A Season to Dance

by Rebecca Heflin

  “Dammit, Zach!” She pulled away.

  “You want us to catch whoever is doing this, right? And then convict him of it?” When she didn’t respond, he continued. “We can’t do that if the evidence is tainted.”

  Tears filled her eyes, but she nodded.

  Ah, dammit.

  “Come here.” He gathered her to him, pressing her face to his shoulder.

  “Why, Zach? Why is someone doing this?”

  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I don’t know, sweetheart. But we’ll find them. I promise you that.”

  Zach sat at his computer, putting the finishing touches on the police report for the B&E and destruction of property. This was getting damn old. His peaceful little town had become a hotbed of petty crime.

  “I have an idea who could be doing this.”

  He glanced up to see Olivia standing in his doorway looking tired and put out. Zach lifted a questioning brow.

  “Lily Larson.”

  “Lily?” Zach stood, hand on hips. “The mayor’s wife? Are you kidding me?”

  “She has motive. That day in Beans ’n Books she said I’d regret not giving her daughter the role of Cinderella.”

  Zach scratched his chin. “Lily’s a vindictive bitch, I’ll give you that, but breaking and entering? Vandalism?” He had to admit, the thought had crossed his mind as well. But. He shook his head. “She’d be more likely to blackball you and the studio. Coerce those in her social circle to join in, not resort to B&E.”

  “I’m not suggesting Lily is breaking in and spray-painting my studio and costumes. She’s got the financial wherewithal to hire someone to do it.” Olivia paced away. “Maybe she paid Shaun and Derek.”

  “No.” Zach walked to the front of his desk, perching on the corner. “They’re both good kids at heart who took a wrong turn. They would never agree to that. Besides, they’ve been faithful in their promises to make restitution. Gone above and beyond what was required of them.”

  “I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s just . . . it can’t be a coincidence, all this damage to the studio. Even if Shaun and Derek spray-painted the door—which I no longer believe they did—but the brick through the window? The destroyed costumes? Why else would I be the target, unless someone had a personal vendetta?”

  Zach sat deep in thought for a few moments. After the destroyed costumes, he now assumed the brick through the window had been a test to see how long the perp had before law enforcement arrived.

  “I’d like to think Chloe would never stoop to this,” Olivia continued. “In fact, I think she was relieved she didn’t get the part. Dancing had clearly been her mother’s idea.” She ran her fingers through her hair and drew a hairband from her wrist before twisting it up into a bun. “What about Christopher?”

  Zach rose from the corner of his desk, considering. Maybe. He’s a little punk-ass spoiled brat. And he’d had that run-in with Derek and Emily. But. “He’s away at school.”

  “Yeah, Dillon Academy. An hour’s drive from here. And I know he has a car. I’ve seen him driving that blue Mercedes sports car around town.”

  Zach nodded. “I’ll check into it.” Folding his arms across his chest, he continued, “You do know this will stir up a hornet’s nest? Accusing the mayor’s son of B&E and vandalism.”

  Olivia gnawed on her lower lip. “I do. And I’m sorry.”

  Dropping his hands by his side, he approached her. “Why should you be sorry? You’re not the one committing a crime.”

  “Yes, but this won’t go over well for you.”

  He took her by the shoulders and pulled her toward him. “You let me worry about that.” Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he gathered her in. When she melted into him, all seemed right with the world. But Olivia was right. This would go over like a thunderstorm on a Fourth of July parade.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Feeling as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders, Olivia trod up the stairs, a hot bubble bath in her near future. She ached from standing on her feet teaching, and from rehearsing her own dances for the show, her body unaccustomed to the long days of activity.

  She pulled the hairband from her messy bun and tossed it onto the dresser then picked up the photo of her putative father, still wondering what she should do.

  Her smartphone rang and, seeing Logan Skye’s name on the screen, answered. They hadn’t spoken in several weeks, not since she’d decided to stay and produce the recital. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”

  “Giselle! How’s my favorite ballerina?” His warmth and sincerity eased some of the tension she’d been carrying around. Logan was her dance partner with The Joffrey.

