On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) (15 page)

C
ASSANDRA
Canelle glared at me. Then, with light, even strides, she crossed the polished hardwood floor, placed hands on hips, and inches from my nose, said, “How dare you! What evidence do you have for such a charge? Who of my girls are you accusing?”

“No one. Yet,” I said. “I just know that Anabelle’s fall was not an accident, and I know dancing is a competitive arena. Do you care about Anabelle?”

“Of course I care about her. She is one of my star students! I am devastated she is lying in hospital. How dare you come here and—”

For the next five minutes, the dance teacher balled me out to the strains of
Der Tod und das Mädchen
(Schubert’s “Death and the Maiden”).

Boy, did I feel like a heel.

My blunt approach had yielded me useful information—with the young dancers. But it sure as heck was the wrong approach with their teacher.

“Please understand,” I said when she finally let me get a word in. “I also care about Anabelle, and I’m determined to find out who did this to her. That’s the reason I’m here. And I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I just need your help to get to the bottom of this. To find out the truth of what happened.”

The anger slowly left Cassandra. Her crossed arms relaxed, her wrinkled brow smoothed. She sighed and rubbed the back of her long, slender brown neck. With her dark hair cropped close to her scalp, the perfect swanlike line of it was shown to advantage.

She closed her eyes, shook her head, and murmured, “All I want out of life is perpetual music and an unending expanse of smooth and level floor.”

It sounded like a mantra. One I understood. “Don’t we all,” I told her.

She looked up, spied the cardboard tray in my hand. “How ’bout you give me some of that coffee.”

We sat on folding chairs in the corner of the recital room. Her next class was due in ten minutes, and she gave me that time to answer questions.

“How badly did your students want that spot in Moby’s Danse?” I asked. “The spot Anabelle won.”

“Very badly, Ms. Cosi—”

“Clare.”

“Fine, Clare. Moby’s Danse is a prestigious modern dance company that tours nationally. They have auditions only a few times a year for the troupe’s Young Dancers’ Program. If a dancer makes the cut, she has the chance to participate in some of the most exciting choreography being produced in the world today.”

“That sounds like a strong enough motive to try getting rid of the competition.”

“You’re crazy. That’s
not
how dancers operate.”

“Am I? I spoke to five of Anabelle’s fellow dance students yesterday, and a few of them struck me as capable of pretty ruthless tactics.”

Cassandra laughed. “Let me guess. You spoke with Petra and Vita, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Do you suspect them, too?”

“Only of being Russian émigrés who’ve had a very tough life. They’ve got a street attitude and they’re brutal competitors, but they would never do that to Anabelle.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“For one thing, hurting Anabelle would have done them absolutely no good. Neither of them was even in the running for the spot in Moby’s Danse.”

“What do you mean? They told me they were—”

Cassandra shrugged. “They lied. Wanted to make themselves look good in front of their friends. Score sheets are private, so they could say what they like, but I know the truth and so do they. Their scores were far too low to get them even among the top ten of the fifty who auditioned.”

“Well, who did have something to gain?”

“You talkin’ ’bout Courtney now?” said Cassandra, her surprise bringing out the Jamaican lilt. “That slight girl! The sweetest girl I’ve ever had take a class here?”

“Sweet girls can have a dark side,” I pointed out.

“You think that little girl pushed Anabelle down a flight of steps to get her spot in Moby’s Danse?” Cassandra asked.

She stared.

I stared back.

She burst out laughing. “You’re crazy.”

“Why?”

“Ms. Cosi—Clare, these are
dancers,
not mobsters. With the exception of maybe that Tanya Harding ice dancer nut who hired a brute to knee-cap Nancy Kerrigan before the Olympics, there is no sense in hurting your rival physically. There are far too many good performers to think hurting
one
will help you in any way. No, the way to win this game is to perform to your very best. To achieve excellence. As competitive and as catty as dance sometimes is, these girls know that.”

I sighed. Cassandra made sense, but I hated giving up a good theory.

“You’re sure Courtney couldn’t have done it?”

