soldiers poured out, carrying their weapons low and running in a cautious crouch. The stone-throwing youths scattered, and the tape ended. Mary sipped her coffee while another tape showed a drug bust in Washington, screaming cops battering down the front door of a shoddy house and shoving the startled occupants up against a wall and frisking them. Was it a real world out there? she wondered. Had all this actually happened? Somehow she couldn’t relate to any of it, any more than she could grasp the true meaning of the federal deficit or the trade imbalance. Did any of it really mean anything, or was it all floating around in her life in the abstract, like astrology or Einstein’s mathematical theories, so that it touched her only indirectly, if at all?
She sat forward suddenly, sloshing hot coffee over her thumb.
Danielle Verlane’s photograph was on the TV screen, the one that had been in the newspaper. Mary’s interest quickened. Maybe, she thought, she was fascinated by the murder because of the victim’s connection with Mel. The same Mel Mary danced with, the Mel who held her close as he must have held Danielle Verlane. Mel and ballroom dancing were two things Mary and the dead woman had in common, and Mary couldn’t put that out of her mind. The anchorman was talking about the murder in New Orleans. The victim had been mutilated with a knife. Police said there were no leads in the case, but the investigation was continuing.
The scene shifted to a sprawling, cream-colored stucco house with a red tile roof, red awnings, and decorative black wrought-iron railings. A shiny gray convertible was parked in the driveway. After the exterior shot of the large house with its lush green shrubbery and lawn, the camera moved inside, where a TV journalist was interviewing the victim’s husband.
The camera showed only the back of the interviewer’s blow-dried hair. The husband, Rene Verlane, was seated on a gray and white striped sofa. Behind him was an arched window with flowing white sheer curtains.
He was a slender, crudely handsome man about forty, wearing a well-tailored pale suit. His black hair looked wet and was slicked back. His eyes were a very light blue that matched his shirt, and he had thin lips and a deep cleft in his chin. He seemed angry yet composed.
“What I object to,” he was saying with a hint-of-molasses Southern accent, “is the way the authorities are implying my wife was doing something immoral simply because she was seen dancing with several men the night she was murdered.”
“Do you care to name anyone specifically who’s implying that?” the interviewer asked hopefully.
“I won’t name names at this point,” Verlane said, “but what people don’t understand is that Danielle was an avid ballroom dancer. She competed and won trophies. Dancing was very, very important to her. A sport. An art. Not simply a social skill. Or a . . .”
“Means to meet men?” the interviewer helpfully suggested.
“That’s what the police seem to be implying,” Verlane said, his accent suddenly thicker. A quick, bright anger came and went in his pale eyes. Something about him; he was watchable as a film star.
“So Danielle danced to keep her skills honed,” the interviewer said, backing off a bit.
“Exactly. That’s not uncommon in the world of people who take ballroom dancing seriously. There are competitions held all over the country, and many of the same dancers attend them, thousands of people. It’s a subculture that isn’t widely understood, or even known about, but my wife was part of it, and that’s important. To imply that since she danced often and with different partners meant she was somehow less than a perfect wife is misguided, judgmental, and a hindrance to the investigation into her death. It’s the world of ballroom dancing the police oughta be delving into, not snooping around as if my wife were somehow unfaithful—which she definitely wasn’t.”
A frontal shot of the
She sat forward suddenly, sloshing hot coffee over her thumb.
Danielle Verlane’s photograph was on the TV screen, the one that had been in the newspaper. Mary’s interest quickened. Maybe, she thought, she was fascinated by the murder because of the victim’s connection with Mel. The same Mel Mary danced with, the Mel who held her close as he must have held Danielle Verlane. Mel and ballroom dancing were two things Mary and the dead woman had in common, and Mary couldn’t put that out of her mind. The anchorman was talking about the murder in New Orleans. The victim had been mutilated with a knife. Police said there were no leads in the case, but the investigation was continuing.
The scene shifted to a sprawling, cream-colored stucco house with a red tile roof, red awnings, and decorative black wrought-iron railings. A shiny gray convertible was parked in the driveway. After the exterior shot of the large house with its lush green shrubbery and lawn, the camera moved inside, where a TV journalist was interviewing the victim’s husband.
The camera showed only the back of the interviewer’s blow-dried hair. The husband, Rene Verlane, was seated on a gray and white striped sofa. Behind him was an arched window with flowing white sheer curtains.
He was a slender, crudely handsome man about forty, wearing a well-tailored pale suit. His black hair looked wet and was slicked back. His eyes were a very light blue that matched his shirt, and he had thin lips and a deep cleft in his chin. He seemed angry yet composed.
“What I object to,” he was saying with a hint-of-molasses Southern accent, “is the way the authorities are implying my wife was doing something immoral simply because she was seen dancing with several men the night she was murdered.”
“Do you care to name anyone specifically who’s implying that?” the interviewer asked hopefully.
“I won’t name names at this point,” Verlane said, “but what people don’t understand is that Danielle was an avid ballroom dancer. She competed and won trophies. Dancing was very, very important to her. A sport. An art. Not simply a social skill. Or a . . .”
“Means to meet men?” the interviewer helpfully suggested.
“That’s what the police seem to be implying,” Verlane said, his accent suddenly thicker. A quick, bright anger came and went in his pale eyes. Something about him; he was watchable as a film star.
“So Danielle danced to keep her skills honed,” the interviewer said, backing off a bit.
“Exactly. That’s not uncommon in the world of people who take ballroom dancing seriously. There are competitions held all over the country, and many of the same dancers attend them, thousands of people. It’s a subculture that isn’t widely understood, or even known about, but my wife was part of it, and that’s important. To imply that since she danced often and with different partners meant she was somehow less than a perfect wife is misguided, judgmental, and a hindrance to the investigation into her death. It’s the world of ballroom dancing the police oughta be delving into, not snooping around as if my wife were somehow unfaithful—which she definitely wasn’t.”
A frontal shot of the
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