  She huffed out a laugh. “You don’t want to know.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Are you sure you want me to bore you with the gory details?”

  He chuckled. “Bore away!”

  She proceeded to tell him all the mundane issues with the show, along with the vandalism.

  “Wow! Who knew little Northridge, Georgia, was such a hotbed of criminal activity. I’m so sorry, Olivia. Sounds like you’re having a rough time of it.” He sighed, sounding anxious and maybe a little reluctant.

  “What is it? Everything okay with you?”

  Her questions were met with silence on the other end of the phone, and a quiver ran up her spine. “Logan?”

  “At the risk of adding to the drama that has become your life . . .”

  The tension in Olivia’s neck and back returned tenfold.

  “Isabella Fisk has been named principal dancer.”

  Olivia sank to the bed as if her legs would no longer hold her up. She knew this day would come, but even so, she hadn’t been expecting the news to come from Logan. “Oh. Well. She’s an excellent dancer. She’ll be great.” She winced at the complete lack of enthusiasm in her voice.

  “Oh, please. She has bricks for feet compared to you.”

  “Yes, well, one of my feet doesn’t work as well as it used to.” She held up her right foot, turning it left and right, grimacing at the slight swelling. “Why didn’t Raoul tell me? Why did he ask you to tell me?”

  “I volunteered. I thought it was something you should hear from a friend,” he finished quietly.

  “You’re very brave,” Olivia said with a humorless laugh.

  “No. Just a masochist.”

  After a sleepless night, Olivia stumbled down the stairs in search of coffee and Jennie.

  She found Jennie in the kitchen preparing a cup of tea, a weaving trade magazine on the counter at her elbow.

  Laying the photo in front of Jennie, Olivia asked, “Do you know this man?” Coffee would wait.

  Jennie cut a glance at Olivia then turned her attention to the photo, a frown of concentration on her face. Lifting it, she studied it. “No. Should I?” She set the picture back on the counter.

  Without answering Jennie’s question, Olivia folded her arms across her chest. “Did my mother tell you who my father was?”

  Jennie paused, the steaming cup of tea just inches from her mouth, then set the tea aside, understanding dawning on her thin face. “Ah.”

  Olivia’s heart hammered in her chest. If her mother had told anyone, it would be Jennie. But, if she had, she had also likely told her not to share that information with anyone, including Olivia.

  Jennie locked eyes with Olivia. “No. She didn’t.”

  The tension holding Olivia erect fled, and her body drooped, like a string puppet whose puppeteer had relaxed her grip. Dammit. Her mother had apparently been a vault where her father’s identity was concerned.

  “And you think this may be him?” Jennie asked, breaking through her morose musings.

  “Yes. I found another one of him in one of her boxes of photos.”

  “I do know your mother intended his identity to be a secret.”

  Olivia huffed out a breath and collapsed against the counter. “She could have qualified for top-secret clearance,” she muttered.

 
“She had her reasons,” Jennie pointed out, her voice quiet and unemotional.

  “Don’t I have a right to know who my own father is?” Even if it’s too late to have a relationship with him.

  “Perhaps. But your mother also had a right to her secrets.”

  “Not when those secrets affect other people. Especially her daughter!”

  “Her secrets did affect other people, and not just you. They affected your father, his wife, and his other children.”

  How could Jennie be so calm and pragmatic in the face of Olivia’s anguish?

  “And the secret of her illness? What about that? That secret affected me too.”

  Jennie’s lip pressed into a thin line, and she looked away.

  The dam holding the flood of emotions roaring through Olivia burst. How much more was she supposed to take? A dead mother, no family left she could call her own. A recital. Vandalism, burglary, destruction of property. Oh! And the minor issue of the abrupt end of her career.

  Unable to control her emotions, and not wanting to crumble in front of Jennie, Olivia ran out the kitchen door to seek solace in the tidy backyard.

