Dead on the Dance Floor (11 page)

“Jane, come on, she wasn't having any kind of a thing with Mr. Clinton.”

“Maybe not, but I'm willing to bet she would have, if she felt it would further her career.”

“She had a great career. Jane, face it, she was good. No, beyond good.”

“But she was a witch!”

“She liked to use people, and she liked to jerk their chains. But she's gone now.”

Jane nodded, then looked at her again. “I think you should be careful.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because too many people know you're convinced that Lara would have never done herself in.”

“No one said it was suicide. Just an accidental overdose that caused her heart to stop.”

“You don't think it was an accident.”

“Neither do you, so it seems.”

“But…” Jane paused, her beautiful dark hair sweeping around her delicate, gamine's face as she assured herself once again that they were alone. “People know what you think and feel. You were honest with the police. You've said a few things around her. I think you need to be careful.”

You're next.

Shannon forced a smile, refusing to psych herself into a worse state of paranoia. “No matter what anyone thought, Jane, Lara's death was ruled accidental. She's being buried tomorrow. It's over. It's hard, and of course we're not going to forget it right away, but we're going to move on. We have our own lives to live. Okay?”

Jane nodded solemnly, reaching for the hand Shannon offered her, squeezing it.

Then they both jumped a mile when the door opened again.

“What the heck is up with you two?” Sam Railey demanded as he walked in. He frowned at them, then looked over his shoulder.

“What? I have a huge zit on my forehead? Spinach in my teeth?”

Shannon and Jane laughed, looking at each other a bit guiltily.

“Nope, you look great, Sam,” Shannon said. “Hey, both of you, get your shoes on. Let's get going. Your CD's over by the stereo, right? When you're ready, go through the whole routine, then we'll break it down. Come on, come on, let's move, before the day gets really busy.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Sam said. Shaking his head, he started for the teachers' room to get his shoes. “What a tyrant,” he muttered, but the words were quite intentionally audible. “Not, gee, Sam, take your time, we'll throw some coffee on and talk a minute or two. Not, good morning, Sam, how are you doing, everything all right? I'll just ask myself, then. Sam, how are you? Not too bad, but somehow, I am getting one mother of a blister on my left heel.”

“Shoes, Sam. Chop, chop,” Shannon told him.

Giggling, Jane hurried after him to get her own shoes.

Shannon looked around. The day outside was bright and beautiful. Light was pouring in. Sam and Jane were chattering away as they slipped into their smooth shoes.

Everything seemed good, clean, bathed in sun, normal.

It remained so until Gordon came in, informing her that they needed to break any appointments for that evening and cancel their group classes.

Lara Trudeau was being buried Saturday, and that night there was going to be a viewing at the funeral home, and they all had to be there.

 

“I have to admit,” Sam whispered to Shannon, “she looks beautiful. I mean, you know, most of the time when you come to a viewing with an open coffin, the person looks dead. Bad. Stiff. Everyone tries to say that someone looks beautiful, but they don't. But Lara, for real, looks beautiful. Like she's sleeping, huh? She looks young, too. This is so tragic.”

Tragic.

Beyond a doubt.

Down on the kneeling pad in front of the coffin, Shannon felt a million emotions rush through her. No, Lara had not been particularly nice. But she had been talented and, more, so full of life that she had exuded energy at every turn. She had entranced her own private world and given dozens who had come after her a height of professionalism and beauty for which to strive.

But not nice.

Sam sighed deeply. “Not that she would ever have been eligible for a community-spirit award.”

“Sam!” Shannon nudged him. “You're supposed to sit here and pray for the deceased.”

“Think she needs our prayers?” he asked. “Okay, she wasn't Mother Teresa, but she wasn't a murderess or anything. She's probably dancing in the clouds right now. Or maybe…if there is a purgatory, she's there, trying to teach steps to a bunch of dunderheads.”

“Sam,” Shannon groaned.

“Oh, right, and you're praying that she's sitting on the right hand of God?” he whispered back.

Shannon sighed and gave up. She hadn't been praying. Or maybe she had. It was sad, it was tragic, Lara was gone. And she hoped that her beliefs were right, that there was an afterlife, and that, indeed, Lara was dancing in the clouds. But what she had really discovered was that more and more, with her whole heart, she just didn't believe the ruling of accidental death. Lara had loved life. She had loved the simple act of waking up and living, moving, using the tool of her body to create beautiful, bewitching motion. She simply couldn't have done herself in—not even accidentally.

She rose, Sam taking her elbow to rise with her.

There was a long line behind them. The funeral home was filled to capacity and beyond. People who had known her, professionals, amateurs and the just plain curious, had come to pay their respects.

She walked over to where Gordon was standing, talking quietly with Gunter Heinrich, one of the champions from Germany. Gunter greeted her with a sad smile and a kiss on the cheek.

“Gunter, you made it here. I'm amazed to see you. This was all arranged so quickly.”

Very tall, blond, an elegant man with strong facial features, Gunter shrugged. “I was in the States—Helga and I stayed after the competition on the beach. We're going on—we'd planned on doing the competition in Asheville next week. I was just speaking with Gordon about using the dance studio for some practice sessions next week,” Gunter continued. “Are you available for some coaching?”

They were at a wake, she thought, and yet Gunter was scheduling. Maybe she hadn't been to enough wakes. She could hear soft conversation all around her. Maybe that was part of it. Life went on.

“I think so,” she murmured.

