Night Film

54

“Mrs. Quincy called to alert me you’d be here,” announced Dorothy, surveying me skeptically over the rim of her glasses. “But not a half-hour early. Samantha’s in the midst of her Nutcracker audition.”

Dorothy was the gray-haired czarina who ruled the Manhattan Ballet School with an iron fist. I’d encountered her before, and every time she treated me like I was an escapee from a Siberian gulag.

“Okay, but we have a reservation at the Plaza for a father-daughter tea.”

“If you pull her out now, she won’t be in the running for getting a doll from Herr Drosselmeyer. She might not even make it to the party scene.”

“Come on, Dorothy. Sam has to make the party scene. She is the party scene.”

Dorothy sighed, relenting. “Go ahead.”

Winking at her, I turned, striding down the hall to the ballroom where they held the classes, the wood floors creaking under my feet. I’d called Cynthia to ask if I might spend a few quality hours with Sam this evening — to make up for my postponing her visit — and miraculously, she’d agreed to it. I didn’t exactly go into detail as to what we’d be doing during these quality hours, but no matter what happened with Peg Martin, Sam would enjoy the dog run, and afterward I’d treat her to a dinner and a hot-fudge sundae at Serendipity 3.

I found Sam at the end of the hall in a sunlit studio blaring Tchaikovsky. She was dancing in a flock of five-year-olds. They were all holding their arms over their heads, jumping. Sam looked ready for the Bolshoi: leotard firebird red, white tights, slippers, and white tutu. She was right in front, watching the ballet mistress demonstrate the steps.

I knocked on the glass door.

The children froze. The mistress craned her long neck, surveying me imperiously.

“Yes, sir? May I help you?”

I stepped inside. “I’m here for Samantha.”