2 Dancing With Death (17 page)

    
Betty took one of the chairs in front of the desk and discovered that it was surprisingly comfortable. It had just the right amount of padding and back support. “Why did you want me to come here?” she asked.

    
George leaned forward on the desk. “This stays between the two of us?” he asked.

    
“Of course!” Betty said. You, me, and Bill, she added silently. If the information was anything that might help with the case, she wasn’t going to hold out on telling him everything. But George didn’t need to know that.

    
“Oh good!” he said. “Because I’ve been wanting to pop with this bit of gossip for months! And,” he said, swallowing down the last of his coffee, “I get the feeling I can trust you to not go gabbing about.”

    
Betty resisted drumming her fingers with impatience. This was torture! Why wouldn’t he just come out and say it? Was he trying to drive her to being criminally insane?

    
“You know Mr. Foone?” George asked breathlessly. Betty answered in the affirmative. Of course she knew Earnest Foone! He was Miss Knolhart’s latest catch, the television producer. He was also one of the men she’d seen betting the other night. At her response, George practically exploded with the news. “He and Miss Knolhart’s assistant were having an affair!”

    
“Are you serious?” Betty asked. An affair! That was motive for murder if she ever heard one.

    
“Of course I’m sure,” George stated, his tone suggesting that to imply anything other than his complete reliability in this matter was a terrible insult. “I know my guests! They used to come here on weekends without competitions. I still have their orders for room service around here somewhere. And let me tell you, no one orders champagne and chocolate covered strawberries for breakfast if they haven’t gotten lucky. Not to mention,” he continued smugly, “that I caught them at it in an empty conference room just a few days ago.”

    
“Do you think Miss Knolhart knows?” Betty asked, her mind working fast. If Miss Knolhart knew about the affair, wouldn’t that put her at the top of the list of suspects for her assistant’s murder? But, Betty thought, that didn’t explain the theft of the loving cup, which was still missing. She remembered Miss Knolhart’s comments the first night of the competition. The doyenne was practically in love with tradition. Betty couldn’t see her doing anything to upset the tournament, no matter what relationship issues she might be having.

    
“That one?” George asked. “I’m sure she doesn’t! She’s oblivious. Besides, she has enough issues of her own. Did you know, her first three credit cards were declined when she checked into the hotel? She was so angry I had to come handle the matter personally.”

    
Betty remembered the extravagant gowns and jewelry Miss Knolhart seemed so fond of. Were they the reason her credit cards were maxed out? Or were they remnants of her wardrobe from her glory dancing days?

    
She couldn’t imagine the illustrious Emily Knolhart with a mountain of debt.

    
“Do you know why they were declined?” Betty asked.

    
“Who knows?” George answered. “I think they were over the credit limit. Miss Knolhart has very expensive tastes. Although, I suppose it could have been the machines. You can’t trust these electronic things you know,” he said, gesturing to the computer. “Good old pen and paper, that’s the best way! Otherwise, your information could all be lost with just one nasty virus.” He reached over to the bookcase, pulling out a thick, leather-bound book. “I still keep a log of all the transactions at the hotel, even the phone calls.” Betty’s heart leapt. That book could hold so many clues! Her hands twitched, and she clenched them together in her lap to stop herself from grabbing the book away from George. “Call me old fashioned, but I like to have a back-up system in place that isn’t plugged into a wall.”

    
“I completely understand,” Betty said. She told him about her online business, relating tales of miscommunication and data that had been lost. “In fact,” she continued, “I’ve been thinking of setting up a paper log book, just so that I can have everything in writing. Would you mind if I looked at that? I’d like to see how you set it up.”
 

    
George handed the book over without hesitation. “Just don’t spill anything on it,” he joked. “Ink runs, and then where would all these records be?”

    
“You should write them in pencil,” Betty suggested absently. “Pencil doesn’t run when wet.”

    
“Ah, but where would be the permanence in that?” George asked. “Pen can’t be erased.”

    
Betty had stopped paying any attention to his words. She was completely absorbed by the record book. It was an amazing piece of record keeping. The entries went back decades. The handwriting had changed over the years. George hadn’t been the first one to use the book, but she noticed that the entries closer to the current date were much more meticulous than those that had been kept in the 1940s. He had kept a log of every guest’s stay, from how many towels they used and what they ordered from room service, to any long-distance phone calls they’d either made or received.

    
Betty recognized most of the area codes as ones in the United States, but in recent months one room had received what seemed to be international calls, repeatedly. She memorized the room number and area code, resolving to research them at another time. Betty didn’t notice anything else odd in the record books, but she figured that now she at least had a place to start. And she wasn’t the only one who should see these.

    
“Have you shown this to the police?” Betty asked George, handing the book to him across the desk. “It’s a beautiful piece of work. They might find it helpful.”

    
George took the book and placed it lovingly back on the shelf. “They don’t need to see it,” he said. “The information is all in the computer if they need it. Keeping this record is more of a hobby for me. I just can’t stand the thought of this book having blank pages at the end.”