“When was she supposed to have done it?”

“Two nights ago. On Wednesday evening. Anabelle would have been closing up about midnight. It most likely happened around that time.”

“Well, I can tell you that Courtney was with me all evening right up until midnight. You see, Moby’s Danse loved Courtney, but they didn’t like the choreography she chose. She scored so high that they agreed to consider her for a very rare standby spot if she reauditioned with a modern piece, and she hired me to tutor her privately. We quit after midnight, and I dropped her at her home myself in a cab.”

“And where does Courtney live?”

“In Brooklyn, not far from my mother. I have an apartment here in the Village, but my mama needed help with some shopping the next morning.”

“I see.”

“It’s preposterous what you suggest,” said Cassandra. “You cannot tell me the girl rode all the way to Brooklyn in a cab after an exhausting class, then turned around and took a subway all the way back to the Village to try pushing Anabelle, who is taller and stronger, down a flight of steps.”

I sighed. Cassandra was right. On all counts. She’d provided the answers I’d come for, and yet I was still full of questions. Mostly about Anabelle. I had known the girl only four weeks—but Cassandra had been teaching her for twelve months.

“What can you tell me about Anabelle, then?”

“The girl is a natural talent,” said Cassandra as proudly as any mother. “She simply never got the training she deserved. The girl’s father died when she was twelve. After that, her stepmother moved her from town to town so often there was never any way to have a consistent course of study. Anabelle told me she had gone to see Moby’s Danse when they’d been on one of their national tours. They’d given a performance in Miami, and Anabelle waited at the stage door, naively asking if she could join them. Can you imagine? A teenage kid with little formal training? She had guts.

“Well, lucky for her they didn’t laugh in her face,” Cassandra continued. “Instead, a kind member of the company explained to her that she was too young to join and that the troupe only took members by audition. They suggested she study here in New York at Dance 10, which is where the troupe rehearses, and perhaps one day she might audition on an open call.”

“And that’s why she traveled to New York,” I said.

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “She borrowed money from her stepmother, came to New York a year ago, enrolled here, and worked her ass off. She auditioned twice in the last year, but third time’s a charm, and last week she got the spot she’d wanted so much—a Cinderella story.”

“Except for the trip down the castle steps.”

“Sadly, yes.”

“What did Anabelle tell you about her stepmother?” I asked.

“Oh, that one’s a piece of work!” Cassandra blurted. She rose from the folding chair. Latte in hand, she glided across the smooth wood floor and gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched the length of the room.

“How so?” I asked.

“Anabelle’s stepmother was a nude dancer,” said Cassandra. “Anabelle didn’t want anyone to know. And neither did her stepmother. The nude dancing brought in enough money for them to buy nice things, you know? So she’d do it in one town, then move to another, try to pretend she was classy, hook up with a man with money. When that didn’t work out, and it never did, she’d move along to another town, where they didn’t know her. She’d go back to nude dancing again, to get the cash built up once more. Then they’d leave again—and so on. You get the picture?”

I nodded. After personally experiencing the costly façade and classless behavior of Darla Branch Hart, I got the picture in living color. What kept me silent a few moments was the sadness I felt on behalf of a talented little twelve-year-old girl being carted from town to town without regard to her well-being—

A thought suddenly occurred to me. An ugly thought—

“Did Anabelle’s stepmother encourage Anabelle to…you know, do the nude dancing, too?”

“She did, I am sorry to tell you. About six months ago, Anabelle broke down during an evening class. She had noticed the college boys in the bar across the street. Saw them gawking up at the dancers as they sometimes do. After the class, she confided in me—”

“I was wondering if you knew about that bar,” I interrupted. “Why don’t you install shades or drapes up here?”

Cassandra waved a dismissive hand. “Dancers must learn how to concentrate before an audience. Any audience.”

“But you said the gawking boys bothered Anabelle.”

“Only because they reminded her of another audience. A much baser audience.”

