2 Dancing With Death (10 page)

    
“Can I help you Miss Crawford?” a man asked, coming to stand behind the counter. It was George, the concierge who had come to tell them about the weather. The woman who’d brushed Betty off so rudely looked back at him in surprise and, Betty was pleased to note, just a touch of panic.

    
“That would be wonderful,” she said with relief.

    
George gestured to the side of the counter. “If you’d just step over here, Daphne can take the next guest.” He smiled. “And I know she’ll add just a touch more grace to her greeting.”

    
Betty smiled at Daphne, who had now gone slightly pale. “Of course. Right away.” Clearly, she’d been caught shirking.

    
Betty explained her problem to George. Unlike Daphne, he was much more sympathetic. He assured her that, even though the hotel’s wireless internet was down now, they had technicians working to fix the problem and it should be up and running soon. In the meantime, he’d see about arranging something else for her.

    
Betty could have hugged him. The moment the hotel had internet again, she would be among the first to know. With that thought in mind, she was able to quell the small jolts of panic that were coursing through her system.

    
“And in the meantime,” George said, “the first round of the ballroom dance competition doesn’t start for a few hours yet. Is there anything else I can show you? We have a spa, recreation room, the fitness area, and of course the pool.”

    
Betty was about to thank him and go. After all, if she couldn’t do work maybe she could get a little more sleep. But she really should go do her morning workout. After discussions with her doctor and nutritionist, Betty had designed a 45-minute daily workout routine for herself. And yes, most mornings when she woke up she didn’t want to go. She was tired. She was achy. And she hated, hated, hated running!

    
She hated the thought of uncontrolled diabetes more.

    
On nights where she knew that she wouldn’t want to wake up in the morning, Betty had taken to sleeping in her workout clothes. It meant one less step, one less excuse in the morning. And now, looking at her outfit, Betty realized she had unconsciously chosen her work out clothes to wear.

    
That was good. It meant she was developing a habit.

    
It was also bad, because it meant she had no excuse to go up to her room and fall onto the bed for “just a moment.”

    
Rats. Didn’t her diabetes know it was vacation? She was supposed to indulge in soft beds and amazing pillows (minus the stolen cash).

    
“The fitness room would be great,” her traitor mouth said. George smiled. “Right this way.”

    
Forty-five minutes of treadmills and rowing machines and weights later, Betty was relaxing in the sauna, letting the steam and heat sap the tension from her muscles. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall.

    
Heaven. For a moment, Betty enjoyed the irony. If she stayed in this sauna too long, she could probably get heat stroke. And yet, mere yards away through walls and some windows a blizzard was raging.

    
She breathed deeply, letting herself relax fully. The sauna door opened and shut, but after making sure she was completely covered by her towel Betty paid her company no mind. It wasn’t like anyone could see through this steam anyhow. It wasn’t until the conversation started that Betty realized that more than one person had joined her.

    
“I can’t believe that woman!” one female voice with a New York accent exclaimed. “To pull the stunts she has, and then just show up here with her latest toy as though she owned the world. What a cold stone bitch!”

    
Betty’s scandal ears, well-trained by years of exposure to the Gossiping Grannies of Lofton, perked up. It seemed the women didn’t realize they were alone, and Betty refused to pass up a chance to gather some information. She tried to breathe quietly and commit as much of the conversation to memory as possible. It might be something that could help Bill with the investigation.

    
“Will you relax?” asked another woman with a Southern accent. “And give her some credit. She was a wonderful dancer once. She could probably still dance circles around most of the people at the competition.”

    
“Of course she could,” the first voice scoffed. “That doesn’t change the fact that she’s a manipulating, thieving wench. Look what she did to us!”

    
The second woman laughed. “She was a better dancer than us! That doesn’t make her a thief. Don’t be a sore loser Sue.”

    
Betty made special note of the name. She was almost certain they were speaking about Emily Knolhart. It seemed like everyone at this competition hated the doyenne. Apparently she had stepped on a lot of toes on the way to top.

    
“I’m not a sore loser!” the disembodied voice of Sue protested. “I just… I can’t stand that woman! I mean, she comes with that trophy husband of hers… I bet the second her reality television show gets off the ground he gets left in the dust. If I were him, I’d be expecting it.”

    
“True. And that show with the ex-husband on the floor. Wasn’t he the accountant? I heard she married him so that he’d help foot the bill for her plastic surgeries.”

    
“It wouldn’t surprise me. Knolhart takes what she wants and moves on. Honestly! She’s like an amoeba, eating everything in her path and leaving her crap behind for others to clean up.”

    
“Sue!” the second voice protested, laughing. “That’s horrible.”

    
“No, what’s horrible is that I have about two hours of hair and makeup before the first round. I’ve got to get going.”

    
“I’ll walk you up to your room.”

    
The sauna door opened and closed behind them, leaving Betty in steamy silence.

    
That was interesting, Betty thought.

CHAPTER 12

    
The first round of the dance competition came, and Wes insisted that he be allowed to compete. At first Bill wasn’t too thrilled at the idea of his right-hand man going off to waltz in the middle of an investigation, but Wes made some very convincing arguments.