  Zach ambled up the walkway in front of Carly’s house in search of Olivia. Ringing the bell, he scrolled through his email messages hoping for some word on the fingerprints they’d found on the studio’s interior door. The lock had been pried out of the door with a screwdriver, but with so many little hands and fingers touching the door on a daily basis, he didn’t hold out much hope.

  The door opened to reveal Jennie’s frowning face. “Hi, Zach. If you’re looking for Olivia, she’s around back.” It seemed as if she were going to say something more, then her mouth flattened into a thin line.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Just . . . go talk to her.”

  A feeling of dread settled in Zach’s chest. That feeling bloomed when he rounded the corner of the house and saw Olivia sitting on the brick step in front of a shed, her face blotchy and her nose red. She didn’t lift her gaze from her contemplation of the ground beneath her feet as he approached. Her shoulders sagged, and she wore the hangdog look of one who’d had about enough of the shit life had been shoveling at her lately.

  Dropping down next to her, he glanced back at the shed. Nice. The hardy board exterior had been painted to match the house, complete with window trim and shutters. Hoping to cheer Olivia up, he gave her a shoulder nudge. “You planning to convert this into your she-shed?”

  She snorted then heaved a weighty sigh. “What am I going to do, Zach? I don’t have costumes. I don’t have a Prince Christopher.” She lifted her hand, palm up. “I mean, what’s Cinderella without her prince?”

  “What happened to Jed Brown?” Jed was father to one of the girls playing a stepsister. Zach doubted he had a lick of dance experience, but he’d stepped up and volunteered anyway.

  “Broken ankle.”

  Well, shit. A thought came, unbidden and unwelcome. He could volunteer. He winced as the words formed in his brain, the thought of standing up there on stage in tights and ballet shoes making him shudder. He’d never live it down with his officers. But if it would take some pressure off Olivia, he’d do it. “I’ll be Prince Christopher,” it came out on a croak, and he cleared his throat. “I mean, if you want me to.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’d do that?”

  “I’d do it for you. And I’ll fire anyone who dare post the pictures on social media.”

  She laughed and patted his chest. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, Zach pulled her to him, pleased that she’d collapsed into him. “Hey. You’ve been through hell these last few months. Give yourself a break.”

  “I can’t. I’ve got all these people counting on me. I don’t know if I have time to order new costumes and get them here and fitted in time.” She threw a hand up. “I need to have my head examined for ever agreeing to this.”

  He took her by the shoulders and set her away from him, gazing in her eyes. “You can’t blame yourself for this. You’ve been vandalized and robbed. People will understand.”

  “People might, but I have an obligation to my students.”

  Her use of the word ‘my’ didn’t go unnoticed by him. It gave him a surge of hope. Hope that maybe she could be happy here doing this. Although she didn’t look too happy right now. They were quiet a few minutes, with only the sound of a mockingbird singing in the elm tree behind them to break the silence. Content to hold her in his arms, Zach closed his eyes.

  Olivia released a shuddering sigh and sat up. “I’ve been replaced. The Joffrey has named Isabella Fisk principal dancer.”

  Ah, hell. Talk about the proverbial nail in the coffin. He gathered her in once more, and she laid her head on his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest over his heart. He wondered if she could feel it beat, heavy and slow, in sympathy with her disappointment. He kissed the top of her head but didn’t say anything. After all, what could he say. No words could assuage the hurt.

  He glanced down and saw something in Olivia’s hand. It appeared to be a photograph.

  “What’s that?” Zach pointed to the hand in his lap.

  She looked down at it as if she’d forgotten its presence.

  “I think it’s my father.”

  Zach stilled. “Oh? What makes you think that?”

  After Olivia told him the story, he asked, “What do you plan to do?”

  “I’m torn, but now . . . I want you to find him.”

  He took the picture from her and studied it. He could research the obits from the Atlanta paper around the time she thinks he died. It was an accident, according to her mother, but Olivia didn’t know if she meant a car accident. He could also contact the Atlanta PD, request reports of traffic accidents during that same time. “Are you sure about that?”