“I don’t follow—”

“They made her feel as if she were up here nude dancing. That feeling led her to admit to me how conflicted she felt. I urged her to quit the nude dancing, and she did. The next week, she took the job at your coffeehouse to make ends meet. She told me it was harder work for the money, but it was honest work, and it allowed her to stop debasing her talent.

“You see, the nude dancing forced Anabelle to put up walls between her outside self and her true self. Art does not do that. Art brings you closer to your true self. As Anabelle progressed in her studies here, she came to that awareness.”

“I think I understand,” I said.

“The things that exploit you—they are the things that harden you. Anabelle had seen such things harden her stepmother, and she confessed to me that she would do almost anything to avoid that kind of life. She wanted her dancing to mean more—as she remembered it meant to her when she first saw Moby’s Danse—to uplift the spirit, bring it closer to the true self, not alienate it, bring it down.”

I rose and stood with Cassandra. We looked at the darkened windows of Mañana below us. “Life is like that, isn’t it?” I said, “Filled with base brutishness as well as higher callings. The vulgar and the sublime.”

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “And the sooner these girls understand that, the better. The choice is ours to make.”

“Not always,” I said. “Sometimes the choice is forced down upon us.”

“In my view,” said Cassandra “that is what art is for: To lift us up again when we are pressed down.”

I nodded.

Outside the door, the sound of eager feet echoed down the hall then swarmed the rehearsal room. Leotards and leg warmers: my cue to depart. After a thankful wave to Cassandra, I did.

“M
S
. Cosi.”

“Detective Quinn—”

A lanky beige wall was the last thing I expected to be colliding with upon returning to the Blend. For a moment, I was mortified. How the heck was I supposed to know Lieutenant Quinn had been sitting at a Blend table waiting for me for the past fifteen minutes? Or that he had moved to greet me at the door like any well-mannered gentleman?

Well, he was. And he did. The man’s worn-out raincoat effectively became a coffee-stained toreador’s cape, and I’d embarrassingly butted it head-on.

What can I say? My mind had been preoccupied.

I’d
like
to tell you I’d been engrossed in rejiggering the suspect list. After all, my view of the Dance 10 girls as potential assassins was now passé. That left Mommy Dearest, boyfriend Richard Gibson Engstrum (affectionately referred to by Anabelle’s roommate Esther as “The Dick”), and…? Could there be others?

As I said, I’d like to tell you that was what I’d been thinking about when I’d collided with Quinn. And I had been sorting through these remaining suspects during my walk back uptown from Dance 10. However, right before I walked through the Blend’s beveled glass door, I slipped a hand into my jacket pocket and rediscovered the rectangular piece of cardstock I’d shoved in there the day before. It was the $105 parking ticket I’d pulled off the windshield of my Honda, which had been parked too close to a fire hydrant for most of the morning.

I cursed upon rediscovering the thing, but the truth is I was supremely lucky that the city tow trucks had been behind schedule yesterday; otherwise I would have found the ticket—and my Honda—at the impounding lot in the Bronx.

So there I was, walking back into the Village Blend, reading the small-print instructions from the City of New York about how and where to contest the darned thing, when I’d collided with the lanky beige wall.

I immediately looked up—away from Quinn’s brown pants (presumably a different pair from yesterday’s identical ensemble)—and beyond the starched shirt and striped tie (sporting today’s colors of brown and rust).

Quinn’s jaw was still as square as I remembered, his dark blond hair still as short but the stubble was gone. He’d managed to shave close without a scratch. And the shadows under his eyes were less pronounced this morning, though their intense color was still blue enough to require a conscious effort on my part to take a breath.

“How are you?” I asked after regaining my balance and a small portion of my dignity.

The question was simple enough, but it seemed to fluster the detective—as if my asking about his personal well-being was as odd to him as someone asking if he’d enjoyed his recent trip to Mars.

“I’m fine,” he answered after an awkward silence. His voice sounded less wrung out today, but his clipped words still had the bite of burnt coffee.

“You look better,” I said, trying to lighten things up. “Like you got some sleep, at least, since we last saw each other.”

