Corpse de Ballet (7 page)

“So what have you heard of happening?”

“Oh, the usual stuff in a closed environment. Like in boarding schools. Petty thieving. Sucking up to management. Ganging up on people who suck up. Ostracizing weaklings.” She paused, then added in a changed tone, “You know, Ryder Kensington just did a very weird thing to me. You know who he is?”

Juliet nodded.

“Well, when I came out of the locker room after the session, he was using the pay phone and I accidentally brushed against him. He jumped about a mile in the air, and then he glared at me as if I'd been raising a dagger to stab him in the back. You think he could be the mad powderer?”

“I don't know. Does he have any reason to dislike Anton Mohr?”

“What difference does that make? Anyone could have been injured.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Several people used that rosin box at the start of the last hour of your session today, and they didn't slip. I noticed.”

“So you think the powder was put in late in the session?”

“Don't you?”

Ruth frowned. The sprightly piano phrase had ceased, and now the empty room reverberated only to their voices.

“Could someone have known that only Mohr was going to work in this studio after your session ended?” Juliet asked.

“God I'm hungry.” Ruth rubbed her forehead wearily. “Yes, anyone could have known. There are schedules printed up for each day. They're distributed a day in advance. Here.” She reached into the leather backpack she had been carrying when she returned from the locker room and pulled out a folded paper.

Juliet opened it. The schedule was very neatly done. Every studio was accounted for during each working hour, from class in the morning until the day ended. The name of each production was given, the dancer or dancers who were to be there, the choreographer or instructor working with them, sometimes even which act of a ballet was to be rehearsed.

“They all have to know,” said Ruth, after Juliet had studied this for a few moments. “They have to know what shoes to bring and what to prepare and where to go…”

There was a long silence. Juliet went to the large purse she had left by her chair and returned with a plum, which she handed to Ruth.

“Thank you,” said Ruth. She took an unhappy bite and added, as if conversationally, “I knew this project was cursed.”

Juliet scratched her nose. It seemed to her that, for Ruth's sake if nothing else, a number of rather melodramatic questions needed to be addressed.

“Ruth,” she began, “could Mohr have any—this sounds silly, but, any enemies? People in the company who might want him to fail?”

“I have no idea. Why should they? I mean, I really don't know him personally. I only worked with him once, in Germany. He seems quite likable to me.”

“Then could anyone envy him—could someone else have wanted to dance his part?”

“Someone?” Ruth gave a dry laugh. “Try everyone. Every man, anyhow. And probably half the women. But that's ballet—there's only one Prince Charming.”

“So might this have been done from envy?”

Ruth laughed again, shaking her head. “Look, dancers depend on each other. They have to. That's not a metaphor—I mean physically, they have to trust each other or they cannot dance. It's an intense bond. I'm not saying there's never any backstabbing, or that every member of the Jansch will pray tonight for Anton's swift recovery. But dancers just don't injure each other on purpose.”

Juliet was silent a moment. She knew from experience that Ruth sometimes had clear, sharp insights into human behavior; without that, she would not have been the choreographer she was. But she also knew Ruth sometimes overlooked what was right in front of her face.

Presently, “Could anyone want you to fail?” she suggested. After all, she reflected, if Ruth often barked at the dancers the way she had at Lily today, resentment must accumulate.

“Do I have enemies, you mean?”

“I guess so, yes. It happened here. We have to consider who might want to hinder your production, don't you think?”

Ruth shook her head, nonplussed. “My brain just doesn't work that way. You know me, I'm a dancer. Plot is more your neck of the woods.” She hesitated, then went on more slowly, “I suppose some people would be happy if I screwed this up. Actually, I did hear Victorine wanted to choreograph this ballet herself. She's done some choreography, but it hasn't been wildly successful.”

“Does she like Anton Mohr?”

“Like him? I don't imagine they've ever spoken, except professionally. She's certainly polite with him. I know she thinks his classical training was inadequate. He's too modern for her, the way he moves.”

“Hm. What about the dancers in
Great Ex?
Might any of them have a grudge against you?”

