  “Look,” Janice said. “There’s Mike and Mary Louise over there in the corner on the couch. What’s going on with them?”

  “Hard to tell,” I said. “Let’s go find out.

  “You go ahead, Gini,” Janice said. “I feel funny asking them if they’re, what, having an affair. I’ll see you later.”

  Mike and Mary Louise were close together in another part of the car talking to each other. I went over to them. I had to ask them if they still planned to get married when we got back home. I was afraid of the answer.

  They stopped talking when I approached. Mary Louise saw the worried expression on my face, and answered my question before I could ask it.

  “It’s okay, Gini,” she said. “Mike and I have talked it over, and we realize this has all happened too fast. I’ll stay with George—at least for now—and we’ll see what happens.”

  The look of relief on my face was so blatant, they both laughed. “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about this, Gini,” Mike said. “Do you think it would be a terrible thing for us to get married?”

  “Oh, Mike,” I said. “You’re a really good guy. It’s just that I know how much George loves Mary Louise—even if he isn’t very good at showing it sometimes.”

  “Sometimes!” Mary Louise said. “Lately it’s more like never.”

  “I know,” I said, “but I think you’re right to give him another chance.”

  Mike put his arm around Mary Louise. His face was sad. “I really love her, Gini.”

  My heart went out to this decent, truly good person.

  Just then, Denise came over to us.

  “Gini, could I talk to you for a minute alone,” she said.

  “Of course,” I said, following her to a chair across the room.

  “I have to tell you something, Gini,” she said. “It’s been bothering me.”

  “It’s about the church, isn’t it, Denise?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I don’t know why I lied to you about being there that morning. I guess because we weren’t supposed to leave the train. I had this strong yearning to be in a church, to talk to God in His house. I was so confused about a lot of things. Worried about my son. And I felt so grateful to have met Pat. I didn’t know what to do about her either. Should I see her after we got back? I always talk to Him when I’m troubled, but that day I needed a church. That was such a beautiful one. The music was healing. You understand? I just didn’t want to share it with anyone. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize, Denise,” I said. “I understand perfectly. I didn’t want to leave that church either, it was so full of His spirit. Are you going to continue seeing Pat when we get back home?”

  “I’m not sure. She’s a wonderful person. But I have to focus on getting my son adjusted to a new school and a new group of friends. We’ll talk about it.”

  Michele was sitting nearby talking to Paul.

  “Gini,” she said. “I meant to tell you. I’m meeting Jonathan in Boston after I get back to talk to him about testing some of our talking wearables. He’s a great guy and I look forward to seeing him again. Thanks for introducing us.”

  “I’m so glad, Michele. I guess we didn’t persuade you to give up your career in technology to become a dancer. Too bad. You’re good.”

  “You came close, Gini, you and your hoofer pals. I envy you because you always look like you’re having such a great time when you’re dancing.”

  “It’s true, Michele. It’s liberating. Like pure joy. Time out from our regular lives that have to be more serious.”

  “How about one last fling,” Michele said.

  She grabbed me and we started to sing “New York, New York.” In a flash, Mary Louise, Tina, Pat, and Janice ran over to join us. We locked arms and kicked left to right, singing our hearts out and making that room ring with the love of life.

  A blast of applause from our fellow passengers sent us off to bed and dreams of being back home again.

  Chapter 17

  All Tapped Out

  We left for home the next day. I returned to Spain in a few months to testify at Dora’s trial. She was found insane and sentenced to life in a mental hospital.

  I’ve never quite recovered from my experience in Green Spain. Somehow I lost my taste for tea. Alex and I made plans to leave for India to try to adopt my little girl.

  Pat moved in with Denise. They’ve been happy together. Their relationship didn’t affect Pat’s practice, which included other men and women who were dealing with the fact that they’re gay. They were finding out that being a couple had a whole new set of problems that never came up when they just lived together. Pat has never been happier. Denise gave up drinking—she never drank very much anyway—and Pat has stayed sober. Denise’s son has accepted Pat as a positive part of his new life.

  Tom separated from Sylvia after the trip on the train. He and Janice have cautiously renewed their friendship. It looks like it’s becoming more than a friendship, but for the moment they’re just enjoying each other. Tom left the soap. It was too difficult working with Sylvia, who was the producer. He was happily acting off-Broadway in a challenging new play. Janice was writing a book about the Gypsy Robes with her daughter.

  Mary Louise changed her mind about divorcing George and marrying Mike. She sees Mike from time to time, as a friend.

  Tina was still trying to decide whether to marry Peter or not, but when she got an offer for us to dance on the Bateau Mouche, she couldn’t resist. Vive la France!

