Dancing with the Dead (13 page)

“No, I don’t mind, Victor.”
Leave! Leave!

“Was that your mother I saw you with at Uncle Bill’s Pancake House?”

My God, was he following her? “Probably,” Mary said.

“I go there sometimes after church. You a religious person, Mary?”

“No, but I’m a spiritual one.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I guess that I believe in something, but I’m not sure what it is.”

“Well, that’s better’n having no god at all.”

Mary bowed her head and pretended to study something on her desk. In the periphery of her vision she could see Victor’s stomach paunch and his gray suitpants. He hadn’t budged, and the front of his pants was twisted in a way that made her wonder if he had an erection.

He cleared his throat. “You need any kinda help with your mother, Mary, you know you can call on me.”

She stared harder at the papers on her desk, not even knowing or caring what they were. “Thanks, Victor, but everything’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

She said nothing more, letting the silence expand and fill the room with pressure that might force him out the door.

Victor deflated the silence. “Anytime.”

“Huh?”

“I said, you can call me anytime.”

“All right.” She still refused to look up at him.

Finally she heard him walk away.

A few minutes later his bland blue Chevrolet nosed from the parking lot onto Kingshighway. He glanced over and saw her watching him through the window. That seemed to please him. The Chevy’s tires
eeped,
and he waved to her as he drove away.

Are you a religious person?

What an asshole question. How many people stopped to think their religion gave them convenient parent substitutes? Our Father which art in heaven, and the Virgin Mother, provided the unconditional love and infinite capacity for forgiveness we all yearned for from infancy. It was all such an obvious sham that Mary couldn’t sustain faith. It was beyond her how anyone could.

After running up the closing figures on her adding machine to double-check them, she left for the title company. She didn’t return to her office until four o’clock, still seething from dealing with the purchaser’s unreasonable attorney, and worked until six. Before driving home to change clothes and pick up her dance shoes, she stopped at a Denny’s restaurant and had a club sandwich and glass of iced tea for supper. She’d had a cup of soup from the vending machine at work and wasn’t all that hungry, but she wanted time for her food to settle before she stepped onto the dance floor at the studio.

Helen and Nick were practicing tango, working on a routine. Ray Huggins spotted Mary from his office and smiled and waved to her, but she didn’t see Mel anywhere.

She sat down on the vinyl bench and started changing shoes, hoping he’d appear; he’d stood her up for lessons a few times, been sick or had car trouble, and she’d taken her instruction from Nick or Stan. Sometimes it was good to switch instructors briefly, to get accustomed to different styles at high levels of skill, but Mary preferred Mel. He was the one she’d be dancing with in Ohio, and right now that was what was important.

As soon as she’d fastened the strap on her right shoe, she looked up and there he was, padding across the floor toward her from the storage room in back where the instructors kept their competition costumes. He had on a totally black dance outfit with shoulder pads and a sash around his narrow waist; he looked like a cat burglar out to steal love.

“I was practicing a bolero routine with Maureen,” he explained, holding out his hand for Mary. “We’re gonna do it in Miami.”

“Bet it’s great,” Mary said. Maureen, who was the tallest female instructor, looked good dancing with Mel.

“So how do you like my Latin outfit?” Mel asked. He did a quick spin. “I bought it from a shop in Kansas City. There’s a kerchief and a red vest that goes with it.”

Mary told him he looked dashing, and wondered if the costume was what he’d wear when they danced tango in Ohio. She also wondered how it would look with the dress she was having made. A seamstress named Denise Jones, who specialized in dance competition dresses, had already taken her measurements and down payment on a dress to be worn during the rhythm dances. More than a few women danced competitively for little reason other than to wear the sometimes spectacular dresses, and the flashy and stylish all-important shoes.

Mel walked over and made sure the tango tape had a while to run, then returned and said, “Let’s work on head motion tonight. When I lead you into promenade position, you need to put a little more snap into it when you turn your head.”

“I’ll try.”

“I know you will, Mary. That’s why you’re one of the best students here.” He was grinning as he stepped into dance position, moving tight against her and flexing his knees.

“Did you teach Danielle Verlane to tango in New Orleans?” she asked.

