2 Dancing With Death (11 page)

    
I’m so proud of them! Betty thought. They came here to dance, and that’s exactly what they’re doing. Theft and intrigue and all, they’re still dancing their little hearts out.

    
“They’re wonderful,” a voice murmured in her ear. Grace Nell stood beside Betty in a green backless dress with silver spangles. She leaned heavily on her cane, which was sporting a silver and green bow to match the dress. Grace noticed where her eyes landed. “Even a cripple is allowed to accessorize,” she said with a tinge of bitterness lacing her voice.

    
Betty’s eyes jerked away from the cane and she felt a blush flood her cheeks. How could she be so insensitive? Her eyes flicked unwittingly to Grace’s bad leg, concealed under her outfit. “I’m sorry,” she said, stumbling over her words. “I didn’t mean—”

    
Grace flapped her hand, all tension cleared from her expression as if it had never been there. “Of course you didn’t. I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t be so sensitive. Especially not when I dress it up in a shiny bow! It’s just…” she looked out on the dance floor. “I love seeing my students out there dancing. But a part of me wishes I was on the floor…” she shook her head, as if to clear it. “Oh, this is silly. It’s a beautiful night, and the competition is starting out splendidly!”
    
“It really is,” Betty agreed, trying not to give away her confusion. Grace seemed nice enough, but Betty didn’t like the way she seemed to switch emotions so rapidly. Someone with that much turmoil lurking beneath the surface… she made a mental note to tell Bill what she’d learned last night about Grace claiming that Miss Knolhart had caused her injury. “And Clarise and Wes are doing so well!”

    
Grace laughed liltingly. “Better than some of my students, to tell you the truth. Though I still hold out hope on a few of them. All the students have promised to donate half the proceeds to the school if they win. We could really use the money.”

    
Betty eyed Grace sharply. “Why’s that?” she asked, forcing herself to keep her voice light.

    
“Oh,” Grace said absently, watching the dancers, “you know how the economy is. And the arts are always the first thing to go, aren’t they? Fifty thousand dollars would go a long way towards rent and new equipment.”

    
Hmmm… Betty wondered. And how much further would ne hundred thousand dollars go? Even if the thief had thrown away the cash, the loving cup was sure to fetch a pretty penny if they could find a buyer.

    
“Ah well,” Grace said. “If my students win it would be wonderful, but I’m not counting on it. And if the school goes under, I’ve already told some of them that I’d hold private lessons in my home. Besides, my school isn’t the only one in trouble. And my future is in better shape than most teachers.” She pointed out a couple of pairs in the crowd. Unfortunately, they were all too far away for Betty to see clearly. “See that couple?” Grace asked. “And that one? I’ve been teaching them for almost a decade. They’ve promised to follow me wherever I go.” She turned to Betty, a soft smile on her face. “With students like them, I’ll never lack for home and hearth. And that’s all that really matters, isn’t it?”

    
Betty agreed, but kept her eyes on the dance floor so that Grace wouldn’t see her confusion. It took her a moment of watching the dancers glide by to figure out what was bothering her. Grace was like candied violets: far too sweet to be real. Betty glanced quickly at the cane again, remembering the flash of bitterness in Grace’s tone.

    
Yes, she thought. I really do have to speak to Bill about Grace Nell.

    
The string quartet drew the waltz to a close with a flourish, freezing the dancers in place. The musicians stood and bowed, each holding a bow crossed over one shoulder like a beloved musket. The audience clapped first for them, and then for the dancers that had begun to filter into the crowd.

    
“Betty, did you see us?” Clarise exclaimed as she rushed forward, dragging Wes by the hand. If Wes hadn’t been smiling, Betty would have felt a moment of pity. He was looking rather like a small dog yanked along by a leash. His shoulder was in immediate peril of being disconnected.
 
“Were we good?” Clarise continued in a rush. She stumbled forward, tripping on her heels.
    
Betty reached out to steady her friend. “You were fantastic,” she assured Clarise. She looked to Grace to confirm her opinion, knowing that compliments were always more believable when coming form a complete stranger. But Grace had disappeared into the crowd. Probably to go talk to her students, Betty realized. “Did you have fun?” she asked.

    
Wes ran his hand through his hair. “Well,” he said, pulling Clarise close to his side. “It wasn’t terrible, that’s for sure.”

    
Clarise smacked him on the shoulder. “Wesley Bundy, I saw you having fun. And don’t you deny it!”
    
Wes held his hands up in surrender. “Never!” he promised.

    
Wes wanted to eat before going back on duty, so they made their way over to the refreshment table. On the way, they passed the chef. He was standing with his back up against a wall, scribbling on a notepad and muttering. Betty could only make out every other word.

    
“Smooth… elegant… impossible… refined beef!”

    
Clarise met Betty’s eyes before jerking her head at the chef and twirling her finger by her ear in the sign for someone who had completely lost their marbles.

    
“Oh, give him a break,” Betty muttered. She gestured at the crowd around them. “Can you imagine how many picky eaters are in this place? I’d go insane trying to cook for them all too!”