  I changed my mind about giving up dancing forever.

  Want to come along?

  Don’t miss the next delightful mystery

  featuring the Happy Hoofers

  CANCANS, CROISSANTS, AND CASKETS

  Coming from Kensington in Fall 2015

  High-kicking actress Janice Rogers takes over

  as narrator as the five fabulous fiftysomething

  friends dance their way to Paris, the magical

  city of lights—and into a murder plot that’s

  as multilayered as a French pastry!

  Keep reading to enjoy a sample excerpt . . .

  Chapter 1

  Bonjour, Paris

  Why we decided to arrive in Paris on the fourteenth of July, one of France’s biggest holidays, I’ll never know. We call it Bastille Day because it’s the anniversary of the day in 1789 when the French stormed the prison, the Bastille, to liberate the political prisoners and to celebrate the unity of France, but the
French call it La Fête Nationale or le quatorze juillet, which just means The National Holiday or the fourteenth of July. It’s a day of parades and closed shops and picnics, and fireworks at night. A day when all of France has a huge party. Kind of like our Fourth of July. A lot like our fourth of July.

  I’m Janice Rogers, and I’m going to tell you the story of our Paris adventure that took me and my four best friends down the beautiful Seine River and into the heart of a murder mystery that we ended up solving—but not without some danger.

  We were hired to dance on a dinner cruise on a Bateau Mouche for seven nights. It would have made sense to come at least one day before the fourteenth, but Tina Powell, our leader, couldn’t get a flight for the five of us Happy Hoofers until the evening before and since Paris is six hours ahead of us, we arrived early the morning of the fourteenth.

  Before we left, Gini complained that we wouldn’t have time to rehearse, but Tina assured her. “We know what we’re going to do,” she said. “We’ve rehearsed it enough. All we have to do is show up and dance. Everybody will be too full of wine to notice if we make any mistakes anyway. And we’ll be part of one of France’s biggest celebrations.”

  We believed her. What did we know? Who thought before the night was over and the last firework burst into the Paris sky that someone would be dead? Who thinks of murder on the biggest, most joyful holiday in all of France on Bastille Day? Excuse me, La Fête Nationale.

  This was my first time back in Paris since my honeymoon with my second husband. It was still the same magical city it was twenty-five years before. No matter what they do to Paris, it never loses the beauty and charm that makes it different from all other cities in the world.

  “There it is,” Gini said, her voice almost a whisper. “The good old Eiffel Tower. We’re in Paris. My Paris. I can’t believe we’re here.”

  The five of us Happy Hoofers were loaded into a van on our way from Orly Airport to the apartment we had rented for a week on Boulevard Montparnasse, on the left bank, while we danced every night on the Bateau Mouche. I was glad we were going to be in an apartment instead of a hotel, because I thought it would be more relaxing.

  For Gini Miller, it was a real homecoming. She studied photography for a year in Paris after she graduated from college. Whenever anyone mentioned France or French anything, her face radiated a glow that told us exactly how she felt about this city. “It was a year when I could improvise my life, Jan,” she once told me. “I time-stepped my way through that city of lights, drank sweet vermouth with a twist at the Select café with artists and writers and actors and directors and . . .” She paused for breath. “I was in love with someone different every week.” She became an award-winning filmmaker because of what she learned in this incredible city.

  “Does all this bring back memories, Gini?” I asked as our cab turned onto a broad avenue lined with canopied sidewalk cafes.

  “Wonderful memories, Jan,” she said.

  I love Paris, too, but my view of it is slightly marred by the memory of my second husband, Derek, who wasn’t all that great after the honeymoon. He spoiled Paris for me because I couldn’t help thinking about the way he turned out when we got back home. That marriage only lasted two years, definitely two years too long.

  “Look,” Mary Louise Temple said, pointing to the glass pyramid we were passing. “The Louvre.”

  “We have to go there,” Pat Keeler said. “There’s a fantastic exhibit of Renaissance sculpture. Denise said we absolutely must not miss that.”

  “We’re going to see everything,” Tina, our planner extraordinaire, said. “I’ve got a list.”

  “Are we dancing every night?” I asked.

  “That’s the plan,” Tina said.

  “Look,” Gini said, her face reflecting her delight. “There it is—the Arc de Triomphe. That’s Paris personified. We’re on the Champs-Élysées. Tina, I love you forever for getting this gig for us. How did you do it anyway?”

  “It was the publicity about our gig on that train in Spain that landed us in all the papers because the talk show host who was murdered was so famous. We got offers from everywhere. I’m glad we decided to stick with gigs closer to home during the winter. But when this offer came in, it seemed like the best one for a midsummer getaway.”