Mr. Clinton was at the coffin then. Looking grave, he went to his knees, said a little prayer and crossed himself. Jane came up to him as he rose again, slipping an arm around his shoulders. The Longs were there, quietly standing at the back of the room, engaged in conversation with the young couple who had come to learn to dance for their wedding. Rhianna Markham, who had taught the couple, stood with them.

Ben was on the other side of the coffin, standing alone, looking somber, and almost as if he were in another world.

Mary and Judd Bentley, owners of a franchise studio down in South Dade, came up to the coffin and bent down together. They were good people, and good friends. Mary was actually crying—one of the few in attendance doing so.

“You're next.”

“What?”

Shannon's attention was drawn sharply back to Gunter.

His brow arched. She hadn't realized how sharply she had spoken, or how loudly. She flushed. “Sorry. I'm afraid I was distracted.”

“I was telling Gordon, he has to find the right words to get you out there. You're the best coach we've ever had—and one of the best dancers I've ever seen. If you went back out there, you could be next.”

“Oh, I…thanks,” she murmured. “That's very sweet. Excuse me, will you?”

She suddenly knew she had to get out of the building, if only for a moment. She turned and started down the center aisle between the rows of chairs. The smell of the multitude of flowers lining the room, set against every available wall, in stands and over the casket itself, was overwhelming. She closed her eyes and nearly crashed into Ella Rodriguez and Justin Garcia as they took their turn heading to kneel down before Lara.

In the antechamber, she moved through a milling crowd. More dancers. She saw one of last year's local salsa champions, a beautiful, petite girl with a body to kill for. She was in black—a tight black dress that hugged her every curve. She was in deep conversation with one of the officers of the national dance association.

Katarina was in the antechamber, looking sedate in a navy suit and apparently saddened by the occasion. But before Shannon could even approach her, another woman stepped in front of her, loudly asking if she could come in for a fitting the following day. When Katarina informed her that she would be attending Lara's funeral, the woman insisted on seeing her Monday.

Shannon lifted a hand to Katarina, then rushed out the front door.

The funeral home Gordon had chosen was almost dead in the center of Miami proper. He'd paid a great deal to buy a plot for Lara in one of the area's oldest cemeteries, Woodlawn, a beautiful place made more beautiful by the heavy respect that the Latin community paid to their dead.

The street in front of her was busy with traffic racing by. A horn blared. A driver shouted out his window at someone who didn't move fast enough in front of him. There was a convenience store across the street, and a group of teens sat in front of it on the hood of a restored Chevy, chatting, laughing.

The air wasn't exactly fresh and inviting—a burst of exhaust fumes came her way. But she felt better away from the overwhelming scent of the flowers. And away from the strange state of hypocrisy that existed inside.

People exited as she stood there, lifting their hands in solemn salute to her as they headed for the parking lot. Some she knew well, some she had at least seen before, and in some cases, she didn't have any idea who they were. She waved back anyway.

Then, weaving through a group that was leaving, she saw two men on their way in. The brothers O'Casey.

Doug came straight to her, giving her a hug, kissing her cheek. He looked truly distraught. His usually neatly brushed wheat hair was rumpled in front, as if he'd been running his fingers through it. His features were strained.

“This is it, huh?” he said, his voice husky. “This makes it real.”

She nodded, touching his cheek, and felt suddenly glad, because here was someone who had really cared about Lara Trudeau, if only as her student and a friend. Except, according to Jane, he might have cared about her as much more.

“It
is
real, Doug, I'm afraid. Very real.”

“How does she…look?” he asked.

“This sounds trite, of course, but it's true. She's beautiful. As if she's sleeping,” Shannon told him.

He lowered his head. “I'm going in.”

He turned and walked toward the door. Quinn remained. Tall, dark, striking in his suit. Watching her. In the shadows of the street, his eyes appeared almost black. Like dual abysses of some deep, dark knowledge that somehow accused her, or saw more than they should.

She crossed her arms over her chest, returning his stare. “It's interesting to see you. You didn't know Lara, did you? Had you ever seen her dance?”

“I came with my brother,” he said.

“Ah, I see.”

“Do you?” He looked toward the door. “It's interesting to see lots of the people who come to a wake, isn't it? I mean, seriously, how many people are here because they care—and how many are here just to see her and be seen themselves?”

“People often come to see someone well-known,” Shannon said. “Gordon didn't specify anywhere that this was to be private. He wanted anyone who wished to see Lara and pay their respects to her talent to feel free to come.”

“Noble,” Quinn murmured. She couldn't tell if it was in mockery or not.

“Are you going back in?” he asked.

She stared at him and shook her head. “No, I don't think so. I came early with Gordon and Ben to see that everything was set up properly.”

“Of course. And then there's the strain of the funeral tomorrow.” Again she couldn't pinpoint the tenor of his voice. Was he mocking? Did he somehow see that so much of this was a sham, a performance for Lara or, perhaps, for all of them?

“Do you need a ride home?”

She hesitated. Actually, she did. She had come with Ben, and he and Gordon would be staying to the bitter end.

“Don't worry—I won't fraternize,” he told her, definite amusement in his eyes then. “Just give me a minute to go in and pay my own respects.”

“It's not necessary.”

“I don't mind.”

She lifted her head slightly. “Doug is already in there. And you didn't know Lara. So…just what is your intention in going in?”

His lips curled slightly. “Well, to see, of course. And maybe to be seen, as well. Wait for me. I'll be right with you.”

He turned and headed for the entrance. She watched him go, wishing that, in the midst of all that was going on—and despite the definite mistrust she felt—she weren't admiring the way his shoulders carried the sleek lines of his suit, or noting again the subdued but rich, evocative scent of aftershave that seemed to linger when he had gone.