2 Dancing With Death (14 page)

    
He chuckled. “You might have a point. But this would be someone with a very noticeable addiction to adrenaline. They’d be obsessed with thrills. That could manifest as anger, high-risk situations, or just extreme competitiveness. They’d also have to be very strong, and probably over five foot ten, judging by what I’ve seen of the crime scene. Have you seen anyone who might match that description?”

    
“Of course I have,” she replied. “I’ve seen dozens of people like that. That’s the problem. This is a competition for $100,000. The most competitive people in the business are here to try and win the money!”

    
With another admonishment to watch her back, Bill led Betty through the hallway and out of the crime scene. He walked her all the way back to the lobby, to where a stream of people was leaving from the dance competition.

    
“What’s going on?” Betty asked a gentleman.

    
“Last year’s champion is teaching a class on basic flamenco. All the real dancers competing already know how to flamenco, so we’re taking a break.”

    
“Can anyone take the class?” she asked. A dance class would be just the thing for her right now. She could get her mind to focus on something other than murder.

    
“Of course,” the man said, looking down his nose at her. “If you don’t already know the dance.”

    
“Oh good!” said Betty, ignoring his snobbishness and throwing some extra enthusiasm into her tone. She looked at the man with wide eyes. “I don’t.”

    
The man walked away, muttering about amateurs who were ruining the competition. Betty turned to Bill with a raised eyebrow. “You see?” she said. “There’s plenty of angst to go around.” She eyed the door to the ballroom. “I don’t suppose you could take an hour out to learn to flamenco?” she asked.

    
Bill shook his head, his eyes wistful. “I’d love to go,” he said. “You know that. I don’t know how to flamenco at all. But I need to get back to the scene.”

    
He really did look sad about it, so Betty rushed to reassure him before her melting insides could turn to complete mush. “That’s okay,” she said. “I understand how it is. Stiffs before chicks. But,” she said, poking him in the chest, “you owe me a rain check, mister!”
    
The look Bill gave her didn’t help stop the melting process. Not in the least. “I look forward to it,” he said, before turning back into the crowd and disappearing in the direction of the crime scene.

    
“I saw that,” Clarise taunted from behind her.

    
Betty turned to face her friend and tried to not look guilty. “Saw what?”

    
“You, flirting,” Clarise said, a huge grin on her face. Clarise leaned in close to Betty, her eyes sparkling as she whispered, “And you know what? I think it worked.”
    
Betty smacked her on the shoulder. “Shush!” she said. “You’ll jinx it!” She locked elbows with Clarise, walking them against the crowd towards the ballroom. “Now come along,” she said, sticking her nose in the air dramatically, “we have the flamenco to learn and hearts to break.”

CHAPTER 16

    
The flamenco lesson was exhilarating. Betty loved every minute of it. The dance was so different than anything she’d tried before. Coordinating all the different parts of the dance was an intense challenge. Unlike other dances Betty had seen, the flamenco didn’t emphasize the fluidity of transitions from movement to movement. Rather, it played up sharpness and the angles of the human body.

    
It was beautiful.

    
By the end of the lesson, Betty had learned a simple stomp step, accompanied by a skirt flourish and canasta beat. She was sweaty from the repeated exertion, but the effort had been well worth it. She was hooked. Betty made a mental note to find out if there were any flamenco classes offered in the Lofton area. Clarise agreed that, if she could find one, she would take a few lessons with Betty.

    
After the lesson, the reigning champions gave an exhibition performance of the flamenco. Betty found a spot as close to the front as possible. She pulled Clarise through the crowd, refusing to stay so far away that her vision of the dancers would be blurred. She didn’t want to miss one beat of the performance. Having just spent an hour attempting to learn a few slow measures, Betty had an inkling of the complexity and skill of the dance. And, watching the grand gestures, the ever-increasing rapidness of the clicks and snaps of the heels and canastas, the interplay between the two dancers, Betty found herself in a complete state of awe.

    
They were amazing. They were beautiful. The intensity they put into the dance was palpable, their level of skill far beyond anything that Betty had ever seen before.

    
Yes. Betty wanted to be able to do that. Even if she could only do it half as well, she wanted to learn how to do this dance. This dance wasn’t about slow romance, or moonlight and giddiness. It was about passion. It was a dance that made bold statements. It was fun.

    
At the end of the performance, polite applause came from scattered spots in the crowd. Betty looked around at the competitors. She didn’t understand. How could their pulses not be pounding? Were they immune to the thrill of the performance, inoculated by constant exposure? Unsure of the etiquette in this particular situation, Betty refrained from cheering… barely. She settled instead for clapping her hands so hard they turned red.

    
As the applause died out, a man in a state police uniform stepped up to the microphone by the string quartet. He was short, stocky and balding. His back was ramrod straight, his uniform in impeccable condition. He reminded Betty of a drill sergeant past his prime.

