“Did you ask your father about the caller’s voice?”
I nodded and said I’d tried to be nonchalant about it. He’d said the voice was whispery and he hadn’t been able to tell if it was a man or a woman. I swallowed hard. “If it was for real, you know who it had to be?” It was more or less a rhetorical question, but I answered it anyway. “Whoever didn’t want Mary Beth’s secret to come out.” I hesitated before I said the rest. “And probably the person who killed her.”
“Have you considered dropping the whole thing?” Dinah said.
I shook my head. “I haven’t had a chance to think about it.”
Dinah’s sixth sense kicked in. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
My shoulders sagged, and I told her the Barry story as we walked down the main street. At this time of day the foot traffic was limited to people in sweats or stretchy pants out for an exercise walk while clutching the necessary accessories: a coffee drink in one hand and a cell phone in the other.
“He left out a wife and kid. Wow,” Dinah said. She’d never really understood my hesitation for not taking our relationship to a more permanent level, but she certainly understood why I was upset this time.
“Well, there is always Mason,” she said. “You always said he seems to want the kind of relationship you do. He’s nice looking, has a job, et cetera.”
“There’s just one problem,” I said when we’d reached Le Grande Fromage. I threw in a nice pause before I finished the thought. “My mother likes Mason.”
Dinah and I both laughed. It felt good after all the grim news.
Dinah opened the door and was about to go in when I looked up the street. A man walked out from the stairwell leading to the Lance Wells Dance Studio. Excited, I detoured and headed down the street. I heard the Le Grande Fromage door woosh shut and Dinah’s footsteps as she followed me.
“What’s going on?” Dinah asked. “It must be important if you chose it over French-press coffee.”
“I think the dance studio is open again,” I said, walking faster. “Maybe we can get some answers about Mary Beth there.”
“What are you going to say?” Dinah said, keeping up with me. Then she shrugged it off. “You think well on your feet.”
After walking through the arched entryway, we went up the exterior stairs. I pulled open the studio’s glass door, and we walked into a large room. A small reception area was formed by a counter with a screen behind it. The front wall was one big window with a view of the north mountains peeking above the low building across the street. The reception desk was empty, and Dinah and I walked to the side of it and looked into the lesson area.
Considering the early hour, I was surprised to see two couples on the floor dancing to tango music. It was easy to tell teachers from students. Both male teachers wore black bowling-style shirts with “Lance Wells Dance Instructor” embroidered in white across the back.
When I looked over at Dinah, I saw that her eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets. She pointed at the back of one of the instructors. “It’s Vincent, my student. The one who had the problem with his test.” I watched him for a moment. Whatever problems he had with English, he had the tango down.
Dinah wanted to leave, but just as I stopped her, a door opened on the side wall and a man and woman came in. As soon as they saw us, they became very animated and moved quickly toward us. She started her pitch as soon as she was within earshot. The man was barely a step behind her. “Welcome, welcome ladies. Here about lessons?” She didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “Everybody wants to dance like the stars now. The first lesson is complimentary. We can do that right now if you’ll just wait until our fabulous instructors finish with their current clients.” The couple went behind the reception counter and before I could blink, they were handing us clipboards with questionnaires attached.
Now that I was closer to the counter, I saw the row of photographs of Lance Wells Sr. on the temporary wall. Below them a banner read, “Dancing is the Footwork of the Gods.”
When I didn’t take the clipboard, the woman explained the questionnaire had to be filled out before we could take our complimentary lesson.
“It’s for insurance purposes,” the man said, stepping out from behind her.
Since I was more interested in talking than dancing, I took the clipboard but didn’t do any writing. Dinah didn’t even pick hers up.
“I work down the street at the bookstore.” I introduced myself and Dinah. “And you are?”
“Roseanne and Hal Klinger,” the woman said, speaking for both of them.
“I saw the sign on your door. . . .” I let it trail off, hoping they’d explain their connection to Mary Beth Wells. My words hung in the air for a moment, and I saw the woman’s eyes tear up. Hal stepped in and explained Roseanne’s sister had died recently.
“Maybe you heard about it. Her name was Mary Beth Wells,” he said in a somber tone.
I did my best to appear surprised. This was a golden opportunity and I didn’t want to blow it. When I glanced at Roseanne again, I saw her resemblance to Mary Beth, although the overall look was totally different. Mary Beth had appeared glamorous, with her golden hair and fine features. On Roseanne, those same features were sharp and foxlike, and her hair was short and red. Mary Beth seemed to have done better in the husband department as well. Lance Wells Jr. might not have been much of a dancer, but he’d inherited his father’s good looks. Hal Klinger had bland features and a fringe of hair around a bald spot that gave him an insipid aura, which his demeanor matched. He seemed to stay one step behind his wife.
Both Dinah and I expressed our condolences. Roseanne nodded in recognition of our sympathy but then shut the door on her emotions and went back to business. She motioned toward the questionnaires, which were still not filled out. Meanwhile, the tangoing continued on the dance floor. I picked up the pen attached to the clipboard. If I wanted her to talk, I was going to have to act like a customer. I nudged Dinah and with a grunt of protest, she began to fill out her sheet as well.
“Is that Lance Wells?” I said, glancing up from my writing and gesturing toward the row of photos on the wall. I noticed he was in a different outfit in each picture. The first showed him in a tuxedo, the next in a theatrical version of a cowboy outfit, then in a pirate getup and the final picture was when he was older. He was dressed in normal clothes and flanked by two younger men, both of whom resembled him. It wasn’t much of a stretch to figure they were Lance Jr. and Matt.
“Yes, that’s Lance Sr.”
“Then he owns this place?” I said innocently.
“He started the dance studios, but he died a number of years ago,” Roseanne said.
“Are you the owners now?” I asked.
“We manage—” Hal started to speak, but his wife gave him a sharp flash of her eyes and he stopped.
There was an edge of impatience in her voice. “What possible difference could that make?”
Dinah stepped in and said we wanted to know who we were dealing with before we committed to lessons. “You know how it is—you pay for a bunch of lessons and the place suddenly goes out of business.”
Roseanne seemed offended at the comment. “I assure you we have been in business for a long time.” She launched into the studio’s history. “Lance Wells started the dance studios to get Americans on their feet. The tradition is being carried on by Lance’s nephew, our artistic director, Matt Wells.
“We’ve been managing the studio for years. If anything, it’s doing better with all the television dancing shows.”
As Roseanne finished, I noticed another man had come in the side door and joined us.
“New students?” he said, beaming a charismatic smile in Dinah’s and my direction.