“I’d like to speak with you,” he said, chipping each word out of ice.

Okay, so the man had beige walls
inside
as well as
out.
Fine. I wasn’t going to dwell on it.

I scanned the room for a place to sit. We had about an hour before the lunchtime rush and only a few tables were occupied. Two customers stood at the coffee bar, behind which I noticed my ex-husband staring at me and Quinn.

To be honest, Matt’s dark eyes were shooting us more of a glare than a stare.

I ignored him.

“How about we sit in the corner. Over there,” I told Quinn, gesturing to a table near the exposed brick wall—and far from listening ears.

“That’s fine.”

As I walked him over, I asked, “How long have you been waiting?”

“Not long. Ten, fifteen minutes.”

“Did Matt get you a cup of coffee?”

“No.”

My jaw clenched. “Well, please sit down. I insist you have a cup with me. I’ll be right back.”

“What the hell does
he
want?” Matt groused the second I stepped behind the coffee bar. He was putting the finishing touches—whipped cream and chocolate shavings—on two mochaccinos for the only waiting customers.

“Lower your voice,” I told him, shedding my jacket. Matt eyed my cashmere blend sweater, bought at Daffy’s fall sweater bonanza. (Daffy’s Fifth Avenue store was a real treasure trove—designer clothes remaindered at outlet prices, and without having to travel to the typical New Jersey outlet locations.) The sweater’s soft pine color brought out the green of my eyes, and the way it fit my petite figure didn’t do my breasts a disservice, either.

“Answer my question,” Matt demanded. “What does he want?”

“A cup of coffee, for starters,” I said. Hands on hips, I waited for Matt to oblige. After all, he was the barista on duty.

“Come off it.”

“Why else do people come to the Blend?” I asked.

“Clare, what does he want?”

“I swear, Matt—I can’t believe he’s been waiting here fifteen minutes and you didn’t at least offer him a cup of the house blend on the house—”

“Why, for God’s sake? You know these cops will drink anything that’s brown and in a paper cup. Half of them aren’t even particular about its viscosity level, as long as it’s under a dollar.”

“You’re being insulting to someone who is trying to help us—”

“Us? Or
you.
”

“Temper. Temper,” I said. “Just make us a couple of lattes.”

“No.”

“C’mon, just singles.”

“I am not wasting my talent on a Robusta-drinking philistine. And neither should you.”

With a sigh of disgust, I nudged Matt aside and smacked the switch on the automatic grinder. I took hold of the handle on the espresso basket, dumped the wet grounds, rinsed the basket, and packed the freshly milled coffee beans tightly in.

“He probably keeps a jar of Sanka in his desk drawer,” muttered Matt.

“That’s uncalled for,” I said as I began the extraction process.

“Or better still,” Matt whispered into my ear. “Folgers instant crystals.”

“Go to hell!” I whispered.

“Temper. Temper.”

After the extraction process was finished and the espresso had properly oozed out of the two spouts into separate shot glasses (remember, it should ooze like warm honey, otherwise you’ve got a brewed beverage—not espresso!), I poured the contents of each glass into their individual serving cups.

Because the lattes would be consumed in the dining room, I eschewed the paper cups and instead used the tall cream-colored ceramic cups stacked in neat rows on a shelf against the back wall. Next came the steamed milk, splashing into the dark liquid like a white tsunami.

I placed the lattes on a cork-bottomed tray, held it high like a good barmaid, and sashayed on over to our corner table, letting Matt watch my hips deliberately swing for good measure. With veiled glee, I could feel him seething silently behind me.

Tray held high, I weaved through the coffeehouse’s obstacle course of small marble-topped tables. I noticed Quinn watching me approach from across the room.

He was staring at my swaying jean-clad hips. I couldn’t read the guarded expression on the man’s square-jawed face, or the cool look in the depths of those dark blue eyes: Not as they watched my hips. Not even as they traveled north, up my pine-colored sweater, pulled tight from my upraised arm.