Ruth produced a sound midway between a sneeze and a laugh. “The dancers! Why should they?”

“Well, think about it. Perhaps because you embarrassed or slighted them in front of their peers? I doubt you're Lily Bediant's favorite person.”

“Lily is much too sensitive. It's ridiculous, the way Victorine coddles her. All I did—”

Juliet cut her off firmly. “I'm not saying it was Lily. It could have been anyone with a grudge against the Jansch, I suppose. My point is simply that since the talcum powder was put in after your session ended, someone in this studio had to do it. And the people in this studio were connected with your production. Most of them dancers.”

“Are you sure?”

“Unless you think the custodian did it. He came in to mop the floor. But he's the only outsider who was in here. I never left the room.”

Ruth had finished her plum; now she gnawed at the stone with her small, sharp front teeth. “Maybe he did. Maybe he has a grievance with management.”

“That's a little farfetched, don't you think?”

Ruth shrugged irritably. “I suppose. Anyway, I'd better go tell Greg.” Slowly, she began to get to her feet. “Oh, my knees!” she exclaimed, halfway up.

“Injuries?”

“Degenerative arthritis. Not uncommon in dancers.” She gave a tight, humorless grin. “All part of the fun.”

*   *   *

Juliet guarded the rosin box while Ruth went to tell Gregory Fleetwood the story of the talcum powder. When the choreographer returned, her arms were full of yogurt containers, bottles of lemonade, and sandwiches, all of which she spread out on the floor.

“Sorry we can't go out for lunch. The next session starts at four.” Ruth unwrapped a ham on rye and took a lusty bite. But an instant later, she stumbled again to her feet. “Oh God, I'm so rattled, I almost forgot,” she muttered, plunging her hands into the depths of her backpack. She groped around, emerged with a sizable pink tablet and promptly downed it with a swig of lemonade. Then, with gingerly care, she lowered herself again to the floor.

“Vitamin?” Juliet asked curiously.

“No, Mistenflo. Cytotec.” And, as the other continued to look confused, “It's a brand of misoprostol,” Ruth went on. “Goodness, you are an outsider. Misoprostol keeps you from getting ulcers if you have to take antiinflammatory drugs all the time.”

Juliet was silent a moment, then understood and exclaimed sympathetically, “Oh! Which you do because of your arthritis. Poor Ruth! You have paid a high price for your career.”

Ruth sniffed briskly. “Beats getting black lung from mining coal. All occupations have hazards. Even you could get carpal tunnel syndrome, I guess. Or start to believe you're Jane Austen reincarnated.”

Ruth, Juliet now remembered, did not care for pity unless she had specifically requested it. “Plenty of dancers are in my boat,” she was going on. “Victorine takes the same medicines I do. In fact, she's a lot worse off. Anyway,” she finished at last, pointedly changing the subject, “I talked to Greg.”

“Oh good. And what's he going to do?”

“Jack shit.”

“Really?”

“No, not quite.” She drank again from the lemonade bottle. “He'll tell Anton what happened. And he'll tell him to keep it to himself. As for the rest, he'll send a flyer around the company saying a ‘malicious incident' took place and anyone with information should contact him privately.”

“‘Malicious incident?' Isn't that a bit vague?”

Ruth shrugged. “He says he doesn't want to invite a copycat crime.”

“Do you think he'll get any results?” Juliet asked doubtfully.

“No. But it might prevent a panic. To tell the truth, I think Greg's a lot more worried about morale among the dancers than any bit of localized mischief. Me, too. This kind of thing can give a company the galloping willies.” She picked up a cup of blueberry yogurt and brandished it in Juliet's direction. “Eat, eat.”

“Oh, that's okay, thanks. I'll have something when I get home.”

“When you get home?” echoed Ruth. “You'll be starved by then.”

For a moment, Juliet looked at her, puzzled. Then understanding dawned. “You don't mean for me to stay here the whole—?”

“Of course I do,” interrupted Ruth. “You weren't planning to leave again?” she demanded, outraged. “There are three more hours of rehearsal left.”

