Клео Коул - On What Grounds

“And you’re Vita?” I said instead.

“Charmed,” said Vita, “I am sure,” although she looked anything but. Petra’s companion appeared to be the “yang” to Petra’s “yin” (or was it the other way around?). Anyway, where Petra was dark, Vita was light—pale blue eyes and yellow-blond hair pulled so tightly into a ponytail I thought for a minute she’d had a face-lift at the age of twenty-three.

Tucker gestured to the first latte. “This is Maggie.”

This one reminded me of a Vegas showgirl. Long legs. Tiny waist. Big red hair. Bigger breasts. Wide, heavily lashed eyes with a color green that does not appear in nature—contact lenses, or I’m twenty-five.

The second latte and fourth girl came next. “This is Sheela,” said Tucker.

“S’up, Clare,” said the statuesque African-American girl with sculpted shoulders and a hip-hop attitude as sharp as her long aquamarine fingernails. “Your place is phat.”

(I thanked her, grateful that Joy and her young friends had enlightened me on the MTV lexicon. Otherwise, given the recommended dietary allowances from the health mafia for the last thirty years, I wouldn’t have guessed calling something “phat” was good.)

“And this is Courtney,” said Tucker. She was the one who had asked about the samovar.

A pale-skinned, frail beauty with a dainty nose and long blond hair in a ballerina bun smiled shyly up at me. She shifted in her chair, all arms and elbows, as if she were uncertain of what to do with them in polite company. She definitely seemed the wallflower of this group.

Before Courtney could muster the courage to say hello, Petra turned to me, shaking her head and loudly pronouncing: “Zat vas terrible, vot happened to Anabelle.”

The others nodded as one. If I hadn’t already figured out the pecking order of this pack by Tucker’s introduction, I couldn’t miss it now. My eyes locked on Petra.

“Do you think it was an accident?” I asked straightaway. “Or did Anabelle have enemies?”

As I expected, the directness of the question was not unlike a bulldozer slamming the trunk of an apple tree. I waited with my bushel ready to collect whatever might come down—while assuring myself I could dodge anything aimed directly at my head.

For a solid minute, mouths gaped, but nothing came out. Even Tucker, eyes wide, looked shocked by my frankness—but within a few seconds, they narrowed with interest.

The other eyes began to dart around the table until, finally, they all settled on the Russian émigré with the black eyes and the blunt haircut.

“You zink there vas maybe foul play?” Petra said slowly.

“Yes,” I said. “I think it is a little peculiar that a girl as graceful as Anabelle could suddenly plunge down a flight of steps.”

“Oh, is dat all,” said Vita with a nudge to her Russian companion. “Do not stress yourselv. Anabelle vasn’t that good.”

“Oh?” I said.

“She was good enough,” Sheela said to Vita with a finger to the girl’s shoulder. “Good enough to get that spot you said you and Petra nearly got in Moby’s Danse.”

That news surprised me. Though not a follower of modern dance, even I had heard of Moby’s Danse, a troupe with a small theater in Soho. They mounted a few shows in New York City a year, and The New York Times dance critic loved them. Fawning write-ups usually made their shows overnight sensations with sold-out performances for months, providing the necessary buzz for subsequent national tours.

I was even more surprised that Anabelle hadn’t mentioned this accomplishment to me.

“When did she get that spot?” I asked.

“Just last week,” said Sheela.

“Well, she von’t be danzing for zem now,” Petra said, her black eyes narrowing.

“That’s cold,” Sheela said, cocking her head.

“No colder zan you ver to Vita when she beat you out of zat spot for Master Jam J. music video.”

“That was different,” said Sheela, eyes blazing.

“How?” asked Petra.

“Well, for one thing, Vita ain’t in St. Vincent’s sucking on a respirator. She’s sittin’ right here sucking down a tea!”

Vita and Maggie snickered at that.

But Petra seethed.

And Courtney shifted uncomfortably.

“What about you, Courtney?” I asked. “Do you have an opinion?”

“She should, ” Maggie drawled, her Vegas showgirl lips perfectly outlined with pink lipliner. “She’s the one who’s gonna get Anabelle’s spot. Aren’t you, Courtney?”

Courtney just stared into her double latte and nodded.

“Is that right, Courtney?” I said, trying to coax her into saying something. “Are you going to be joining the Moby’s Danse troupe?”

The girl’s pale skin and delicate features reminded me of Anabelle. But that’s where the resemblance ended. This girl was much shyer and far less hardened than my assistant manager—whose street smarts, energy, and confident way of expressing herself could have easily kept up with the other girls at this table.

After a few silent moments, Courtney’s flushed face looked up. There were tears in her eyes. “Trust me,” she whispered, “I didn’t want to get into the troupe this way.”

There are good actresses and bad actresses, and this one was no actress at all. Courtney’s eyes were telling the truth. I was certain of it.

Then I glanced over at Petra. The contrast was so marked I drew in a sharp breath. Where Courtney’s soft blue eyes were brimming with tears of sorrow, Petra’s cold black pearls were as hard and unmoved as a predator’s.

But before I could continue questioning any of them, the front door opened and a harsh, direct voice cut through the mellifluous piano stylings of George Winston, one of Tucker’s favorite instrumental CDs—

“Who owns this place.”

Trouble. You know it when you hear it.

I sighed.

Before turning from the Dance 10 table, I nodded my thanks to Tucker. I had gotten what I wanted—a lead on a motive. Tomorrow I’d visit the studio myself to find out more.

“Did anyone hear me?” the voice demanded again. “Who owns this place!”

“May I help you,” I said, knowing at once I was going to need more than one double espresso to get through this afternoon.

The demanding voice came out of a killer body.

Tailored designer slacks on mile-high legs. Gucci boots and a black jacket of butter-soft leather over a white silk blouse. Blond hair tied back into a tasteful ponytail. Coach bag and skin too tan for a New York autumn with makeup applied in artful layers—lipstick, eyeliner, mascara—like talismans meant to ward off the curse of lines, creases, shadows, and any other betrayer of an otherwise youthfully slender appearance.

I’d seen this blonde at the hospital, I realized: Anabelle’s stepmother.

“ You the one owns this place?”

The accent and phrasing were rough—lower-middle-class, not quite what I expected to hear coming out of such a finished and fashionable façade.

The voice was deep and rattled a bit in her throat, signs of a hardcore lifelong smoker, the sort of woman I used to see laugh-coughing amid marathon gossip sessions back in the hair salon next to my grandmother’s grocery in Pennsylvania.

“Well,” I began, “I’m a part owner, and the full-time manager—”

She cut me off. “I want the owner. Now .”

The increasing volume on that last statement drowned out the various conversations that had been buzzing all over the room. I glanced around to find dozens of pairs of eyes blinking in our direction.

A scene. Great.