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Tutu Deadly
Chapter One
Despite what my mother might tell you, my greatest fear in life is not dying alone with only 400 cats for company. My biggest fear in life is staring me right in the face-and she's colossal. She's the mother of all Dance Moms, and she's steaming mad. Any minute now, she's going to do one of those sumo wrestler moves and land on top of me, and then it will all be over. I'll slowly suffocate, my dance studio will go bankrupt, and Mom will be left mourning over my grave with nothing to remember me by except a few dead plants, dust bunnies under my bed, and some stuffed animals. This is my worst nightmare. I really need to get a life.
As every dance teacher knows, the worst part of trying to instruct children is not the kids themselves, but their parents. Sure, an occasional kid threw up on you, or peed and pooped in the middle of class, but that was nothing compared to dealing with an irate mother who didn't think her little darling was getting enough attention or the starring role she deserved.
I didn't particularly like chubby little Ella Anderson, who was just six years old, and I cared even less for her mother, Emma, whose picture was probably in the dictionary under "stage mother." I just hadn't looked yet.
Emma Anderson believed that her daughter was the next big thing in the world of dance, and was determined to convince me of the same. I was afraid if I didn't kowtow to her demands to keep Ella on the front row fifty-the prime spot for dancers to be placed--Momma Anderson was going to end my life. I'm sure plenty of people have been killed for lesser things. Among the dance moms, there is nothing more primo than seeing your daughter in the front row right in the middle-the front row fifty. And of course once a dancer earned that coveted spot, their moms would do just about anything to keep them there. It was scary. Kind of like Emma Anderson.
Today's argument-we had one nearly every week--was over whether or not Ella deserved the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy in the Jenny T. Partridge Dance Academy's annual production of the Nutcracker.
I'm Jenny T. Partridge-no jokes please-and no, I do not have a pear tree.
Christmastime-which was just around the corner--usually brought out the worst in the name punsters-mostly male--who took great joy in asking to see my plumage. I rarely replied to that. Guys don't listen to what you say, anyway. They are too busy staring at your chest, or moving around their equipment in front of God and the whole country. At least that's what my last boyfriend did. I broke up with him when I realized he couldn't pick my face out of a crowd, but could describe my chest in great detail.
At any rate, my production of The Nutcracker was not your typical classic. We did a jazzy version with loud music-you know, that thrashy pop and hip hop mix--and elegant, flashy costumes that was well-known for hundreds of miles around Ogden, Utah, which is where my studio is located. It was the one thing I did that allowed me to scrimp by the rest of the year. Entire families made attending our production an annual event.
But back to Ella, who at six has no talent, and even less desire to learn to dance. She spent most of the class burying her finger up her nose, and the rest of it whining and crying, and there was very little dancing going on in her neck of the forest--probably a good thing, actually, considering she has two right feet.
"See, Mrs. Anderson, the Sugar Plum Fairy is a hard role, and it usually goes to one of the older girls, those who have danced for years. Those who can stand on releve, and dance en pointe."
"But fairies are little," the woman protested, as she pushed in closer to me, giving me a whiff of her odiferous perfume. She had absolutely no sense of personal space. I got claustrophobic just hearing her name. I was right, I thought. My nightmares were coming true. She was going to sit on me until I gave her daughter the role. While Emma Anderson was only of average weight, she was very tall-at least six feet--and broad-shouldered, and she towered over me. "Ella is just right for the fairy. She is the fairy. She can releve. Show her your releve, Ella."
She pointed her left arm back at her daughter without turning away from me. Mrs. Anderson's little sugar plum fairy was about twenty pounds heavier than she should have been at her age, and "little" was a relative term. She might be little to her Amazonian momma, but she was two to three sizes larger than my other Minis. I knew one day she would grow into that weight, but right now…..She stared blankly at her mother's face for a moment than brightened. "You mean ice cream?" she asked, obviously relating the term "relevé" to Chocolate Peanut Butter Revel. I understood. That was good ice cream.