“But—”

“Juliet, you said that you would help me. You've already helped me. You can help me more. Today went infinitely better than any day I've had on
Great Ex
till now.”

“Well, I do have a thought or two about that dinner scene. But I could call you—”

“And you'll have lots more thoughts,” Ruth said firmly. “Let's be clear about this. You'll stay today and you'll come back tomorrow and—Juliet, you said we were going to whip this thing into shape.”

Juliet did not remember having said quite that, though she did recall something about fixing it up. She put her hands over her face like a little girl who hopes to make herself invisible.

“You really shouldn't tempt me, Ruth,” she said. “You know how I am with an excuse to duck work. Like an alcoholic with a bottle.”

“You'll get the book done. You always do.”

“Oh, wicked, wicked! Get thee behind me, Satan.” Only last week, Juliet's editor, Portia Klein, had called to see how
London Quadrille
was coming. Juliet had lied a little, omitting to mention that she was at a standstill as regarded Lady Porter's scheme, and adding two to the actual number of chapters already written.

“Write in the mornings,” Ruth said. “I don't even start with the dancers till twelve. Come at one or two.”

Juliet felt herself start to crumble. “After all,” an inner voice coaxed seductively, “
London Quadrille
will come out all the better if you spend a little time away from it. Healthy distraction always refreshes the mind.”

Besides, now there was this intriguing matter of the talcum powder. An image of Nancy Drew jumping gaily into her sporty roadster sprang into Juliet's head. Nancy Drew never had to sit alone in an office. Nancy Drew never had to make up stuff for imaginary people to say to each other. If someone wanted to sabotage Ruth, if someone had attacked Anton Mohr, wasn't that indeed a matter of plot? Plot and character? Perhaps she could talk to the dancers a bit, get to know them, find out a few things …

“I guess I could come for a few days,” she said.

“Of course you can.” Ruth shoved the yogurt container at her again. “Eat up. They'll be back here in ten minutes.”

*   *   *

A few hours after Juliet got home from the Jansch, Ruth phoned to report on Anton. As Victorine had predicted, Dr. Keller found that his injury would not affect his back. On the other hand, he had sprained his ankle mildly and was not to dance for several days. This, Ruth went on, left her with a terrible dilemma, because she had scheduled a formal run-through of Act One for three o'clock on the coming Friday.

“A run-through?” asked Juliet, wondering what that meant and rather disinclined to learn just then. She had already gotten into her pajamas and had just sat down with the fourth volume of Anthony Powell's
A Dance to the Music of Time
when the telephone rang. In her opinion, her new job as sous-chef to Ruth Renswick's life was over for the day. “Can't you change the date? Or do it without Anton?”

“It's not that easy,” said Ruth worriedly. A run-through, she explained, was an informal performance of a work-in-progress, in the studio, for a small, invited audience. It provided a chance for both dancers and choreographer to see and feel the work whole. Equally important, this run-through would be the first time the design team saw the piece in action, their first chance to refine and recalibrate the somewhat theoretical plans they had made for sets, costumes, and lights. It would also be the first official viewing of Ruth's progress by the administrators of the Jansch, who had so precipitously decided to stake their season on
Great Ex.
If they were pleased, money and attention would continue to flow. If they were displeased—well, Ruth didn't want to think about what would happen if they were displeased. In short, the run-through was vitally important, both on a practical and a ceremonial level, and to have it danced by the second cast did not suit her ideas at all.

On the other hand, she had already invited some two dozen extremely busy people (the costume designer and her staff, the set designer and his, the lighting designer, the American assistant to the composer), all of whom had made room in their schedules to come.

“So you'll change it and they'll make some more room,” said Juliet, eyeing her Powell book longingly. Wistfully, she wondered how people qualified for that “extremely busy” label Ruth seemed to revere so much.

After considerable hand-wringing and why-don't-you yes-butting, Ruth finally agreed it must be postponed. They hung up at last and, the next day, Gretchen Manning was pressed into service to make the necessary, complicated web of calls and cross-calls. In the end, the run-through was rescheduled for Wednesday of the following week.