    
One: He would return to Bill’s side immediately after dancing, and let Clarise call him when they were due to dance again so that he spent as little time away as possible.

    
Two: As a dancer, he would be in an excellent position to listen in on conversations and keep an eye out for anything untoward.

    
Three: He’d come here to dance with Clarise, and he absolutely refused to let some thief ruin their weekend away. Besides, the thief couldn’t go anywhere. They wouldn’t be able to leave until the storm lifted. That might not be for days, so the investigation had some time.

    
Bill caved and let Wes join the dancing, but he and the girls were on strict orders to keep an eye out and the fetch Bill immediately if anything looked suspicious.

    
As Betty watched the roiling mass of blurs and color that made up the crowd gathering for the competition, she wondered how much help she could really be. She was sure that each couple was dressed in elegant evening wear, and she knew for a fact that each competitor had a large white number pinned to their back. But, past ten feet in front of her, Betty couldn’t make out any details. To her, the dancers looked like a flipbook where the images were made of finger paint and glitter. And if she couldn’t tell one dancer from another, how could she be expected to see anything suspicious?

    
Still, she wasn’t about to tell Bill that. So, while Clarise and Wes readied themselves for the first round, she found a safe spot along the wall and gazed out towards the blurs.

    
“All those in the amateur competition,” came Miss Knolhart’s voice over the microphone, “please report to the judges for check-in. All those in the amateur competition, please report to the judges for check-in.”

    
Dancers began shuffling about, moving off the dance floor or towards the judges, as their level permitted. The crowd on the sidelines grew, until Betty’s view of the dance floor was entirely obscured by other spectators. Betty pushed her way through the crowd, looking for a better spot to stand. Perhaps if she were close enough to the dance floor she could at least pick Wes and Clarise from the crowd.

    
As she wove through the blurry crowd, Betty felt her foot land on something slippery. She felt a tug. Rrrrrrip.

    
The woman directly to Betty’s right spun around. “My dress!” she exclaimed. This close, Betty realized that she had unwittingly bumped into Mary O’Connor. Not only had she bumped into her, Betty had ripped her ball gown. Yesterday, Mary’s Irish ire had been directed at Miss Knolhart. Today, much to Betty’s displeasure, she was the one in Mary’s crosshairs. “You big oaf,” Mary hissed. “Don’t you have eyes? If my dress is ruined, I’ll sue. This is a Vera Wang gown!”

    
“I’m so sorry,” Betty rushed to say. “Can I help you sew it up?” she reached out to inspect the tear which, thankfully, didn’t seem too bad.

    
Mary slapped her hands away. “Don’t you touch it,” she said, glaring. “I saw you talking to Emily yesterday. Did she put you up to this?”

    
“What? No, of course not!”

    
Mary scoffed. “Of course not.” She looked down at her dress and sighed. “I’ve got to take care of this before the professional level competition starts.” She glared at Betty before pointedly pushing past her, shoving her aside and nearly knocking her over. “Excuse me,” she said pointedly, before she disappeared into the crowd.

    
Betty closed her eyes, wishing she could sink into the floor. How could she be so clumsy? She wouldn’t blame Mary if she did decide to sue after all. A Vera Wang gown! That one dress was probably worth more than everything Betty owned, and then some.

    
Still, at least Mary’s hasty exit had opened up a gap in the crowd. Betty slipped into her spot and was pleased to find she could see the dance floor. Directly to her right was a tall, balding man with a clip board.

    
The music began, and Betty immediately recognized the strains of a waltz coming from the string quartet. As one, the dancers began to move to the beat. It didn’t take long for Betty to figure out that the man standing next to her was a judge. As the dancers glided across the floor, they made a point to show off their fancier moves just as they passed. The judge made notes on his clip board.

    
The dance floor was very crowded. Betty had no idea how the dancers managed not to bump into each other. And yet, like skaters at an ice skating rink, they settled into moving in a circular path without seeming to take conscious thought. Within seconds, Betty noticed the slower dancers settling into the middle of the floor, while the more surefooted pairs swept along the judge-strewn edges of the crowd.

    
Clarise and Wes passed her spot three times. Betty couldn’t help but notice that, while they weren’t among those who sped around and around the ring and showed off for the judges, her friends seemed to be among those who were having the most fun. They were grinning fit to split their faces, and seemed to be successfully ignoring every other couple on the floor. Clarise was radiant in her sunset evening gown, complete with a scarf that had been attached to her silken gloves. The scarf’s fluidity emphasized the rigid stillness of Clarise’s upper body as she kept eye contact with Wes and maintained good posture through the whirls and twirls of the dance. Wes didn’t have very fancy attire, but the wide grin on his face as they danced more than made up for the lack of a designer label. As Betty watched the other dancers, she noticed their smiles lapse into frowns as they trod on each other’s feet or swerved to avoid other couples. One sweet elderly couple dressed in matching pants suits just stood in the middle of the floor and did a side to side motion. Other couples danced aggressively, cutting off other competitors in their dash for the prize. Only Wes and Clarise seemed oblivious to it all.