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Authors: Ella Barrick
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caught sight of us and lifted his brows,
but I shook my head.
“He’s not here,” she said.
I resisted the “duh” that sprang to my tongue. “Did you try the hotel?”
“He’s not there, either. Where could he be?” A line appeared between her brows.
She was acting more like Zane was a fifteen-year-old who’d missed his curfew instead
of a man in his mid-thirties. I guessed Kim Savage might be the poster child for “stage
mothers.”
“Look, I’m sorry I barged in like this. If Zane comes by, or if you hear from him,
would you let me know?” She handed me a card with her name and a phone number on it.
Perhaps inferring from my expression that I was unlikely to tattle on Zane, she said,
“Tell him to call me, okay?”
Turning on her stiletto heels and making a big circle around Hoover, she headed for
the door. She turned, hand on the doorknob. “Oh, and Stacy—I can call you Stacy, right?”
Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “When things settle down a bit, you and
I should have a chat. I’ve got some ideas for dance routines that will help Zane—and
you—get viewer votes.” Sliding the sunglasses over her eyes, she was gone.
“An attractive woman,” Maurice observed from behind me. I hadn’t heard him come out
of the ballroom. His students trickled into the hall, taking a water break. I heard
the toilet flush.
“Zane’s mommy dearest.”
“Really?” Maurice crossed to the window at the end of the hall that looked onto the
street fronting the house. I joined him. We watched Kim Savage slide, with a display
of shapely calf, into an illegally parked Jaguar convertible. “Well preserved.”
“If you like your women Monroe-esque and stuffed into Spanx.” I knew I wasn’t being
quite fair; Kim Savage had the kind of hourglass figure many men found irresistible,
even if she needed a little undergarment help to make that knit sheath fit so smoothly.
“I do.” Maurice grinned at me. “I remember her now. She made a couple of movies in
the seventies, pretty campy stuff. She gave Raquel Welch and Ann-Margret a run for
their money when it came to the sex kitten roles. Va-va-voom.” He waggled his brows.
I was mildly interested that Kim Savage had been an actress, but that didn’t make
me like her any better. “She has choreography ideas she wants to ‘share’ with me.”
“Ah-hah. That’s why you’re being snippy. Presumptuous of her, I grant you.” Rounding
up his students, Maurice herded them back into the ballroom for the second half of
the lesson. Hoover followed them in.
I traipsed to the door at the far end of the hall marked P RIVATE and descended the interior stairs to my living quarters. I’d decided a little privacy
was in order for my conversation with Kevin McDill. I made myself a cup of coffee
and settled in at the scarred kitchen table, wishing for the thousandth time I could
afford to have the garish turquoise tile counter replaced with granite or one of those
new recycled glass countertops. However, given that I cooked only about twice a month,
I had to use my limited funds on higher priorities—like keeping my dance studio afloat.
McDill seemed pleased but wary to hear from me. When I told him why I was calling,
silence came over the line, broken only by sounds I finally identified as the reporter
working his mouth around his omnipresent toothpick. I visualized his seamed, walnut-colored
face, and the reading glasses that would be halfway down his nose. “I’ve got someone
I can talk to,” he finally said. “If they only found the body this morning, though,
the autopsy might not be complete. I’ll give you a call when I know something. You
owe me.” He hung up.
I set the phone down, satisfied. A few minutes’ thought told me it made no sense to
sit here and wait for McDill to call back; it might be hours before he knew anything.
If I was going to find out what happened to
but I shook my head.
“He’s not here,” she said.
I resisted the “duh” that sprang to my tongue. “Did you try the hotel?”
“He’s not there, either. Where could he be?” A line appeared between her brows.
She was acting more like Zane was a fifteen-year-old who’d missed his curfew instead
of a man in his mid-thirties. I guessed Kim Savage might be the poster child for “stage
mothers.”
“Look, I’m sorry I barged in like this. If Zane comes by, or if you hear from him,
would you let me know?” She handed me a card with her name and a phone number on it.
Perhaps inferring from my expression that I was unlikely to tattle on Zane, she said,
“Tell him to call me, okay?”
Turning on her stiletto heels and making a big circle around Hoover, she headed for
the door. She turned, hand on the doorknob. “Oh, and Stacy—I can call you Stacy, right?”
Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “When things settle down a bit, you and
I should have a chat. I’ve got some ideas for dance routines that will help Zane—and
you—get viewer votes.” Sliding the sunglasses over her eyes, she was gone.
“An attractive woman,” Maurice observed from behind me. I hadn’t heard him come out
of the ballroom. His students trickled into the hall, taking a water break. I heard
the toilet flush.
“Zane’s mommy dearest.”
“Really?” Maurice crossed to the window at the end of the hall that looked onto the
street fronting the house. I joined him. We watched Kim Savage slide, with a display
of shapely calf, into an illegally parked Jaguar convertible. “Well preserved.”
“If you like your women Monroe-esque and stuffed into Spanx.” I knew I wasn’t being
quite fair; Kim Savage had the kind of hourglass figure many men found irresistible,
even if she needed a little undergarment help to make that knit sheath fit so smoothly.
“I do.” Maurice grinned at me. “I remember her now. She made a couple of movies in
the seventies, pretty campy stuff. She gave Raquel Welch and Ann-Margret a run for
their money when it came to the sex kitten roles. Va-va-voom.” He waggled his brows.
I was mildly interested that Kim Savage had been an actress, but that didn’t make
me like her any better. “She has choreography ideas she wants to ‘share’ with me.”
“Ah-hah. That’s why you’re being snippy. Presumptuous of her, I grant you.” Rounding
up his students, Maurice herded them back into the ballroom for the second half of
the lesson. Hoover followed them in.
I traipsed to the door at the far end of the hall marked P RIVATE and descended the interior stairs to my living quarters. I’d decided a little privacy
was in order for my conversation with Kevin McDill. I made myself a cup of coffee
and settled in at the scarred kitchen table, wishing for the thousandth time I could
afford to have the garish turquoise tile counter replaced with granite or one of those
new recycled glass countertops. However, given that I cooked only about twice a month,
I had to use my limited funds on higher priorities—like keeping my dance studio afloat.
McDill seemed pleased but wary to hear from me. When I told him why I was calling,
silence came over the line, broken only by sounds I finally identified as the reporter
working his mouth around his omnipresent toothpick. I visualized his seamed, walnut-colored
face, and the reading glasses that would be halfway down his nose. “I’ve got someone
I can talk to,” he finally said. “If they only found the body this morning, though,
the autopsy might not be complete. I’ll give you a call when I know something. You
owe me.” He hung up.
I set the phone down, satisfied. A few minutes’ thought told me it made no sense to
sit here and wait for McDill to call back; it might be hours before he knew anything.
If I was going to find out what happened to
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