2 Dancing With Death (5 page)

    
The Loving Cup is a time honored tradition of the Legacy Trust Competition, dating back to its founding in 1924.
 
The Loving Cup represents the value, glory, and pride of the Legacy Trust Competition, and symbolizes the legacy of dancing that winners are entrusted to carry on. Though attempts to steal the Loving Cup have occurred, all thefts have been foiled, and each year the reigning champions have followed through in their trust by returning to the next year’s competition to pass on the cup and participate in the championship event.

    
Although reigning champions are not eligible to compete, they must put on a dance exhibition and teach one free class on the dance of their choice to all who are interested, ensuring that the Legacy of Ballroom Dancing continues.

    
“That’s pretty amazing,” Bill murmured. “That it’s been returned every year for so long.” He nodded to the policeman to their left. “I’m glad I’m not on duty here. Every petty thief looking to make a name for themselves must see this as the Golden Fleece of robberies.”

    
Betty gestured to the cup. “Look at it,” she said, matching Bill’s low tone. “Who would ever want to steal that? It’s not like you could ever sell it. It’d be too easy to trace. Besides,” she continued when Bill looked ready to debate her point, “I’m sure the owners are more than happy to bring it back. Would you want that monstrosity sitting in your living room for more than a year?”

    
Bill took a moment to study the loving cup in all its gaudy glory before shaking his head. “I don’t think the fact that it’s hideous would stop many thieves, but you’re right about the winners.”

    
“Right about what?” Wes asked, coming up to them with Clarise and a small woman in her late sixties. “Wow!” he exclaimed, catching sight of the cup. “That’s an expensive piece of ugliness.”

    
“Wesley Bundy!” Clarise scolded, smacking him on the shoulder. “It isn’t trash. That’s a piece of ballroom dancing history! You apologize to Miss Knolhart right now!”

    
The older woman who’d accompanied them laughed. “That’s alright,” she said. “He’s right, it is ugly.”

    
“But Miss Knolhart,” Clarise exclaimed, aghast at the woman’s nonchalance. Miss Knolhart held up her hand.

    
“Oh, I know. It has a legacy older than our lives combined. And as such,” she eyed Wes sharply, “it’s worthy of respect. But,” she said, a smile creasing the corners of her eyes, “My dear Miss Birdsong, that doesn’t change the fact that it’s hideous.”

    
I love this woman, Betty thought. Really and truly. I’d like to be her in forty years. Though, she added as an afterthought after examining her more closely, perhaps with a little less plastic surgery.

    
Miss Knolhart was dressed in a beautiful, navy and silver floor-length evening gown that glittered with sequins at every tiny movement. Her steel grey hair was swept up in a bun. She had the carriage of a dancer, with slim shoulders, ramrod posture, clearly defined wrists and collarbones and a lightness on her feet that women half her age would envy. She also had the face of a Hollywood actress who’d refused to age gracefully. Her cheekbones and eyes were just a touch too high and drawn tight, her lips were too plump and her face had that plastic look that seemed to indicate she’d melt in the sun. What must have once been striking natural beauty had been distorted and destroyed. Miss Knolhart had the body of a dancer, and the face of a poorly molded, aging mannequin.

    
“Miss Knolhart,” Clarise said, “I’d like you to meet my friends, Betty Crawford and Bill Owens. Miss Knolhart is a celebrity judge,” she told them. “She was one of the best ballroom dancers of the twentieth century.” Miss Knolhart’s smile froze in place, the mirth leaving her eyes. Clarise continued on, oblivious. “Watching her routines when I was little was what first got me interested in dancing!”

    
Miss Knolhart clapped her hands together, her smile firmly in place. “Yes,” she said, “Well, that’s all in the past now, isn’t it?” She turned to Clarise. “As lovely as it was to meet you in person my dear, I’m afraid I must be off. Places to go, dancers to judge!” with a last airy wave, and without even waiting for Clarise to acknowledge her exit, she wove her way through the crowd towards the other end of the ballroom, waving at a man on the sidelines.

    
“Don’t fall for it,” a woman said, coming up to stand beside them. She looked to be about the same age as Miss Knolhart, although her face contained no ravishes of cosmetic surgery. Her curly hair, swept back into a bun now, was still streaked with traces of red, and her dancer’s training was obvious as she seemed to float in her high heels and pale green chiffon and silk dress. Her accent sounded Irish, and she had a smattering of freckles across her still toned arms.

    
The woman jerked her head towards Miss Knolhart, who was now on the arm of the gentleman she’d gone to meet and talking into his ear. “See that man? That’s her latest catch.” The word catch was spat out like something poisonous. “Earnest Foone. He’s a television producer. She got into his pants to get him to push a television show based on her life. I hear it’s working too. That woman,” the dancer continued, “is a cougar, make no mistake.”

    
Betty raised her eyebrows. “Really?” she asked. The woman laughed bitterly.

    
“Oh yes,” she said. “She’ll take anything she wants, and to Hell with anyone else.” She gestured with her almost empty wine glass. “She stole my partner didn’t she? Stole him, used him to win a national championship, and dumped him like hot coals when he hurt his ankle.” She shook her head. “Poor sod never knew what hit him. Of course,” she continued, “I took him back. I couldn’t say no, could I? I loved the fool. I spent my best dancing years hearing people say that I was partnered with that woman’s castoffs. And you know what the worst thing is?” the woman asked, looking at them with a slightly glazed expression. “They were right.” She paused, blinking. “Who are you?”