Now, another woman might have been delighted with this undivided male attention, and I
thought
I would be—but I wasn’t. In fact, Quinn’s blank stare was making me more than a little self-conscious and my steps slowed mid-room.

What the hell am I playing at?
I asked myself.
I’m no flirt. This is really, really stupid.

I brought the round tray down from its Bavarian beer-garten level and began carrying it with two hands, strategically positioning it to block any further view of my pine-colored breasts.

Sure, I may have started the day making a sweater selection with the hopes of seeing Quinn again, but the reality of having him stare at it (or rather
me
in it) suddenly felt like way too much to handle—as if petting my cat in the morning could remotely prepare me for feeding a tiger in the afternoon.

Why in the world did I think I could take on something as uncontrollable in my life as lust? (I mean, beyond the fantasy arena.) And with a married man!

After mentally kicking myself across the room, I set the lattes on the coral-colored marble surface of the table. Quinn still hadn’t said a word. Just kept staring.

“Remind me never to play poker with you,” I said, trying to break the tension.

“What do you mean?” he asked, continuing to stare.

“Forget it,” I said. And then, in an effort to battle my schoolgirl nerves and get back down to business, I launched into the story of my life for the past twenty-four hours. I recounted the conversations I’d had with Esther Best, Cassandra Canelle, and last but not least, Darla Branch Hart.

As I told my story, Quinn watched me wildly gesticulate with the same intense expression he’d given me as I came toward him from across the room.

When I finished, he said, “So…you’ve been working the case.”

I nodded.

He sipped his latte. A long sip. Then he leaned back and allowed a mild look of emotion to change his features—a cross between astonishment and admiration. But he said nothing. Not one word of encouragement. Not even a compliment on the latte.

That hurt.

“Well,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment, “given what I’ve discovered—what do you think?”

“What do
I
think?” he said. “
You
conducted the interviews. What do
you
think?”

“I’m not the professional here.”

“When you spoke with these women, you saw how they spoke to you—their body language, their tone of voice. What was your impression?”

“My impression…” I sipped my latte. Thought about it. “To tell you the truth, I do have an impression I can’t shake. Well, really more of a vision than an impression.”

“What is it?”

“You really want to know?” I asked.

“No. I like to waste my breath.”

“God, you’re a tough audience.”

“Just tell me, Clare—Sorry, Ms. Cosi—”

“It’s okay, you can call me Clare. What’s your first name, by the way?”

He shifted uneasily. “It’s Mike. Michael Ryan Francis if you count the confirmation name.”

“Well, I’ll tell you my vision, Michael Ryan Francis, for all the good it will do…I see an image of Cassandra Canelle leaping through the air like a blue-violet bird, and telling me all she wants out of life is ‘perpetual music and an unending expanse of smooth and level floor.’ And then I see Darla Branch Hart’s expensive manicure snatching up two wrinkled bills and saying, ‘My stepdaughter deserves some money…and I’m gonna see she gets it.’”

“You see them both?”

“They intertwine in my mind. The images twirl, kind of like dancers on a ballroom floor…” I shrugged. “Sounds crazy, right?”

Surprisingly, Michael Ryan Francis Quinn didn’t in fact offer me a ride to Bellevue’s psyche ward. Instead he said I reminded him of an article he’d read a few years back about the strangeness of our universe.

“Excuse me?” I said. “The strangeness of our
universe
?”

Now who needed the ride to the nuthouse? I thought.

“No, listen,” said Quinn. “It applies. In the article, an astrophysicist explained how he was able to see a black hole in the darkness of space. He said, ‘Imagine a boy in a black tuxedo. The boy is the black hole. Now imagine he’s twirling with a girl in a white dress. The girl is the light from a nearby star. Now imagine the girl and boy are in a dark room, the room is the vast darkness of space. How do you locate the boy dressed in black if he’s dancing in a dark room?’”

Quinn paused, waited.

“You look for the girl in white,” I said. “The light gives away the dark.”

He nodded. “Darkness can’t hide. Not forever. Not even in the vastness of space.”