He kept position. “How come you wanna know?”

“I’m just curious because she was your student, I guess.”

“I taught her some tango.”

“Ever teach a woman named Martha Roundner?”

“I dunno. Maybe. You ready?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t smile during tango,” Mel said. “Look sexy. Think candlelight and condoms. It’s a dance of male domination.”

The one beat arrived and they were dancing.

“Good, Mary! Great! You really are improving.”

She couldn’t answer, and she realized she was dancing holding her breath. Bad habit. She forced herself to breathe as she remembered to whip her head around in the direction of the promenade step.

Then she quit thinking altogether and simply danced, fell into a kind of trance where everything seemed to happen automatically. Even the music seemed to lose melody and only the sensual tango rhythm remained, beating through her heart and veins.

Time rushed like dark water, and Mel was stepping away from her.

The music had stopped.

“Wow! What happened, Mary? That was terrific!” She knew he often tried to lift her confidence with exaggerated praise, but this time there was something in his eyes, an enthusiasm and a genuine surprise.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Just catching on, I guess.”

“Eee-yow! Catching on is right! Hey, you’re breathing hard. You wanna take a break?”

“No, no, I’m okay. Let’s work on the
cortes
, tracing a smooth line.”

“You got it, Mary! Practice, practice, practice. That’s dancing—do it a hundred times and you know it.” He rewound the tape and moved back into dance position.

They waited for the one beat and began again.

Mary had wanted to talk to Helen, to ask her if she’d heard about the Seattle murder, but a mambo group lesson had begun during the lesson with Mel, so Mary changed shoes, caught Helen’s eye and waved to her, then left the studio.

She’d driven straight home and snacked on microwave popcorn and diet soda, but now she couldn’t relax. For about an hour she lay on the sofa with her eyes closed, going over in her mind the tango lesson with Mel. In this version he was wearing the kerchief around his neck, and the red vest. She was enthused over the way it had felt tonight, the oneness with the rhythm and the ease with which she’d followed his lead.

She was so much more comfortable on the dance floor. For the first time, she was not only sure she’d compete in the Ohio Star Ball, she thought she had a chance to win.

Mary stood up out of the couch and picked up her dance shoes. The pair of shoes she’d mailed away for had been in a package by her door. They hadn’t fit, and the style was horrendous and nothing like the illustration in the brochure. She’d sent away to Chicago for a new pair of Latin shoes from one of the catalogues at the studio. Good ballroom dance shoes had to be bought by mail and often had to be returned or exchanged several times until a comfortable fit arrived. These shoes were marked in British sizes and ran narrow, so guesswork was involved.

She brushed the suede soles of her old dance shoes with her wire brush. She started to slip her feet into them but then she stopped. She decided to change into something looser and less inhibiting than the Levi’s she’d put on when she’d come home. Her robe would be okay.

But when she’d stripped to her underwear and picked up the robe, for some reason she dropped it back on the bed. No one could see her in the spare bedroom where she practiced, so why wear it? In fact, why wear anything at all?

She peeled off her panties and removed her bra, leaving on only her well-worn Latin shoes with their two-and-a-half-inch high heels. Then she shoved aside what furniture there was in the spare bedroom, switched on her portable tape player, and fed it a tango cassette.

She assumed dance position and began a tango with an imaginary partner. He led her beautifully through one flawless step after another, her nakedness taut and elegant.

A soft scraping sound at the window made her freeze in mid-step, made her heart pause in mid-beat. She stared at the curtains and was sure there was no gap; no one could see in. No one could be outside the window anyway, here on the second floor.

She put on her robe and forced herself to walk to the window, stood for a moment, then flung open the curtains.

Nothing.

No one and nothing.

Only the dark night. The noise must have been in her mind.

It was almost ten-thirty. Jake would be getting off work soon.

After showering, then slipping again into her robe, she went back into the living room and slumped on the sofa. Her legs were beginning to stiffen, but she felt spent and relaxed. She used the remote to switch on the TV and tune in CNN news.