    
Betty tried not to laugh. The woman was obviously plastered beyond belief and making a fool of herself, but at the same time she seemed so… pathetic. Betty wanted to walk her up to her room and get her into bed with a cool cloth on her head, before she did or said something that she’d truly regret. At the same time, Betty reminded herself that this woman was obviously an adult. She couldn’t go around treating strange grown women like children. So, instead of steering the woman to a chair and talking her into leaving the party, Betty stuck out her hand.

    
“Betty Crawford,” she said. “And you are?”

    
The woman blinked at them. “Mary O’Connor,” she said. “Didn’t you already know that?”

    
Betty shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, confused. “Have we met?”

    
Mary threw up her hands. “No respect!” she muttered as she walked unsteadily away. “Dancing for forty years, and I get no respect. Not with her here. No respect.”

    
It was a long moment before Bill broke the silence. “And there goes a woman scorned.” He shook his head. “It should’ve been funny, but…”

    
Betty nodded in understanding. “She was so sad.”

    
“Well,” Clarise said. “I don’t believe it! Miss Knolhart would never do something like that!”

    
Looking back at the Loving Cup and the enormous cash prize within, Betty wasn’t too sure. This was only one competition, and $100,000 was a lot of money. People had been known to manipulate or even kill for far less of a prize. She said as much to Clarise, who glared at her.

    
“If you have to see criminals wherever you go, that’s your problem,” she said scathingly. “Me, I prefer to believe that people are innocent until proven guilty. Or did you forget that I was framed for murder?” Betty started to protest that this wasn’t the same, but Clarise glared her into silence. “One person’s dislike for Miss Knolhart isn’t proof, and you know it. Now,” she said, visibly forcing herself to relax and smile. “I believe there’s dancing!” She grabbed Wes’s arm and pulled him towards the dance floor, laughing as he twirled her. Betty watched them melt into the couples whirling about to the quartet.

    
She looked again at the beautiful room. For an instant, the whole atmosphere felt just as distasteful and pretentious as the loving cup prize, and Betty’s skin crawled with apprehension.

CHAPTER 7

    
Bill stayed to chat with the policemen on duty while Betty went to get them drinks. It turned out that the police were actually novice state patrolmen. Their attendance was more of a formality than a law enforcement presence. It turned out that they had trained at the same police academy as Bill, and the three had plenty to talk about.

    
After the stress of the drive, and then the work of beautification, Betty needed something cold to drink. As she walked, Betty couldn’t shake the feeling that all was not as it seemed in the dance competition. The people on the sidelines, far from the amicable observers she had first thought them, turned out to be analyzing the dancers for weaknesses and competitive level. More than once, she passed a couple and caught snippets of one partner berating the other.

    
“You see!” one girl said to her companion, a boy in his teens who looked as though he was near tears. “That’s what I mean when I say tense your arms. His carriage is perfect!”

    
“Just look at them,” whispered another girl a few yards down the wall. “They’re wonderful. I’ll never be that good!”

    
“They’ll never make it past the first round.”

    
“Look at those heels! I bet you anything she’s just wearing them to make us all look clumsy.”

    
And on and on. It occurred to Betty that, if her online business ever folded, she’d found the perfect market for an entirely new venture: seminars. The first one would be called “Confidence 101: How to Stand Up to Your Competition and Your Partner in Ballroom Dancing.” Of course, the seminar would only work if she could give it individually. No one would want to be seen attending, lest someone else think them easy prey.

    
Betty thought it was all quite ridiculous. Weren’t they here to dance? Then again, maybe that was the problem. Everyone who loved to dance was probably out on the dance floor, enjoying themselves and staying away from the petty gabbers.

    
Reaching the drink table, Betty looked hopefully at the selection of beverages. Maybe they had low-sugar soda, or something else she could drink without spiking her blood sugar too much. With her sight all wonky, Betty really didn’t want to risk spiking her blood sugar. Unfortunately, various forms of alcohol and soda seemed her only options. Finally, Betty spotted a single bottle of bubbly water. Perfect. She poured herself a glass, dropped a slice of lemon in it for flavor, and grabbed a cola for Bill. She was just turning to go when she bumped into a tall, balding man wearing a navy pinstripe suit that looked like it had just walked off an Armani shelf. The drinks sloshed dangerously in their cups, but thankfully none spilled. Betty didn’t think she could afford to pay for the dry cleaning if they had.

    
“Oh,” she said, beet red from embarrassment.
 
“I’m so sorry!”

    
The man reached out to steady her, smiling. His teeth had to have been bleached, Betty thought. No one’s teeth were that white naturally.

    
“It’s no problem,” he said. “I’d love to get bumped into by more beautiful ladies.”

    
Betty fought to not roll her eyes. The idea that anyone would consider her beautiful in the midst of all the glitz and glam Barbie dolls in the room was utterly ridiculous.

 
   
“No, really,” the man insisted, seeming to catch on to her disbelief. “You are!”

    
Betty laughed nervously. “I’m glad you think so,” she said, starting to head back over to Bill.

    
The man moved to block her. “What’s your name?” he asked.