2 Dancing With Death (7 page)

    
“I don’t know a waltz from a tango,” the chef laughed loudly, causing several dancers nearby to turn and stare at him, “but I guess they don’t care about that.” He nudged Bill with his shoulder. “They just want my name on the leaflets, eh?”

    
Bill smiled back at him. To Betty, it seemed like he was unsure how to deal with such a boisterous, six-foot man leaning so close to him. He looked the very image of a chef, complete with the slightly bulging belly and a white chef’s hat. His apron was streaked with the residue of pastries and meat platters. The dancers, so many of them dressed in their best finery, tended to give him a wide berth as he stood up against the wall, watching everyone enjoy the food he had made. That meant that the area around him was one of the only spots in the ballroom with space to breathe, so that was where Betty and Bill had elected to stand while they ate.

    
They should’ve known.

    
Bill looked at Betty, his eyes begging her to find a way out of this conversation. The chef was loud. He spewed crumbs from his mouth with every word, and for all that he was jolly he was just too much to stand being near for long.

    
The quartet resumed playing and, as there were no trash barrels within easy sight, Betty placed her empty plate on the nearest table. She took Bill’s empty plate from his hand and set it down next to her own. “Come on,” she said, pulling him towards the dance floor. “It was nice to meet you,” she called back over her shoulder to the chef. “But we’re here to dance!”

    
The chef waved them off, a huge grin on his face, and they moved to the middle of the dance floor where other dancers were starting to congregate.

    
Without warning, Bill twirled Betty in place. She stumbled through the twirl, laughing as she came to rest with one of Bill’s hands on her waist, his other lacing fingers through her own. “I owe you,” Bill said softly. “Huge. If I’d had to stay there any longer…”

    
Betty beamed up at him. “What are girls for if not to save men?”

    
Bill laughed, and Betty couldn’t help but feel a little proud that she had caused that reaction, again. She seemed to be making him laugh a lot this evening. She glanced around at the other dancers and caught one girl staring at her with what looked like envy. Betty frowned a little. What could she possibly be envious of her for?

    
Then she realized that Bill had been leading her gracefully across the floor. She hadn’t even realized they were no longer in one place. She stumbled and glared up at him, feeling blood rush to her cheeks. “You said you couldn’t dance!” she exclaimed.

    
Bill smiled down at her, eyes sparkling. “I lied,” he said lightly, starting to dance again after he made sure she’d recovered. Betty concentrated on following him, and felt her steps falter out of rhythm. “I took classes in high school,” he said by way of explaining. “And I’ve noticed,” he said, dropping his voice, “that you’re far more likely to relax and enjoy yourself when you aren’t thinking. You aren’t so bad a dancer yourself. You haven’t stepped on my feet yet. And besides,” he said, “in ballroom dancing it’s the guy’s job to make the girl look good. So,” he said, lightly chiding her, “relax, follow my lead, and let me do my job!”

    
Betty glared at him, hoping that he’d mistake her blush for annoyance. “I don’t know how! I look like an idiot.”

    
She felt Bill shift his grip on her waist. “Not true,” he said, “you do know to dance. You were doing just fine until you stopped to think about it. So,” he repeated, “just relax, pretend there’s no one else in the room, and enjoy yourself.”

    
Betty took a deep breath. “Fine,” she muttered. “Just keep me distracted enough that I forget to pay attention.”

    
And he did. They talked softly, mindful of the ears in the ever growing crowd around them. They talked about Wes and Clarise, about the drive up to the hotel, about Lofton, and soon Betty found herself forgetting that she was in a busy room with some of the most judgmental people she’d ever met. She looked around and saw an elderly couple slow-dancing the two-step to their right. The woman’s grey hair was straight, flowing down her back in a silver waterfall, and she was smiling at her partner. Soon they passed another happy couple, and another.

    
Other people did come here just to dance, Betty realized happily. And, now that she was in the dance floor, she could see that there were more couples fumbling through steps than gliding gracefully. It seemed as though she’d been right after all. Though there were a few dancers who were obviously dancing to show off, most of the judgmental prats were on the sidelines. Where she and Bill were in the middle of the dance floor, they were protected from prying eyes by other couples. She relaxed even further, not realizing that she had a gigantic grin on her face, or that her eyes were sparkling.

    
Who knew that Bill could dance? Betty thought. She suspected Clarise might have known, and made a mental note to kick her friend the next time she saw her. She’d thank her after. This was one instance when Betty didn’t mind being set up.

    
The string quartet switched songs, choosing a melody with a slower pace, and Betty found herself moving closer to Bill and noticing the way his right eye crinkled in the corner when he smiled.

    
And then the ballroom was plunged into darkness. The quartet fell silent, and Betty could hear the rustle of clothes and confused murmurs of dancers wondering what had happened. A person bumped into her, almost knocking her over. Betty tightened her grip on Bill’s hand, determined not to lose him in the confusion.

    
A woman screamed, a high pitched, chilling sound that reverberated off the walls and seemed to echo. The murmuring went from nervous to panicked, with people calling out for their friends. The crowd jostled about, and Betty found herself and Bill pushed towards what she thought was the edge of the ballroom as the crowd rushed towards the exits.

