by Diana Orgain
He grinned at my mom. “Your mother is looking more beautiful than ever, and we should figure out the source of her eternal youth.”
Mom giggled—positively giggled! “Hank, you sly thing.”
“I aim to please.” He winked.
The waiter approached and asked if Hank wanted anything to drink, but Hank waved him off. “Just stopping to say hello,” he said by way of explanation. “Kate, how’s that baby of yours doing?”
“Oh!” Mom picked up her phone and opened a recent picture of Laurie—one of my favorites. It showed Laurie sitting with Whiskers in her lap, with a huge grin on Laurie’s face as she looked down at the kitten. “You’ve got to see how she’s grown.”
“Well, isn’t she just the cutest little thing?” said Hank. He nodded at Paula. “We’ve met before. What was your name again?”
Paula looked up from her notepad, where she’d resumed her furious scribbling. “Oh, I’m Paula, Kate’s best friend. Hank, right?”
Hank nodded and shuffled a hand through his close-cropped beard. “Whatcha working on over there that’s so fascinating, Miss Paula?”
Mom, who seemed to have recovered herself at last, said, “Paula is a world-class interior designer, and she’s agreed to help out Kate and Jim’s friends throw a benefit dance. Well, we’re all helping, but Paula is going to make it look spectacular.”
“Oh, what kind of benefit dance?”
Too late, I remembered that Hank and Mom had once taken salsa dance classes together. Which meant . . .
“A 1950s swing dance!” said Paula. “Jim and Kate are taking lessons at Tre Fratelli Danzanti, and Vera was going to take classes, too, but she’s short a partner.”
I glared murder at Paula. My mom was not short a partner, she just . . . had one who didn’t want to dance.
“Oh, Tre Fratelli Danzanti? I’ve been there a few times. What do you say, Vera? Should we put on our dancing shoes again?”
I bit down hard on my lip to keep from audibly sighing. Were Galigani and my mom even exclusive? She wasn’t seeing anyone else, but it wasn’t like I was privy to their closest conversations. I wasn’t really sure how serious they were. Although it sure seemed like they were fast on their way to falling in love.
Hank bantered about the fundraiser with Paula and Mom, and by the time he left, Mom had decided she’d make some 1950s-themed food for the event, if it was all right with Petunia and Dave. I was everyone’s executive assistant—I’d help Jim with marketing, Paula with interior decorating, and my mom with food.
Even as I took copious notes, my thoughts drifted back to the hole in the roof, the dead bird, and Monte’s strange threats.
And maybe, just maybe, I’d have time to solve the odd happenings at the studio. At least this mystery didn’t come with a side of murder.
Monday rolled around, and Jo-Jo appeared on our doorstep, bright red hair wreathing his face like a flaming geyser. I’d never been so relieved to see anyone. The ten thousand dollar man!
“Everything work out with your visa?” I asked, shifting Laurie to my other hip.
“Visa’s taken care of, and I got ta spend a bit of time with me aunts and uncles and cousins in Cork,” he said in that thick Irish brogue, his head bobbing rhythmically. “And I’ll get yer reno started today. It’ll be the grandest I’ve ever done!”
I opened the garage door for him and then sat at the dining room table to hold Laurie while online-ordering a few things for the benefit.
Laurie was having an extra-squirmy day, and I caught her arm right before she helped herself to my open Sharpie.
“Not for babies,” I sang as I capped it—and set it out of reach for good measure.
She flailed, so I set her down on the ground next to me.
“Need to get out your wiggles?” I cooed. “You have so many wiggles!”
She clapped.
“So many wiggles!” I turned my attention back to the screen and, out of curiosity, looked up Monte’s dance studio, Dare to Dance. It looked pretty normal—similar to Tre Fratelli Danzanti. Nothing on the website screamed would leave a dead bird on a competitor’s dance floor.
I pulled his last name—Vander—and logged into the background check database with Galigani’s credentials.
“Monte Vander,” I murmured. “On his second marriage, no arrest history.” Nothing stood out there, either.
