Dead Man Dancing

Thirteen

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Ruth announced from the depths of her recliner when I showed up the following day to help her survive yet another day on crutches.

‘Call the New York Times!’ I quipped.

‘Hannah, be serious, for once.’

I put down the clothes hamper I’d been in the process of lugging to the basement and gave Ruth my full attention. ‘OK, I’m listening.’

‘I don’t think the attack on me was just a simple mugging.’

‘You don’t? Is that what the police told you?’

‘No. They’re still working on the theory that the punk followed me from Mother Earth, thinking I’d be taking the receipts to the BB &T night deposit like I normally do. When I went straight to J & K, they believe he followed me and waited until I got out of the car before he pounced.’

The police’s theory sounded plausible to me. ‘What makes you think the police are wrong?’

Ruth adjusted a knitted afghan over her knees. ‘Remember what Tanya Harding did to Nancy Kerrigan?’

‘Vaguely. Wasn’t Harding the Olympic ice skater who hired a hit man to kneecap her rival?’

‘Uh huh. Then there was that Texas cheerleader-murdering mom, Wanda somebody-or-other, who asked her brother-in-law to hire a hit man to murder the mother of her daughter’s cheerleading rival.’

‘Ruth, surely you’re not suggesting…’

‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting, Hannah. Somebody didn’t want me to audition for Shall We Dance? and that someone made damn certain of it.’

My sister had always been spacey in a superannuated flower child sort of way, but this cockamamie idea was a bit far out, even for her. Right-wing nuts went in for conspiracy theories, not citizens of the Woodstock Nation. Or so I always thought.

‘Since when did you start believing in conspiracy theories, Ruth? The next thing I know, you’ll be telling me that NASA faked the moon landing, Bill Gates designed Wingding fonts to deliver subversive messages, and that Paul McCartney is really dead.’

Ruth flapped a hand. ‘Hear me out, Hannah. Jay may think I’m stupid, but I can see right through that smarmy veneer. He never thought I was a good dancer. Never. You know what he had us doing, Hutch and me?’

I shook my head.

‘It’s called a showcase move. You teach a beginner – that would be me – some simple steps, and then the expert – that would be Hutch – dances fancy all around me.’

If that was a problem, I simply wasn’t getting it. ‘So, what’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing, per se. But did you notice how quick Jay was to cut me off last night when I started to tell Melanie about our routine.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t.’

‘Well, he did, and that’s because it’s a shit routine, Hannah. It’s not going to impress anyone except my nearest and dearest – that would be you. It’s certainly not going to impress any judges!’

‘Ruth…’

‘So when Melanie suddenly became free…’ Ruth’s voice trailed off.

Before she could launch another sentence, I made a time-out sign with my hands. ‘Whoa! You’re going way too fast for me.’

‘Think about it, Hannah. Jay’s been teaching Don and Melanie Fosher for two years, and they’re really, really good. He knows that the Foshers had a good chance of acing the auditions, right?’

I had to agree with that.

‘Hutch and me… well, I don’t know what he was thinking about us. Maybe Jay thought I could be brought up to speed, and then – ta-dah – he’d have two couples in the show…’

Ruth swung her legs from the footrest to the floor and reached for her crutches which were propped against a folding tray table. ‘I need a cup of coffee. You?’

I stepped forward. ‘I’ll get it.’

Ruth waved me aside with the tip of a crutch. ‘No, my butt will go to sleep if I sit in that chair a minute longer.’ She turned and clumped her way into the kitchen. Since the laundry room was on the way, I picked up the basket and followed close behind.

When Ruth got to the coffee pot, she turned to face me, resting the aforementioned butt against a kitchen cabinet. ‘With Don suddenly gone, Melanie’s out of the running, and it’s just Hutch and old Twinkle Toes here.’ Ruth used her crutch to tap lightly on her cast.

‘So, if I hear you right, you’re suggesting Jay hired somebody to make sure you’d be out of the competition so Melanie could partner with Hutch?’

Ruth sucked in her lower lip thoughtfully. ‘Or, maybe Melanie hired somebody to do the deed, and then talked Jay into teaming her up with Hutch.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ I’d just met Melanie, but we’d bonded instantly. If she was the type to put out a contract on somebody, well, move over Elizabeth, I’m the Queen of England.

Ruth’s eyes narrowed. ‘You saw how buddy-buddy Jay and Melanie were last night.’

I had to admit that I had, but I’d thought the relationship more of a proud teacher/talented protégé kind of thing. ‘Ruth, all you had to do was say no when Jay asked Hutch if he’d partner with Melanie. Hutch would have bowed out in an instant.’

A fat tear ran down my sister’s cheek. ‘I couldn’t do that to him, Hannah. You should have seen him after everyone left last night. Flying high as a kite, up until the wee hours researching dance costumes on the Internet.’

‘Oh, so what’s he wearing?’ I asked, welcoming the opportunity to steer the conversation in a safer direction.

‘They’re doing a tango, so he’s been looking at Latin pants with gold stripes, and one of those shirts that’s slashed to the waist.’ She grinned. ‘He’s tentatively picked out a velvet devoré animal print.’ She fanned her face rapidly with her hand. ‘It’s going to be hot, Hannah. I won’t be able to keep my hands off the man.’ She tapped her crutch on the floor, emphasizing every word. ‘And little Miss Marlee Matlin better keep her hands off him, too.’

‘Hard to do that when you’re tangoing with somebody,’ I said reasonably. ‘What’s Melanie wearing, then?’

Ruth shrugged. ‘Dunno. They’ll be meeting with Jay about it on Friday when they start working on the choreography.’

Ruth finally remembered what she’d come to the kitchen for. She located two clean mugs in the dishwasher, and poured us each a cup of… sludge. If Hutch had made the coffee, as I suspected he had, the pot had to have been sitting on the warming plate for at least three hours.

She took a sip of coffee, grimaced. ‘So, I take it you don’t think much of my theory.’

‘Look, Sis, what I think isn’t important. Have you shared your theory with the police?’

‘They’ll just think I’m crazy.’

‘Think about what you’ve just said.’

‘I know, I know, but I just can’t shake the feeling, Hannah. I swear, when the police catch that little creep and shake him down, when it all comes out in the wash, they’ll find that somebody did hire the guy to do this to me.’

‘And speaking of wash,’ I said, hoisting the laundry basket, ‘I’d better get this load into the washing machine, or your live-in lover is going to appear in court tomorrow with a ring around the collar.’