John Lutz - Dancing with the Dead

“Hal’s in a meeting with the CPA right now.”

“I know. We talked this morning and he told me to call him out of it if this contract was signed. It’s for one of the display houses, and there’s a lotta extras involved.” He took a stride toward the back offices.

“Wait a minute,” Mary was surprised to hear herself say. She reached into her purse and drew out the photograph of Martha Roundner, then spread it flat on her desk. “Who’s this look like?”

Victor rested his palms on the desk, leaned close, and studied the photo for a long time. His face took on a strained expression Mary had never seen before.

“I’ll be damned,” he said, standing up straight and using a forefinger to tap his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. “She looks a lot like my sister in Phoenix. You wouldn’t believe how much. Who is she?”

“Never mind,” Mary said, returning the photo to her purse. “I don’t think you know her.”

Victor looked puzzled for a moment, then gave her another of his tentative smiles and walked away to drag Hal out of conference as instructed.

Long ago Mary had read a story about a man who thought his double was maliciously ruining his life, and followed and killed the man. At the story’s end, it was revealed that there was no resemblance at all, except in the mind of the killer. Mary wondered for a moment if she might be reversing the story, projecting her own image on the photographs of victims because she identified with them so strongly. Because she wanted-

She decided that was absurd. Cast it from her mind with an internal violence that tightened her stomach.

She didn’t have a lesson scheduled for that evening, and Angie had said she was going out with Fred. So after work Mary spent half an hour cleaning up the mess Jake had left in the apartment: dirty dishes from his late breakfast, wadded underwear and socks on the floor, a glut of dark hair in the shower drain. He could leave a bathroom looking as if a freshman track team had used it after a meet. She lowered the seat and flushed the toilet, trying not to inhale. What, if anything, did your mother teach you, Jake?

When the apartment was reasonably neat, and she’d finished her frozen sirloin tips dinner, she put on her flat-soled training shoes and practiced dancing in the spare bedroom. For over an hour she did tango steps in front of the full-length mirror, gliding and swirling gracefully, perfecting her head movements during fans and promenade turns. She looked good. She knew she’d improved dramatically in only the past few weeks. It was like that with dancing; you’d hit a sticking point and think you’d never make progress, then suddenly it was as if a dam gave and you were surprised to stride out on the floor a much better dancer. Moments that made life worthwhile.

When her legs were tired and her feet began to ache, she switched off the light and walked into the living room. She sat on the sofa and removed her shoes, stretched out her legs and crossed them at the ankles.

But she couldn’t relax. She wondered again if there really was a resemblance between her and the two murder victims. Other people didn’t seem to see it. Was the reason for her fascination with Rene Verlane really the fact that he was suspected of murder? She’d heard about eager victims flirting with death, but she certainly wasn’t one of them. Was this a lucid moment, or was her imagination running wild now?

You’re being ridiculous, she admonished herself. Facts are facts, and talk show psychology won’t change them.

Feeling, even hearing, the pounding of her heart, she found her gaze drawn to the phone.

Weary but restless, she stood up and carried her shoes into the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and slipped a pair of white cotton tube socks onto her feet, then her comfortable old Reebok jogging shoes.

She left the apartment and walked for blocks, all the way over to Arsenal Street. The air was so humid it seemed to press like velvet against her flesh. She was perspiring. Tower Grove Park lay to her right like a dark and dangerous void. She knew she shouldn’t be walking at night after what had happened to her recently, but something in her compelled her to press on, striding parallel to the edge of the park.

It was a few minutes before ten when she got home. Coincidence? Or had she hurried to reach the apartment in time to settle back down on the sofa and watch the ten o’clock news?

There was nothing on the news about the Verlane or Roundner murders. Mary used the remote to mute the “Tonight” show and watched Jay Leno, nimble for such a big man, dance slowly about and clasp and unclasp his hands during his monologue.

It was two hours earlier on the West Coast. As she stood up and moved to the phone, she realized she’d memorized the number of the Marriott Hotel in Seattle.

Rene Verlane was in his room. He answered the phone on the second ring. She recognized his voice from the television interviews, and she had a vision of him speaking to her from one of the news tapes shot in his New Orleans home, a conversation real yet unreal.

He said hello again, puzzled, and Mary cleared her throat.

This was madness, but she was determined not to panic and hang up.

She cleared her throat again, swallowed, and said, “I want you to know first off I’m not some kind of weirdo calling for kicks because your wife was murdered.” Oh, God, should she have said that?

For a long time he didn’t say anything. Silence hummed and crackled on the connection that stretched more than a thousand miles. Was he ever going to speak, or would he simply hang up?

Then: “All right, but what and who are you?”

Relief rushed through Mary. “I’m a serious ballroom dancer, like your wife was. My name’s Mary Arlington.”

Again a pause. “So why’re you calling, Mary?” His voice was calm but tight with wariness.

“To let you know I understand why you think dancing has some connection to the murder. And because I dance. I guess you could say I’m offering my sympathy and moral support. I don’t want anything in return.”

She could hear the thermostat click and the air-conditioner take on a throatier tone. Her fingers squeezing the receiver were starting to stiffen and ache; she loosened them one by one, flexing them.

“Okay, Mary, I appreciate that.” He still sounded dubious, not quite sure he should be talking to her. “However’d you find me?”

“I saw on the news you went to Seattle, so I phoned some of the hotels. Got lucky the second call. I agree with you about how maybe the same person killed your wife and Martha Roundner. I knew it the moment I saw-” She stopped herself; she didn’t want to go too far and have him think she was one of those crank callers, the kind played by wild-eyed actresses in movies and on TV slasher films.

“Saw what?”

“Well, I can’t deny that your wife, Martha Roundner, and I, we’re all more or less the same type. I mean, same shape face, same color hair, probably the same complexion, though that’s hard to tell on TV or in photographs. There’s a real similarity in our features, too, the sorta general look we have. Everybody who’s seen the photos remarks on it.”

“I see.” She could hear him breathing. “You think you’re in some kind of danger, Mary?” He still sounded puzzled.

“Oh, no! What I mean is, because of the similarity, and the dancing, I suppose I feel personally involved in some way with what happened.” Hearing herself say it, she wondered again if it made sense. “Listen, if you think that’s crazy, I don’t blame you.”

“No, no, not crazy. Crazy’s what’s been happening to me lately.”

Mary pressed the receiver harder to her ear. “Have you found out anything yet? In Seattle, I mean?”