A tiny hand patted my leg. I looked down, and Laurie had pulled herself to her feet again. “Good job, little duck!” I squealed.
My computer dinged, and I opened a new email from Jim—a marketing poster to look over. I double-clicked the file, and then a text came in from a number I didn’t recognize.
Kate! It’s Petunia. Did Jim tell you about the break-in and bird? I know Dave mentioned it to him on the phone.
My heart pounded. I was in business.
Yes, I texted back. Can I help?
A few seconds passed, and then she sent me a photo. This was on the front desk when I opened this a.m. I don’t know what to do.
I clicked the photo. It was a note, with a hand-scrawled game of Hangman. The stick figure was almost complete—missing just one leg—and underneath, it said, Cancel fundraiser. One chance.
I texted back, Do you think this is from Monte?
I don’t know, she replied. The studio was locked when I got here. No sign of another break-in.
I typed, File a police report so that it’s documented if you need to build a case for harassment. We will come early tonight, and I want you to tell me everything that’s happened, down to the last detail. We will get to the bottom of this.
After hitting send, I looked at the picture again. The handwriting was stilted. Perhaps someone writing with their non-dominant hand.
Laurie gurgled, and I reached down to ruffle her hair.
“We can’t let a bad man stop us from helping Mr. Jack and Miss Sharon, can we?” I asked her.
She grabbed my wrist and shoved my fingers into her mouth.
“No, we can’t,” I said with steely determination. I looked back at the poster on my screen. Jim had done a beautiful job with it. It boasted a classy silhouette of a swing dancing couple against a poodle-pink background. The white lettering looked like calligraphy. I skimmed the text, and my eyes stopped on the first line.
* * *
Pubic Dance
* * *
My hand flew to my mouth, and I rapidly replied to Jim. PUBLIC dance, not PUBIC dance, omg!
I hit send as fast as I could, lest he get tired of waiting and send that terrible typo to the printer. Then I composed a follow-up email.
Other than that, it is absolutely lovely. Make sure to get home on time—we need to go to the studio early. Love you!
A moment later, he replied, LOL, good catch—this isn’t THAT kind of dance establishment. See you soon!
True to his word, he arrived home an hour before we needed to leave, and we ate a quick and simple dinner—sandwiches and Caesar salad from a bag—before getting dressed for the lesson. This time, I resolved to not be underdressed. I selected a maternity dress that felt like the 1950s—an empire-waisted black bodice with half sleeves, a red polka-dotted skirt, and a bow in the back.
It felt good to have something to dress up for, and I decided to put on my late grandmother’s pearl earrings and add some red lipstick. The ensemble made me feel almost like a 1950s starlet. When I ignored the baby bump, I could even picture myself as a female version of some film noir private investigator.
“Samantha Spade,” I said to the bathroom mirror in a gruff voice. “I didn’t exactly believe your story, Mr. O’Shaughnessy—I believed your two hundred dollars.”
“What’s that?” called Jim from the bedroom.
“Nothing!” I scrunched my curls one last time, and came out of the bathroom to find Jim tying his tie. Laurie was sitting at his feet, happy as a clam with her stuffed ducky. “Hey, handsome.”
Jim glanced up at me, and a smile curved his lips as he winked
. I heard a loud banging, and I scooped up Laurie and scooted past Jim and out of the room.
“Mr. Kenny’s here!” I sang to Laurie. But when I opened the door, there was no Kenny in sight. I frowned. What was that noise?
The banging sounded again. This time, it was clearly coming from the garage.
“Is Jo-Jo still here?” I called to Jim.
“His truck was here when I came in.”
“A little late for him to still be working, isn’t it?”
Jim came out of the room and shrugged. “I guess. But if it means he gets it done sooner, that’s great.”
He had a point, but still . . .
I opened the garage door and peeked inside. Jo-Jo was holding a wrench and stalking back and forth, muttering to himself, and . . .
What on earth was that smell?
Oh no!
