“Keep in step for the pirouette,” Cynthia said. “Here we goooo!”
Ben watched as the rest of the class leaped on top of their benches with one foot down and the other outstretched behind them, arms reaching forward. They looked like the figure of Mercury in the FTD logo. That was followed by another involved box step on the ground. Then they switched legs, kicked forward, drew their knee up to their chin, and started over again.
“Okay,” Cynthia shouted. “Everyone got it? Let’s goooo!”
Ben’s protestations to the contrary, the class kicked into high gear. The music’s tempo accelerated, as if someone had switched a record player to the 78 speed. The class whirled through the complex motions faster than Ben could follow. Tasmanian devils in stretch pants.
He jumped up on the bench left foot first, but with a bit too much force, and flew off to the other side, bumping into a petite brunette.
“Oops. Sorry,” he said, turning a bright crimson. The woman laughed, along with about half the rest of the class.
Ben checked Christina to see how she was handling this complicated barrage of movements. Unfortunately, she seemed to be doing great. She was following the steps in perfect rhythm, making it appear effortless.
“Well, if she can get it,” Ben thought sullenly, “so can I. Not very coordinated indeed.”
He launched back into the routine. He held out his right foot and leaped toward the block, careful this time not to overdo it. Unfortunately, he undershot the mark. His toe hit the block but the rest of his foot did not. He slid backward, tumbling onto his backside and rolling into a gray-haired woman in the row behind him.
“Omigosh,” Cynthia said, running over to check on him. “Are you all right?”
Ben was still in a heap on the floor. “I’m just fine,” he said icily. “Don’t stop for me.”
“Well … all right.” She returned to her bench.
The woman he had practically tackled bent down and outstretched her hand. “Looks like you’re having a spell of trouble, sonny. Can I help?”
“No, thank you.”
“It’s important to stay in shape, you know,” she said. “You don’t want to be trampled by us grandmas.”
After the session was over, Ben huffed and puffed out of the studio, leaning against the wall for support.
“Let’s get out of here,” he gasped.
“Get out? Have you forgotten why we came?”
“No.” He tried to slow his breathing and swallow more air. “I’m just not capable of doing it.”
“Give yourself a minute. You’ll come around.”
A thought occurred. “You seem to be doing all right. In fact, you’re barely sweating.”
Christina smiled, bouncing her full red hair around her shoulders. “Well, I work out regularly, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Not at a fancy place like this. At the Y downtown. This was a breeze compared to”—she stopped suddenly—“Oh, I mean, not that this was easy or anything.”
“Thanks.” He grimaced. “Shouldn’t we shower before we see her?”
“No. She’ll only be in her office for ten minutes. Then she has another class.”
“She’s going to do this again? What is she, a masochist?”
Christina led Ben to Cynthia Taylor’s small glass-enclosed office. They knocked, then stepped inside, Ben in the lead.
“Oh, my goodness,” Cynthia said, rushing forward. “How are you? Does your foot hurt? Have you taken your pulse recently?”
“I’m fine,” Ben insisted, with not a little irritation. “I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” She positioned herself behind her small desk. “You know, there’s a beginner’s class that meets on Tuesdays and Thursdays you might be interested in. Of course, most of the other participants are children, but still—”
“I didn’t actually come for exercise counseling,” Ben said. Christina jabbed him in the side. Apparently she had hoped for a more subtle approach.
“Oh?” Cynthia said. “Then why?”
“To tell you the truth, I wanted to ask about your late sister. And your brother-in-law.”
Cynthia’s face became stony and cold. “I’m sorry. I’m not here to satisfy the perverse curiosity of thrill-seekers.”
“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” Ben said. “I’m a lawyer.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not the one who’s had people pestering me all week, are you? The clown representing Wallace?”
Ben tilted his head to one side.
“You sorry son of a bitch. You think I’d help the man who killed my sister? I want you out of here now.”
“Ms. Taylor,” Ben said calmly, “I just want to talk.”
“I’m serious. If you’re not out of here in five seconds, I’m calling Security.”
“Ms. Taylor, because you are a witness for the prosecution, I could subpoena you. But I’d rather not do that.”
“What makes you think I’m going to testify?”
“Let’s call it a strong hunch. Are you?”
She folded her arms across her chest, covering the sweat-drenched triangle on the front of her leotard. “Damn straight.”
“May I ask why?”
“Why? Because I want that sick bastard put behind bars. I want him executed. He thinks that because he’s such a goddamn big shot he can get away with murder. I’m going to prove he’s wrong.”
“But what are you going to say? You weren’t there at the time of the murder, were you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Did you ever hear Wallace say he was going to kill your sister?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Then what are you going to testify about?”
There was a protracted silence before she spoke again. “I’m going to tell the jury the truth. I’m going to tell them that Wallace Barrett was a wife beater.”
Damn. He’d been afraid of this. “When?”
“Repeatedly. All the time. He got off on it.”
“I can’t believe a man as prominent as Wallace Barrett could be beating his wife without people knowing about it.”
“Some people knew.” Her voice was quieter now. “I knew. And the police knew.”
“The police?” Mike’s warning returned to Ben’s mind. “Had she called them?”
“Yes, twice. He was such a bastard.”
Ben glanced at Christina. He could see the tension in her face. She could live with representing a murderer, but a wife beater was an entirely different kettle of fish. “Can you tell me about it?”
“One night about eight months ago, he flew into a rage because—get this—he couldn’t find the tie he wanted to wear to some party. He ripped her dress off, beat her up. She had bruises all along her arms, legs. Even her face. Then he pushed her outside and locked the door. She was trapped out on the front lawn, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, in front of everyone. All the neighbors must have seen. Finally, she went to the man next door’s place—Harvey, I think his name is—and called the police.”
“Did you see the bruises?”
“No. I was living in Chicago at the time. But she told me about it the next day on the phone.”
“So why didn’t the police lock Wallace up?”
Cynthia’s eyes went down toward the desk. “She wouldn’t press charges. There was nothing they could do.”
“What about the neighbors?”
“None of them would talk. Said they hadn’t seen anything.”
“Ms. Taylor, did it occur to you that that might be because they really didn’t see anything? Because your sister made the story up?”
Her eyes lit like fire. “I’ve known Wallace Barrett since the week Caroline met him. He’s always been an abuser. He’s never cared about anyone other than himself.”
“And none of this has ever come out? Even when he ran for mayor?”