    
Who knew you could get sentimental about hotel records? Betty thought with amusement. As long as all the information was in the computers somewhere, she supposed that George had the right to his privacy. She’d check out the area code before deciding whether or not to tell Bill about the ledger.

    
It was a given she’d be telling him about the affair.

    
Betty noticed an internet wire running from the back of the computer to a phone jack in the wall. It took her a moment to recognize it for what it was. A dial-up connection. A dinosaur skeleton from the archives of technological history, but…

    
“Does that work?” Betty asked, pointing. “The internet?”
    
George looked at her sheepishly. “Yes,” he said, “most guests don’t know that we have that. It’s just for hotel staff, in case of emergencies.”

    
Betty decided right then and there that this was an emergency. “Can I check my e-mail? Please? I’ll be quick, I promise.” Betty felt like a junkie in desperate need of a fix. She was so excited at the thought of internet that she was almost shaking. Internet! She could check on her business. She could investigate the area code. She could… but George was already shaking his head.
    
“I can’t let you on right now,” he said.

    
“Please?” Betty pleaded. “I really need to make sure everything is fine with my work.”

    
“Well…” George hedged. “I suppose I could let you on for a little while. But,” he said before Betty could get too excited, “only for half an hour, and you can’t let anyone else know. No one! I could get fired! And,” he added, “You’ll have to wait until after the competition is over for the night. During the day the staff is using it to check online reservations. I can’t slow down the connection by using it in here.”

    
Betty was willing to tap dance on top of an elephant if he asked. She’d get to use the internet! Waiting would be torture, but a few hours wouldn’t make a huge difference in the long run.

    
George looked at his watch. “I have to get back to work. But thank you so much for the coffee and talk. Come find me tonight after the dancing, and I’ll take you back to the office.”

    
“Thank you so much,” Betty said. “And for goodness’ sake, take care of yourself, will you? Don’t let the Mrs. Finklesworths of the world run you into the ground.”

CHAPTER 20

    
By the late afternoon, all the amateur dance rounds were finished and the heavy competition was set to begin. It was the first elimination round to determine which dancers would make it to the final round and compete for the $100,000 cash prize. Even with the loving cup taken the prize was staggering, and tensions ran high. Watching the dancers prepare, Betty was infinitely glad that she didn’t have to compete here tonight. Most of the dancers had been coiffed in elaborate dancing costumes designed to enhance elegance while allowing for maximum movement. The dresses stopped at the knees or calves. No more floor-length evening gowns were to be found among the competitors. In fact, most of them seemed to be wearing outfits modeled after fashions that had been popular in the fifties.

    
When the music started, Betty understood why. The dancers were competing with the Jive, a dance that had been popular at the same time as poodle skirts and beehive hairdos.

    
Again, Betty found a spot close to the front line of spectators, so that she could watch the dancing as much as possible with her impaired vision.

    
The first thing she noticed was that there were far fewer dancers in this round than had been in the amateur round. That made sense. These were the people who had been dancing for years, possibly since they could walk. These were the professionals, the ones who were competing not just for the fun of dancing, but for their paychecks. In all, there were about a dozen couples. And they were all magnificent.

    
Better could hardly believe the speed with which the couples moved. Around and around the floor they danced, feet flying, hands moving, the girls spinning under their partner’s arms. They never stopped, never paused.

    
The tango seemed lazy in comparison.

    
The music came to a close, and the crowd clapped and whistled. The couples headed off the floor, breathing heavily. Now, they had to wait while the judges deliberated. Only half the couples would be moving on to the next round.

    
Betty noticed a small group of gentlemen in the corner, including the past and present Mr. Knolharts. Moving closer, she watched as money traded hands and the bookie wrote down their latest bets. It occurred to her that here was another source of information, if she could just convince the men that they should tell what they knew. She knew for a fact that everyone betting in that pool had a firm grasp on who was who in the competition. They knew all the ins and outs of the dancers.

    
Mr. Foone and Harry left, heading over to the buffet tables just as Betty went to insert herself into the group. That was good. It meant that no one besides the bookie would know her. And she doubted the bookie wasn’t about to explain to the others who she was. Information was money, and bookies knew that better than anyone.

    
“Hello gentlemen,” Betty said. A waiter passed by with a tray of champagne flutes. Betty selected one from the tray and took a small sip to wet her suddenly dry throat. “What are the odds tonight?” Betty asked, recklessly diving in head first. She’d think about the consequences of suggesting she’d like to participate in what was surely illegal gambling later. She had an angle to work now.

    
“Why do you want to know?” one of the men asked. He was a shrewd, elderly gentleman, dressed in a black suit with a red tie.

    
“I was just wondering if you let girls into your little gambling club,” she said. If Miss Knolhart or her assistant had been gambling, there could be suspects in the gambling ring.