    
Wes thumped his stomach. “Well, I’m not a picky eater. Just give me good home cooking, and we’ll be all set! I’m starved!”

    
When they reached the buffet table, Betty’s jaw dropped. This wasn’t a “light brunch” as the pamphlet had suggested. It was a feast worthy of presentation by singing candlesticks and dishes performing ballet. No matter how many picky eaters were at the competition, if anyone walked away from the meal hungry it was no fault of the chef. There was everything from ham and eggs benedict, to an egg white omelet station, pancakes, crepes, sausages… she couldn’t begin to list everything on one table, and there were three!

    
Betty went about loading her plate with gusto. It wasn’t often that a communal meal offered a variety of diabetes-friendly options, but she had no problem finding selections low in carbs and sugar here. They even had sugar-free syrup!

    
Betty was in heaven.

    
They found a table with three free seats and sat down to eat. The meal only lasted a few minutes before Clarise cried out in dismay.
 

    
“My dress!” She dunked a napkin in her ice water and dabbed frantically at a spot just below her neckline.
    
Betty made out a splotch of red marring the yellow part of Clarise’s gown.

    
Ah. It was that immortal enemy of white outfits and fancy clothes everywhere. The diabolical stain causer. The tasty menace.

    
Ketchup.

    
“I’ve got to go take care of this,” Clarise moaned. “I’m wearing this dress for the next round as well. Will you be okay Betty?”

    
“Of course,” Betty said. “Go take care of it. I’ll be here.”

    
“I won’t,” Wes said. “I’ve got to head back to the investigation. We were closing in on a suspect when I left, and I want to be there for the arrest.” He put his napkin down next to his plate. “I’ll walk you up to your room,” he said, helping Clarise out of her chair.

    
At the way Clarise’s eyes sparkled, Betty revised her opinion of the dastardly condiment. Ketchup, she decided, had just wanted to play match maker.

    
Well, she wasn’t going to complain.

    
“Let me know what happens with the investigation,” she said, waving her friends off. They were so wrapped up in each other that Betty strongly suspected they didn’t even notice.

    
She went back to her meal, savoring each bite.

    
As much as she hated to admit it, this chef did a much better job of making diabetes-friendly food delicious than her family’s diner. And she was a longtime diner food fanatic, so that was a real compliment.

    
Well, if ever there was an opportunity to listen in on conversations, this was it. There was no one else at her table, so Betty could listen in on the conversations around her without feeling guilty for ignoring her companions. For some reason, folks assumed that someone who was eating wasn’t also capable of listening. With luck, she’d find something to report back to Bill.
   

    
She excused herself to the manners mistress she’d taken lessons from in grade school. Eavesdropping might be rude, but someone was framing her for grand theft. Necessity dictated that rudeness was allowed if it prevented her from having to wear a bright orange jump suit.

    
Neon didn’t go well with her hair.

    
So, Betty forced herself to chew slowly and pay more attention to her surroundings than her palette.

    
In the cacophony, it was difficult to focus on one conversation. All she got were snippets.

    
“Her dress was hideous…”

    
“It was so much fun! I can’t wait for the next round.”

    
“They called that a waltz? I’ve seen bears with more grace!”

    
“Is this seat taken?” Someone tapped her shoulder. Betty jumped and looked up, to see that a few of the seats on the other side of the table had already been taken by a pair of gentleman. Earnest Foone, Miss Knolhart’s latest catch and the producer who was planning a television series based on her life, was looking down at her. “Is this seat taken?” he repeated, gesturing to the seat next to Betty. Harry, Miss Knolhart’s ex-husband, was seated right across from her, and he didn’t seem at all perturbed about the thought of Earnest joining their party.

    
So much for paying attention to her surroundings, Betty thought. She gave herself a mental smack. So she’d solved one murder. That didn’t make her a detective.

    
“No, it’s not. Go right ahead.”

    
“Thank you.” Earnest pulled out the chair and sat, placing his glass of white wine on the table in front of him. He turned to Harry.

    
“So Harry,” he said, clearly continuing a conversation they had started before. Betty focused on her eggs. “Who do you think for this year?”

    
“I’ll put five on Lisa Redd and her partner to win the amateur.”

    
Earnest scoffed. “You’re a fool. Her partner has no coordination.”

    
“What can I say?” shrugged Harry. Betty noticed that, despite his indifference, a slight sheen of sweat had appeared on Harry’s forehead. “I like long odds. And besides, have you seen the way she flirts with the judges when she passes? There’s no way they even notice she has a partner, much less that he has two left feet. She’ll win for both of them, on her own merits alone.”

    
Earnest chuckled. “Touché,” he answered.

    
Was this how men who had histories with the same woman were supposed to interact? Where was the drama? The macho posturing? This sounded like a little friendly betting between friends. Five dollars was the cost of a scratch ticket! At least someone in this competition wasn’t seeing everything as life or death.

    
“But I still think you’re wrong,” Earnest continued. “I’ll bet you five that Lisa doesn’t even place.”

    
“Done. Here,” Harry said, sliding a roll of bills across the table to another man with a notebook. “Count it and hold it.”