    
Light flooded the ballroom once more, and exposed a scene of chaos. Tables had been overturned, dancers were mussed, and more than a few couples had fallen to the ground, pushed over by the crowd. Betty turned to Bill, wide eyed.

    
“What happened?” she asked, though logically she knew he couldn’t know the answer.

    
Bill shrugged. “It could’ve been the storm,” he said.

    
And then came the second scream. “Someone call 9-1-1!” a woman cried.

CHAPTER 9

    
Bill and Betty shoved their way over to where a crowd was gathering around a body on the floor.

    
“Police!” Bill said, pulling his badge from his pocket and flashing it so that people would move more quickly. “Coming through!” Dancers shifted out of the way, looking at him in confusion and shock. When they reached the center of the crowd, Betty gasped.

    
Emily Knolhart was lying unconscious on the floor.

    
“It’s gone!” came a shout from the front of the ballroom. “The loving cup is gone!”
    
As one, the crowd turned to look at the prize table. Even Betty could tell that the huge grand prize no longer sat on the table.

    
Before everyone could go into a second panic, Bill spoke, his voice loud enough to carry across the room.

    
“Everyone please calm down and move away from the prize table and Miss Knolhart,” he said firmly. “We’ll be taking statements from everyone present, so find a place out of the way to sit. Is there anyone here with medical training?”

    
Betty was amazed when the crowd actually seemed to obey him. Bill shrugged at her. “They just needed someone to take charge. I’m sure this will all be sorted out in no time. Once we have a few people with medical training up here, can you instruct a few of them to check and make sure no one else was hurt? I need to stay with Miss Knolhart.”

    
“Of course,” Betty said. “Just let me know what I can do to help.”

    
It wasn’t long before a handful of people had made their way to where Betty and Bill were waiting. Betty was surprised to see the chef claiming to have medical training. He shrugged when Betty asked him about it. “I’m no doctor,” he said, the boisterousness of earlier gone, “but you see a lot of strange accidents in kitchens. I can at least help with shock and minor injuries.”

    
Betty nodded in understanding. “Right,” she said, remembering what Bill said about people needing to have someone take charge in a crisis. “Does anyone else have similar experience?” A waiter and a dancer in a yellow gown stepped forward. “Can the three of you check for any other injuries? There were people on the floor who might have been stepped on. If someone’s injured and they can move, do what you can and have them all sit in one area while we wait for medical supplies. If they can’t move, make sure they have someone to keep an eye on them.”

    
The three went about their tasks, and Betty turned back to where Bill was kneeling next to Miss Knolhart with a gentleman she recognized as Earnest Foone, the television producer Miss Knolhart was dating. Bill told her that Earnest claimed to have gone to medical school for a couple of years before leaving to pursue a career in television.

    
Earnest had placed a rolled up jacket underneath Miss Knolhart’s head and was checking her pulse. Betty was relieved to see that there was no pool of blood, and it seemed as though all her bones were aligned in their proper arrangement. Her chest rose and fell slowly.

    
Miss Knolhart’s eyes fluttered open. She slowly lifted one hand to rub her eyes and started to sit up.

    
“Whoa there,” said Earnest, gently pressing her shoulder into the ground. “You had a nasty fall there Love. Lie still for a moment.”

    
The older woman obeyed, lying back and closing her eyes. Her hand reached up to rub her forehead. “What happened?” she asked.

    
Earnest kept his voice light, though Betty could tell that he was cataloguing all off Miss Knolhart’s reactions carefully. His brow was creased with worry. “We were hoping you could tell us,” he said. “Do you remember anything?”

    
Miss Knolhart shook her head, hairs coming loose from her bun as she moved.

    
“No,” she said. “Just the lights going out.”

    
“But you remember the lights going out?” The doctor continued. “That’s good. Can you tell me your name and birthday?”

    
“Emily Marie Knolhart,” she replied tartly, “and a lady never tells her age Earnest Foone!”

    
Earnest chuckled. “I think you’re going to be fine,” he said. “Can you sit up? Stop if it hurts anywhere.”

    
Miss Knolhart sat up slowly. He peered at her eyes before helping her stand. She leaned heavily on his arm for a moment before taking a few steps on her own. When she had gone a yard, she turned back, a shaky smile on her lips. “No aches or pains,” she said. “I’m fine.”

    
“Excellent,” Earnest said, kissing her hand. “I suspect you just fainted. Have you eaten anything recently?”

    
Miss Knolhart shook her head. “Not since breakfast,” she said. “That must be it. Marissa!” she called sharply, pinning a glare on a young woman in a business suit who had been hovering nervously nearby. “Where on earth have you been? Go find me a chair and fix me a plate of fruit!”

    
“Yes Miss Knolhart.” The girl said, a frightened look on her face as she hurried away. “Right away.”

    
“Honestly,” the doyenne said, turning to Betty. “I don’t know why I keep her for an assistant. She practically needs a babysitter!” She turned and walked towards the refreshment tables.

    
Betty met Bill’s eyes and raised an eyebrow. Perhaps if Miss Knolhart treated her assistant better, Marissa wouldn’t act like a whipped dog.