    
“Your attention please.” he called. The audience quieted. After a moment, the trooper continued. “As you all probably know by now, two crimes have occurred during this competition. I want to assure you all that you are perfectly safe.” Betty snorted. Right. Because everyone was going to believe that. Why didn’t law officers ever learn that, to the public, “perfectly safe” translated to “in immediate danger?” They should make avoiding that statement part of basic training. Judging by the murmurs that sprang up around the ballroom, Betty wasn’t the only one who thought along those lines.

    
“The roads are still closed, but I’ve just flown in on a helicopter to take charge of the investigation,” the state trooper continued. “We have increased security for guests and the ballroom. It is suggested that, until the investigation is complete, you stay in groups of three or more. No one will be allowed to leave the hotel at this time.” He handed the microphone to Miss Knolhart, who took it from him with shaking hands.

    
“Thank you Officer,” she said, smiling out at the crowd. This close, Betty could see that her smile didn’t reach her eyes, which seemed to have faint red rings around them. Oddly, Miss Knolhart’s discomfort reassured Betty. If the woman had continued her “mistress of ceremonies” role without showing any emotion over her assistant’s demise, Betty would’ve been shocked.

    
As it was, Miss Knolhart’s emotion was only visible to those in the first few rows of the crowd. But it was there in her faint trembling, the red rings, and a tiny quiver in her voice.

    
“Moving on, wasn’t that a lovely dance performance?” Miss Knolhart asked the crowd with forced gaiety. The applause at her statement was more applause than the actual performance had received, but Betty supposed that was only natural. People were probably looking for a way to break the tension the state policeman’s announcement had caused.

    
As Miss Knolhart started to explain about the next round of the competition, Betty left Clarise to get a glass of water. She wove her way through the dancers and guests, doing her best to avoid stepping on any gowns or feet. The last thing she wanted was another Vera Wang incident, and with her luck she’d wind up breaking the toe of one of the top dancers and opening herself up for a dreadful lawsuit.

    
Betty was sipping her water, letting the cool liquid refreshment calm her nerves, when she came face to face with the state policeman.

    
“Miss Crawford?” asked the policeman. At her affirmative, he stuck out his hand. “I’m Officer Park,” he said. Betty shook his hand. His grip was firm enough that she had to rub her hand to get the circulation flowing again. “I have a few questions for you,” he said. “Is there a place we could talk?”

    
“Absolutely,” Betty said. “Do you want me to find Bill for you?”

    
“Bill?” asked Officer Park, looking at her in confusion.

    
“Chief Owens?” Betty tried, realizing that Officer Park might not know Bill’s first name. “He was in charge of the investigation until you came.”

    
“I see,” said Officer Park. “Do you know Chief Owens personally?”

    
If Officer Park hadn’t looked so serious, Betty would have laughed aloud. Instead she just stated, “Of course. We’re good friends.” Which was as far as she was going with that conversation.

    
“I wanted to speak with you,” Officer Park said. “But if you know where Chief Owens is, I’d love to talk with him first. Then you and I can chat.”

    
Betty tried to convince herself that she’d be able to find her way through the halls to the crime scene. But the closer they got to the front lobby, the less sure Betty felt of her sense of direction, which was rather deplorable to begin with. It would be very embarrassing if, when she tried to direct Officer Park to the crime scene, they wound up in a completely different part of the hotel.

    
Thankfully, she never had to test her memory. Bill met them in the lobby.

    
“Officer Park,” he said, smiling and holding out his hand, “welcome. I see you’ve met Betty. She’s been very helpful with the investigation thus far.”

    
Officer Park shook Bill’s hand, but didn’t return the smile. “So I’ve heard,” he said. “I was just about to question her. If there a room you know of that we could use?”
    
Bill looked at him in confusion. “Of course. I’m sure we could find one. But, you do know that we’ve already taken Betty’s statement in regards to the theft?”

    
“I do,” Officer Park said snidely. “But I’d like to question her myself. I’m worried that your judgment of her statement may have been compromised by your personal relationship.”

    
Betty couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Did this man really believe that Bill would be anything less than thorough in his work, friend or not? Why, Bill had hardly slept because he’d been up late working the case, and now this state officer was coming in and second guessing his work?
    
“And what relationship would that be?” Bill asked Officer Park dryly.

    
“Your friendship,” the state officer replied. “I’m worried that you may not have questioned her as thoroughly as you ought. Unless you have another relationship that I’m unaware of?”

    
“Bill was quite thorough,” Betty said, jumping in to the conversation. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear what Bill thought of their maybe romance. “But you’re welcome to question me again. I promise, my answers won’t change.”

    
They found an unused function room with circular tables and chairs and took seats opposite each other. Officer Park insisted on recording the interview, as well as taking notes on a legal pad. His brusque manner set Betty on edge right from the start of the interview. But, she reminded herself, her bruised sensibilities were not the problem here. There had been a theft and a murder. If anything she said or remembered could lead to catching a killer, she was happy to repeat herself until she was blue in the face.

    
But it soon became clear that Office Park wasn’t interested in hearing her repeat herself. He wanted her to incriminate herself.