  “No.” She sniffed. “But do it anyway.”

  “Chloe?” Olivia halted in the produce aisle at Smith’s, her cart almost slamming into the one in front of her. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, Miss James. Hi.” Chloe glanced around, as if afraid someone would see her speaking with Olivia, then blushed. “I’m, um, buying fresh fruits and vegetables for an organization at school that puts food baskets together for the hungry.”

  “That’s very generous. How are you? We miss you at the studio.”

  Chloe’s expression changed from wary to surprised. “What?”

  “We miss you.” Olivia watched the girl closely, feeling as if Chloe missed the studio too but couldn’t admit it.

  Chloe’s gaze skittered away, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.

  “Well, have a nice day.” Olivia sighed, then reached for a bag of apples.

  “Miss James?” Chloe’s hand rested on Olivia’s arm, and Olivia looked up into her watery blue eyes.

  “Yes?”

  Chloe scanned the produce section then, licking her lips, continued. “I’m really glad Emily is Cinderella. She deserves it. She’s a much better dancer than I am.”

  Olivia held her gaze. “That’s very kind of you. But you would have made a lovely Fairy Godmother.”

  Chloe shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Olivia took her hand and squeezed. “Still could if you’d like. You could learn the dances easily enough.” Olivia hadn’t even finished choreographing the dances she’d been prepared to perform, so teaching them to Chloe would be no problem.

  “Thanks, but I really can’t.” She grimaced. “My mom wouldn’t like it.”

  “I see.” Olivia released her hand. So, as Olivia had suspected, it hadn’t been Chloe’s choice to drop out of the show—it had been her mother’s. Emily was right, Lily Larson was a be-yotch. Olivia nodded. “I understand.” Even though she didn’t understand how a mother could be so vindictive that she would rather hurt her daughter than swallow her pride.

  “You take care, Chloe.”

  Chloe nodded, opened her mouth, then closed it again. After another moment�
��s hesitation, she continued. “I saw you dance—at the benefit concert, I mean. You were beautiful,” she finished with a whisper, turned, and walked away.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A couple of days after Olivia’s meltdown, a ruckus outside Zach’s office door made him glance up, just as Rick Summers, one of the dispatchers, stuck his head in the door. “It’s Olivia.”

  Before Rick could continue, Zach’s heart stumbled.

  “Rescue was dispatched to the scene of an accident on Elm Street. Car versus telephone pole. She’s on her way via ambulance to the ER.”

  Zach grabbed his hat and keys and strode to the door peppering Rick with questions as he went. “Injuries?”

  “Only minor.”

  “Then why?”

  “Anaphylaxis. Apparently from multiple bee stings.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Zach’s breath halted as fear gripped him.

  Mind racing with the whys, what-ifs, and wherefores, Zach jumped into his police SUV and flipped on the lights and siren. He burned up the asphalt the two miles to Northridge Regional Hospital. Skidding into the parking lot, he arrived just as the paramedics were rushing a gurney through the glass doors of the ER.

  Running, Zach caught up but couldn’t catch a glimpse at Olivia’s face. The EMT was pumping a bag-valve mask. Shit! That wasn’t good. They’d had to intubate her. Another carried an IV bag above her head. Zach recognized the paramedic with the IV bag. “Zander, is she going to be okay?”

  “Don’t know. We’re working on it,” he huffed, as he ran alongside the gurney.

  Dr. Avery came out, a stethoscope around his neck, and directed the paramedics into a room. Zach asked the same question he’d posed to Zander. “Doc, is she going to be okay?”

  “I’ll let you know.” And he pulled the door closed behind him.

  Sick with fear, Zach paced the hallway outside the treatment room. If anything happened to her, he didn’t know what he’d do. As a cop in Atlanta, he’d unfortunately seen his share of death, but for the first time in his life, he felt ice-cold fear. He couldn’t process what had happened. He couldn’t focus on the how or the why. His detective skills had flown out the window. All he could do was pray.