John Lutz - Dancing with the Dead

“I’d like to work some more on my promenade turns,” Mary said, in the silence at the beginning of the tape.

“Anything you want, Mary.”

He came back and drew her into dance position, and when the music started they began to tango. She was pleased to learn that the head motion and smoothness she’d achieved practicing by herself in her apartment were still in her dance. Her responses to Mel’s lead were automatic.

“Beeeeautiful!” Mel said, taking her through a pivot.

She thought so, too.

When the lesson was over, Mary sat on the vinyl bench to change back into her street shoes.

A warm draft whirled around her ankles as Helen shoved through the door carrying her dance shoes.

“Hi, Mary Mary,” she said. “Like these?”

She held out the new shoes for Mary to look at more closely. They were Latin, open-toed models with straps and inch-and-a-half high heels. Made of silky silver material etched with thin dark lines of no discernible pattern, like delicately veined marble.

“They’re called ‘Cracked Ice’ in the catalogue,” Helen said, sitting down and slipping off her black leather pumps. “Aren’t they just great!”

“Terrific,” Mary said, and meant it. If her dress were the right color, she wouldn’t mind wearing shoes like them in the Ohio competition.

“I read he had sex with her after she was dead,” Helen said.

“Wha-?”

“The guy that killed the dancer down in New Orleans. He was a whatchamacallit.”

“Necrophiliac.”

“That’s it.” Helen worked her feet into her new shoes and doubled over to buckle the straps; her voice was momentarily muffled. “Double-yuk! Imagine some sicko wanting to get it on with a corpse.” She sat up straight and breathed out huffily. “Had to be the husband.”

Mary was surprised. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, the husband’s always the prime suspect anyway, because usually he turns out to be the murderer. And I heard of it before, husbands wanting to screw dead wives. It’s some kinda total male domination thing.”

“That’s insane.”

“Hey, don’t get so upset. It’s the weirdo husbands that’re insane.”

“You must still be bitter about your divorce.”

“Better believe it, Mary Mary.”

“I mean, you talk like necrophilia’s a common domestic problem, like not putting down the toilet seat.”

“No, no, it’s rare, I admit. Just like somebody killing his wife. And when there’s sex after death, odds are it’s the husband. I mean, if he was wacky enough to kill her in the first place, why’s it so hard to believe he carried things farther?”

“He didn’t kill her in the first place.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“The woman in Seattle. She was probably killed by the same man.”

“Not necessarily. I read where that one was laid after she was dead, too, though.” Helen clucked her tongue. “And you said it wasn’t common.”

“If Rene Verlane killed his wife, how come he traveled to Seattle to try to find her killer?”

“How do you know he did that?”

“I ta-I saw it on the news.”

Helen grinned slyly. “It’d be a peachy way to try to avert suspicion, wouldn’t it? Pretend the same man killed your wife and the woman in Seattle. Even go to Seattle and act like you’re trying to prove it.”

“You’re only speculating,” Mary said, “and pretty wildly at that.”

“Oh, I know. Fact is, except for the killing part, a guy like that might make the perfect husband if he was rich; I mean, you’d never have to fake another orgasm.”

“God, you’re something, Helen.”

“Maybe, but I don’t murder dancers.”

“And you don’t know who does, so you oughta be careful what conclusions you jump to.”

She looked at Mary curiously. “What the hell, I’m not on a jury, so no harm done.”

“But someday somebody just like you might be on Rene Verlane’s jury, and send him to the electric chair or whatever they use in Louisiana.”

“It’s possible, I guess,” Helen said, standing up and rocking back and forth in her new shoes. She waved to her instructor, Nick, who’d just emerged from Huggins’s office. “It’s possible, too, he’s guilty as original sin.”

“Hey!” Nick said. “Tango time!”

Mary watched Helen, head bowed and studying her feet in their new silver shoes, follow him out onto the dance floor.

Cracked Ice, Mary thought. Cracked Helen.

She wanted to call him but knew she shouldn’t. At this point there was nothing more for her to say to Rene Verlane. Mary thought that for once she’d handled the situation perfectly; the phone conversation had gone better than she’d thought possible. To try extending their tenuous relationship now, on her initiative, would be like adding too much of an ingredient to a successful recipe. Rene had her number, and if he wanted to talk to her, he’d call.

Mary considered, then denied, that she might simply be afraid to call. He might not want to talk to her next time. The balance of credibility might tilt and he’d regard her as a thrill-seeking crackpot using the phone for long-distance kicks. She wasn’t that at all, and she didn’t want him to see her that way. It was his turn to call; she’d asked him to dance, and now he should lead.

She did call Angie, who said she was feeling better and not drinking and needed to be alone that night. It wasn’t that you didn’t love your kids when they grew up, she told Mary, but you needed time by yourself.

“With Fred, you mean?” Mary asked.

“No, not with Fred. Not tonight. You okay, Mary? You’re the one that doesn’t sound quite with the program tonight. Jake there with you?”

“He’s at work.”

“Good.”

Mary wound up assuring Angie that she was just fine, then hung up. She didn’t mind being alone herself.

There was no mention of either murder on the ten o’clock news. Mary swallowed the last of her chilled white wine and carried the glass into the kitchen. Was Angie right now drinking something stronger than wine? Wine wasn’t like gin or scotch or bourbon; wine was a connoisseur’s drink and could be controlled. Still, Mary didn’t like the thought of Angie trying to exercise that control, so she made it a point never to drink wine in her presence.

She rinsed out the glass, dried it, and admired the rainbowed world of light in it before replacing it stem up in the cabinet. She’d hoped the wine would make her sleepy, but it hadn’t. Some source of energy seemed to have infected her blood like a virus.

She walked into the bedroom and got undressed. There was always the possibility Jake might come home early, so she decided against practicing nude. She put on her nightgown and Latin shoes, then went into the spare bedroom to dance.

Though she felt a stiffness in her knees and hips at first, within a few minutes her body was inundated with the rhythm of the taped music, and the steps, the moves, began to flow. She did rumba for a while, concentrating on making her Cuban motion smooth and precise, holding the slow count and shifting weight completely. Then she worked on the smooth dances, fox-trot, waltz, and tango.

In the middle of a series of pivots, she caught slight movement from the corner of her eye and dug in the ball of her foot to stop.

Jake was leaning hipshot against the doorjamb with his arms crossed, grinning at her, like a street-corner lounger eyeing passing skirts.

She caught her breath. Swallowed. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’d have worked overtime,” he said, “only the fucking boss got my job classification mixed up. Everything about that place is exactly what’s wrong with American industry.”