An inch of water had pooled on the garage floor.
Jo-Jo caught sight of me and stopped his frantic pacing. He waved his arms and then gestured down to his galoshes. “No worries, lassie! Just a broken pipe. It’ll all be taken care of! It’ll be grand!”
He certainly liked that word.
I slammed the door shut and whirled to face Jim, wide-eyed. “I don’t want to know,” I squeaked.
Over Jim’s shoulder, I spotted Kenny. “Oh, good, you’re here!” I said, handing over Laurie. “Contractor’s in the garage. Text me if you have any problems.”
I practically bolted out the door, and Jim caught up to me at the car.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Something about a broken pipe,” I muttered. “Why was he anywhere near a pipe? I’m calling Paula.”
“A broken pipe?” Jim glanced back at the house.
Shaking my head, I opened the passenger door and climbed in. “Let’s go. I have some investigating to do.”
Paula didn’t answer, so I left her a long, rambling message about the mess in the garage and the horrifying smell and Jo-Jo’s reaction. I ended it by practically shrieking, “Call me back!”
When I hung up, Jim asked, “You sure we shouldn’t go back and check on him?”
“And do what?”
He didn’t reply. I’d made my point. Neither of us were handy enough to be of any help with whatever monstrous mayhem Jo-Jo had made in our garage.
We arrived at the studio, and I tried to push the garage situation out of my head. Jo-Jo would take care of it. It would be grand.
Petunia greeted us at the door. “Kate, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “I filed the police report, and they said there’s nothing they can really do. They’ll open a case, and I should let them know if anything else happens.”
“Police report?” Jim asked.
We caught him up on the note, and I asked Petunia to tell me everything she remembered about the previous incidents.
There wasn’t much. The items stolen in the break-in weren’t of much monetary value, and there wasn’t any other reason for someone to steal them—a lobby chair was taken, and so was a framed poster on the wall and a handful of children’s costumes.
The dead bird—a pigeon—had been left a different day.
“What about the roof? Has it been fixed?” Jim asked.
“It’s tarped to keep out moisture,” she said. “We’ve got a roofer scheduled. It’s in our costume closet, off one of the dance rooms.”
“Can you show it to me?” I asked.
“Sure.” She nodded. “This way.”
While the three of us walked down the hall, I kept my eyes peeled for anything that stood out. “Do you have any security cameras?”
“We ordered one after the theft,” she said. We turned in to a dance room and headed toward a door on the far side. “It was delayed in transit but should be here by the end of the week. The bird was weird, but we assumed it was just a freak thing. Bird flew in through an open door and happened to die on the dance floor. Bizarre, but there are a billion pigeons in San Francisco, right? But after the roof hole and the break-in . . . and now with this note . . .” Her voice caught, and we stopped in front of the door.
I rested a hand on her shoulder. “Get me a list of everyone who has keys to the studio. Do you know of anyone besides Monte who might have it in for the studio, or for Dave, Jack, or Eddie? Any angry former employees? Ex-clients who left on bad terms?”
She shook her head slowly. “I’ve tried and tried to think of who else might be behind this. There are so many possibilities, but none that make any sense to me. I’ll get you a list of everyone who has a key, plus all of our former teachers. But we haven’t had to fire anyone. And we haven’t had any significant disputes with clients. There were a couple of minor things, but we figured the money wasn’t worth a bad review and refunded them, so they left satisfied.”
With that, she opened the door to the costume closet. Lace and glitter, organized by color, spilled off every shelf. Above, a hint of natural light peeked through a blue tarp. The hole was roughly cut, about four feet long and two feet wide.
“When did this happen?” I asked.
“That one we’re not sure about,” she said. “The closet doesn’t get used most days. I went in to reorganize it on the first of the month—we sent a bunch of ballet students to a competition the week before, and they always throw costumes back in there every which way when they’re done with them—and found the hole. It had to have been at least a few days earlier”—she pointed down at some rain damage on the floor—“but really could have been anytime in the previous three weeks. We had to have a bunch of the costumes professionally cleaned so they wouldn’t mildew.”