  “Where else could we have gone?” I asked.

  “Camden, New Jersey, or Winnipeg,” Tina said, trying not to smile.

  “Tough choice,” Pat said.

  The taxi moved along the busy wide avenue. People were lined up four and five deep on either side.

  “What’s going on?” Gini asked the taxi driver in French.

  “Madame, c’est le quatorze juillet,” he said and explained what was happening in French to her.

  Gini translated his words for us. “It’s Bastille day,” she said. “They’re going to close down the Champs in an hour because of the parade. People have been waiting there since early this morning.”

  We passed The Gap, Disney, Hugo Boss, Sephora, and Cartier along the crowded sidewalks. There was even a McDonald’s. I’ll never get used to a McDonald’s on Paris’s most glamorous, elegant avenue.

  We crossed the Pont Neuf onto the Left Bank. The artistic, bohemian part of Paris. The cafes were crowded. The red, white and blue French flag flew from every building. We drove down a narrow street past the Sorbonne, past the Jardin du Luxembourg, to Boulevard Montparnasse. Everywhere we saw flowers in ceramic planters, graceful shade trees, and people walking dogs that looked clean and well-trained.

  “There’s La Coupole,” I said, pointing to the red awning that was almost a block long. “Hemingway’s restaurant. Can we eat there?”

  “Of course,” Tina said. “It’s only a block from our apartment. See. That’s where we’re going to stay. The one with the balconies overlooking the boulevard.”

  “I lived right next door when I was here,” Gini said. “That’s my café across the street. The Select. I practically lived there. It’s just the same.”

  She was almost dancing in her seat in the van. The rest of us had been to Paris once or twice, but it didn’t have the same meaning for us as it did for Gini. I envied her having lived there.

  Tina paid the cab driver a bunch of euros, and we dragged all our bags and assorted belongings to the door of our new temporary home. Tina punched in the entry code and held the door for us as we filed into the foyer. Another code opened the inside door and we squeezed into the glass elevator to the third floor.

  There was one other apartment on this floor. Tina stuck the key in the lock and after some maneuvering and pulling and pushing, opened the door.

  We had only seen pictures online of this place, but it was perfect. It had a large living room with a couch that converted into a bed, several big black, comfortable-looking leather chairs, a coffee table, a basket full of books in English—nice touch—a T.V. and a dining table. Off the living room, there was a roomy, bright kitchenette with a combination washer-dryer, a dishwasher, fridge, stove, two sinks and cabinets with glass doors full of plates, glasses and serving dishes. There were two bedrooms, a room with a toilet, and a room with a shower and sink and heated towel racks complete with thick, terry towels. In France, the toilet and the shower are usually in separate rooms.

  I could have used another shower stall, but this was Paris. I was grateful for one. We’d just have to bathe in shifts. One bathroom was the only thing particularly French about this apartment, except for the view from the little balcony on one side of the living room. That was spectacular. We could look down on Boulevard Montparnasse and watch people sipping coffee at the Select across the street, men and women hurrying by on their way to work, cars going by. Very Paris.

  The view from our bedrooms was of other apartments close by. So close, in fact, we kept the blinds down when we were dressing or running around in our underwear. The blinds opened and closed with a remote control, which took some getting used to, but they were fun.

  “What do you think, gang
?” Tina asked. “Are we okay with this?”

  “Who gets to sleep in the living room?” Pat, our practical, always thinking family therapist asked.

  “Any volunteers?” Tina asked.

  “I’ll sleep in here,” Mary Louise said. “I don’t mind.” She’s our peace-at-any-price Hoofer. We all love her and take advantage of her good nature all the time. She doesn’t seem to mind, so we keep doing it. People treat you the way you let yourself be treated, I’ve discovered in this life as an actress, director, wife, and mother.

  You wouldn’t think it to look at me, but I’m tough. I had my daughter when I was seventeen, divorced her father a year later, and supported my child as a waitress while I auditioned for acting jobs in New York. I’m blond with a little help from my hairdresser. People tell me I’m beautiful, but I don’t really believe them because my mother never missed a chance to tell me that I was “average looking” when I was growing up. She thought telling me I was pretty would spoil me.

  My father was too busy chasing after other women to pay much attention to me. Before he left my mother for a younger woman when I was twelve, he would occasionally take me to movies and baseball games at Yankee Stadium. I adored him. I guess I’ve been looking for him ever since, through three marriages and countless love affairs.

  My daughter and I have had some rocky times, probably because we’re too much alike. She didn’t talk to me for a long time, until last year when she asked me to collaborate on a book with her about the Gypsy Robes on Broadway, a tradition among chorus dancers in musicals. I cherish my time with her.