In a daze, Mary slowly sipped the rest of her Pepsi, trying to assess the significance of her conversation with Mel. Her world had changed in a way subtle but profound, a shifting on its axis that altered time and climate.
She continued to think about this as she drove home over rain-slick, iridescent streets, cozy in the car’s scaled-down confines, mesmerized by the thwump! thwump! thwump! of the windshield wipers. The talk with Mel had pleased her immensely, even inspired her.
And scared her. So much was expected of her now.
She was still replaying the conversation in her mind when she worked her key into her apartment door and heard her phone ringing.
After flinging the door open, she tossed her dance shoes into the wing chair and ran to the phone. She lifted the receiver and breathed a hello.
“Mary?” Rene’s faint but rich Southern accent, turning her name to honey.
“Yeah, me.”
“It’s Rene. You outa breath?”
“A little. Phone was ringing when I walked in the door.”
“I drove into Baton Rouge today and got the envelope,” he said. “I wanted to thank you.” He didn’t sound as if he was speaking all the way from New Orleans; he might have been right there in the room with her, his mouth near her ear.
“Is the stuff I sent a help?”
“I think it will be. And the schedule of upcoming competitions is a bonus. There are some names on the dance registration lists I can recall Danielle mentioning from time to time. Friends from the competitions.”
“Maybe if you look up those people, talk to them, you can learn something. You know, one of them might know some little piece of information and not realize it’s important.” She felt slightly foolish, like a character in a crime melodrama urging someone to search for the missing piece of the puzzle. As if in real life it always existed.
But he said, “Could be. Though I’m more interested in finding out if any of these women’s names cross-check with the names of murder victims in various cities, especially dance competition cities.” He was quiet for a moment. “I’m not sure I want to see any of the same names on both lists,” he said. “It’d mean there’s a modern-day Jack the Ripper operating in different cities, and the police haven’t picked up a pattern. That prospect’s beneficial to me in my predicament, but it’s still kinda ghastly to think about.”
“Have you considered giving the police the names of the dancers Danielle mentioned? Maybe they’d get busy and figure out something. They’re supposed to be the experts.”
He snorted. “Some experts! I tell you, Mary, the more I have to do with the police the less I trust them. Just the opposite of us; each time we talk I trust you more. There’s some humanity there, some real concern.”
Flattered, she said, “I feel like we know one another, even though we never laid eyes on each other. I mean, sometimes you get a sense about people, a certainty in your heart. Like a kinda instinct that’s never wrong.”
She thought he might reply that he had the same feeling about her, but he said, “You still planning on entering the Ohio competition in November?”
“Still am. I’m getting in all the practice possible. It’s hard work, but I love it and it’s worth it.”
“Dancing meant so much to Danielle.” His voice was a wistful sigh. “It means a lot to you, too, doesn’t it, Mary?”
“Yes. It didn’t start out that way, but now I’m… I don’t know, it’s like I’m only truly me when I’m dancing. You understand something like that?”
He laughed sadly. “Yeah, I’ve more or less heard it before. Sometimes, Mary, when we talk I feel I’m on the phone with Danielle.”
Not knowing what to think of that, she said nothing. For an eerie instant she saw herself as some kind of medium: Danielle using Mary and phone lines to communicate from the grave.
“Mary? I meant that as a compliment.”
“Well, we can talk anytime you want.”
Again the sigh, weighted with a sad resignation. “No, I’m afraid we shouldn’t do that.”
Mary wondered what he meant. Did he fear getting involved so soon after the death of his wife? Did Mary frighten him in some deep and tragic manner? But she was being ridiculous; my God, they’d never even met. What would Jake think? She felt a thrust of fear, like a spear deep and cold in her midsection. Jake. He was still in her thoughts, a potent figure lurking in the corridors of her mind.
“I can’t let someone innocent like you get involved in this mess,” Rene said. “I haven’t exactly made it a secret I’m determined to find whoever killed Danielle. The police are watching me, and it’d only be a matter of time before they knew I was contacting you. We’ve run enough of a risk already.”
“I’m not afraid of the police. I haven’t done anything wrong, and neither have you.”
He laughed, as if admiring her pluckiness. “It’s not a question of being unafraid. Or being innocent, for that matter. People don’t really know how the police work until something like this happens. A nightmare that spins a web. I know you understand, Mary.”
Do I? “Sure. I guess, if you say so, it makes sense.”
“You really are empathetic.” His gentleman’s voice dripped appreciation, admiration, making her think of magnolias and mint juleps, though she had no idea how a mint julep tasted. “You’re so very compliant.”
“Is that good?” The little girl in her, begging for approval.
“In some women, yes.”
Had Danielle been compliant? “If you need help again, you will call me, won’t you?”
“Of course. I can trust you, Mary.”
“You can, Rene.” It was the first time she’d called him by his first name, been that familiar. “Honestly, you can trust me.”
“When this is over, Mary…”
She waited in the silent stillness of her apartment, her thoughts drifting in the abyss of the long-distance line. Could wait no longer. “What?”
“If we don’t talk before then, I’ll get in touch with you after Danielle’s killer’s found.”
When she didn’t answer, he said, “I promise.”
“Good luck,” was all she could think of to say, the words choked and heavy.
She was sure he uttered her name once, softly, “Mary,” then the phone clicked and droned in her ear. The conversation had gone so quickly she hadn’t even told him about what Jake had done, and how she’d evicted him from her apartment and her life. Damn! Rene was the one person she desperately wanted to tell. But now she couldn’t. Not yet.
She let the receiver clatter into its cradle and sat staring straight ahead into an uncertain future, afraid.
What’s happening? What am I letting happen?
What really frightened her, what thrilled her, was feeling the tug of a dark and powerful current, strange yet familiar, and not knowing where it would carry her.
In the street below he stood in the shadows and watched her windows, waiting for a glimpse of her as she moved about her apartment.
There!
She’d crossed his line of vision, a figure so fleeting it might have been any woman who vaguely resembled her. Yet he could feel the connection between them, so intimate, the thing that linked their fates to a single profound destiny.
That one brief look at her heightened his resolve, and he stood without moving, staring and seldom blinking, until all her windows went dark.
30
Trying not to think about Rene, Mary concentrated with heightened intensity on her dancing. It was safe and predictable, the reassuring and protective pattern in her life.
Mel was more than pleased by her progress, no doubt assuming it was solely their conversation in the Hungry Hobo that had stoked her fire. When they danced Latin steps requiring the smoldering eye contact that would impress judges, Mary was convinced that occasionally something real and vibrant passed between them. He was learning about her; each time they tangoed he’d remind her that this dance was one of male domination, and she must convey that in her interpretation at the Ohio Star Ball. The tango had been born in Argentina, banned by government and church for its sensuality, popularized in France, and here was Mary working to impress judges in Ohio. In that context, her situation with Rene seemed not so remarkable.