“What did the cops say about the hole?”
She chewed her lip. “That it was cut from the outside by someone who didn’t really know what they were doing.” Then she hesitated. “You know, going back to the question about who might have it in for the studio. There’s always other professional dancers. The dance world can be cutthroat.”
“So can the PI world.”
We shared a smile, but then anguish overtook her face again. “I haven’t told Dave about the note yet,” she whispered. “He’s been so stressed about everything. The studio isn’t doing quite as well as he made out, and we don’t know what any of us will do if it goes under. And Sharon and Jack have been through so much.”
“Knock, knock,” called an elegant voice. A tall blonde stood in the closet doorway. “Are you my next students?”
“Oh, I think Leo’s our instructor,” said Jim.
“Leo’s off today,” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Odette.”
She was strikingly beautiful, perhaps twenty-four or twenty-five, with waist-length hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Like the White Swan in Swan Lake?” I asked. That couldn’t possibly be her real name, could it? It had to be a stage name, like Petunia.
Odette laughed, a genuine smile on her face. “My parents were both ballet dancers—and from Russia, so they took it all even more seriously—and I’m afraid they were sorely disappointed when I went into ballroom instead of ballet.”
So it was her real name, apparently.
“Follow me,” she said, “we’re going to be two rooms down.” She turned on her heel and practically glided toward the hallway. As I watched her go, I felt a little pang of jealousy and glanced down at my maternity dress. I’d felt so glamorous half an hour ago, but compared to Odette, I was drab and dowdy.
We waved to Petunia and walked after Odette, and Jim leaned in to whisper to me, “Maybe her parents just really wanted her to be rich.”
I shot him an inquiring glance.
“Odette means wealthy in French, and . . . little wealthy one, I think, in Anglo-Saxon.”
Furrowing my brows, I asked, “How on earth do you know that?”
“Went to elementary school with a stuck-up little wannabe socialite named Odette, and she made sure everyone knew.”
I snorted as we strolled onto the dance floor.
“Let’s review
the steps you learned last time,” Odette called from the far side of the room. “Rock step!”
“Here’s to not tipping over,” I muttered.
Chapter 5
Odette’s teaching style proved much gentler—or at least more patient—than Leo’s. We made it through the triple step without incident, but when we tried to add the Charleston, I swiveled too hard while stepping back and found myself tipping over again.
Jim reached out to catch me, but I righted myself by flailing my arms. Cheeks burning, I glanced up at Miss Perfect White Swan, but she didn’t seem disturbed.
“You’re pregnant, right?” she asked. Then she hastened to add, “Not that I can tell by looking at you—Dave mentioned it.”
“With twins,” I said ruefully. “I mean, we’re thrilled, of course. But finding bal—”
“Balance is always a learning curve in pregnancy, and with twins, it’s double trouble. But you’ll get the hang of it. You’re a natural.” She clapped her hands and turned to Jim. “Now, we’re going to have some of our work cut out for us with you.”
But the way she said it didn’t raise my hackles like Leo had. She was matter-of-fact and direct, but easygoing and relaxed. I didn’t get the sense that she was frustrated, and that made all the difference.
Jim gasped in mock affront, and I elbowed him in the ribs.
“Yeah,” I said, “we’ve sure got our work cut out for us.”
The rock step and triple step, which Jim had struggled with, were the easy ones. The Charleston required a lot more rhythm, which had never been Jim’s specialty.
But rhythm could be taught. I hoped.
“If you guys are going to be part of the demonstration,” Odette continued, “we need both of you to look like dancers.”
“Excuse me, demonstration?” Jim’s mouth fell open. “What do you mean?”
Odette tilted her head. “Oh, aren’t you part of it? The demonstration at the fundraiser? I thought Dave and Petunia said . . .”
My forehead wrinkled. “Well, we did offer to help however they needed us. But Dave knows that Jim doesn’t have a lot of dance experience.”