Within a short while the footage on the Seattle murder was repeated, as she thought it might be. Cable news ran their tapes over and over. First came the second interview with Rene Verlane. Throughout it, Mary stared fixedly at his handsome, brutal features, feeling his odd appeal and wondering why. The man wasn’t merely the pitiable widower of a murder victim; he was a prime suspect.

More tape was shown in this extended coverage of the story. This time a high-ranking police officer named Morrisy, a rough-looking man wearing a frown, a white shirt, and a fancy badge, after complaining about leaks to the press, reluctantly admitted to the voracious news media what the secret thread was that possibly connected the Seattle and New Orleans murders. In both cases there was evidence of sexual intercourse with the victims after death. “Necro-file-ya,” he said, mispronouncing the word with obvious distaste. And this time there was a photograph of Martha Roundner, the Seattle victim. A bullet of ice shot through Mary and she heard herself gasp. Martha Roundner was virtually her double.

“I
GOTTA SAY
I see only a vague resemblance,” Jake said.

It was almost midnight when he got to Mary’s apartment; he’d stopped at Skittles after work and she could smell liquor on his breath, mingled with the faint odor of stale perspiration from his efforts at the warehouse.

“Look closer!” Mary almost shouted, but the TV picture faded and the photograph of Martha Roundner was replaced by a bald man loudly and enthusiastically demonstrating a Chinese wok.

Jake shook his head. “Hey, I didn’t have to look closer. That woman’s got a rounder face than yours, and her eyes are set closer together. Got kind of a flatter nose, too. Not like yours.”

“
Had,
Jake. She’s dead. She
had
a rounder face and flatter nose. Somebody in Seattle killed her the same way the dancer in New Orleans was killed.”

“What dancer in New Orleans?”

“The one whose photograph I showed you.”

“Oh, yeah. Now, that one
did
look something like you, if you care to stretch a point.”

“What’s that mean—stretch a point?”

“Means she didn’t look all that
much
like you, only a little bit. Hell, maybe even not at all, you see her in person. Seems to me you might just be seeing what you wanna see, you know? People do that all the time. How’s he keep from cutting off a finger?”

The man with the wok was frenetically slicing vegetables with a wicked-looking chef’s knife, the blade snicking dangerously close to his knuckles.

Mary’s heart was beating with an odd exhilaration, as if she’d gulped down five cups of coffee. She felt as if she were living a split second ahead of real time. It was hopeless trying to get Jake to stay on a subject or look at things reasonably, especially after he’d been drinking.

She said, “You mean to say you didn’t see any resemblance at all between me and Martha Roundner?”

“Bastard’s gonna accidentally whack off his whole hand one of these days. Maybe his dick.”

“Jake?”

“Martha Roundner had a rounder face,” he said, grinning stupidly. Oh-oh. He’d had more to drink than Mary’d originally thought. A familiar tickle of alarm stirred in her.

“So what’s your point, anyway?” Jake asked.

“My point is that somebody’s murdering dancers who’re my physical type, then having sex with them after they’re dead.”

“Listen, Mar—Whoa! What’d you say?”

Jake had missed that part of the news report. “They were killed by a necrophiliac,” Mary said.

“Which is what?”

“Somebody who has sexual intercourse with dead women.”

“Well,” Jake said, “that happens to us all once in a while.” He started to laugh but phlegm cracked in his throat and he bent over in a brief coughing fit. The scent of liquor on his breath wafted strongly over to Mary.

“Jesus, Jake! These women were murdered, violated, then mutilated with a knife. Don’t you have any compassion?”

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and swallowed. “They were out fucking around on their husbands at the time, weren’t they? Least that bitch in New Orleans was.”

“No, she was simply out dancing.”

“Same fucking thing.” An irritated, dangerous edge had crept into his voice. “Tell you what, Mary, I had a shitty day at work, what with the supervisor riding my ass all day. Let’s you and me go to bed and talk about this tomorrow.”

“I’m not tired, Jake.”

“Not tired? ’S damn near one in the morning. Even the little birds are asleep.” His voice was casual, but there was a feverish earnestness in his eyes. And a look she’d seen in the eyes of predators in
National Geographic
TV specials. She knew for sure now what was in his mind.