James Marriott, who taught my Seniors and Petites, and who was the world's biggest yellow-bellied coward, had taken off with a crazed look in his eye the minute Mrs. Anderson stepped foot in the door, so I was on my own. That was his usual reaction. I could hear the loud music from the other room, which meant that James was pretending to be busy, choreographing a routine or designing a new move. Since the Seniors weren't due at the studio for at least another hour, I was on to his pretense. He'd get his later.
Marlys Fulton, whose daughter, Carly, danced on my Petites, and whose other daughter Maribel danced on my Tots, and who worked in trade for her daughters' dance lessons, had just left to make some copies of the dance calendar. She usually ran interference for me with the pushy dance moms, but she couldn't be with me 24-7.
"Look," I said, moving backward away from Mrs. Anderson, who only pressed in closer, "my Minis usually play the role of the buffoons, and that's just how I've always done it." I found I was stuck-I'd hit the barré which was attached to the mirror on the wall. There was no escape.
"A buffoon? You want my daughter to be a buffoon?" Her voice nearly cracked with strain and outrage, and I groaned as she moved even closer. She waved her arms and got so close I could see the pores on her face. "Listen, here, Jenny T. Partridge, I know talent when I see talent and Ella has talent. I wouldn't even bother to come in here if I didn't know she was right for the part. You have to put her in that role."
At that point I got a little lightheaded. There was a very big unstated "and if you don't I'll make your pay" in her proclamation. It was going to make the newspapers, I just knew it.
Local Dance Teacher Suffocated by Stage Mother.
Ogden, Utah-Local dance teacher Jenny Partridge was flattened today by the mother of one of her students, after an altercation over a sugar plum fairy. Police said they had to peel Partridge off the mirror of her dance studio after she was cornered by Mrs. Emma Anderson, mother of fairy-wannabe Ella Anderson. "She called my daughter a buffoon!" said an indignant Mrs. Anderson. "Nobody calls my daughter a buffoon!"
Luckily for me, Ella picked that very moment to pee her pants, staring down as her pink leotard and tights darkened, a pool of urine puddling under her feet. She seemed fascinated by her bodily functions. This amazed me, as I figured by the time you were six you pretty much had that stuff figured out. Despite the fact I didn't like Ella a whole lot, I was very grateful for her interruption.
"Oh, Ella! You made a naughty on the floor! Oh no!"
Mrs. Anderson ran over and hustled her daughter out of the room, her face flushed red, while the other mothers who watched giggled and whispered behind their hands. She turned in my direction before she exited out of the door, and said, "I'm warning you Jenny. You don't want to mess with me, or you'll be sorry."
Yeah, I was already sorry. Sorry I didn't study tennis or piano when I was younger. The other moms were still whispering and laughing. Mrs. Anderson was not particularly well-liked by the other dance moms. The little girls also giggled and moved away from the puddle that was beginning to spread and seep toward them. My studio was old, and there was a certain slant in the floor that was usually unnoticeable-unless something liquid was placed on it. As it picked up speed they began to scatter and run and squeal, most of them heading to their mothers-who sat in chairs and on the floor on the other side of the room. I understood. Someone else's urine usually made me want to run and squeal, too. Unfortunately, Mrs. Anderson had left the building, and I was left with the mess-the story of my professional life. All the moms sitting there watching me without offering to help knew they weren't supposed to be inside the studio, where the girls were dancing. The sign on my door clearly said "No parents allowed." Yeah right. Over the eight years I had been in business I got a little lax. I got tired of fighting. I just let one in, then another, until they just kind of took over. How was I supposed to enforce this rule now? I'm nothing but a dance teacher. I'd need a bodyguard to keep these women out.
"What's up?" my assistant dance teacher Amber asked, as she sauntered into the room-ten minutes late, as usual. Amber's long blonde hair was casually tied back in a ponytail and she wore no makeup. She didn't need it. She had large blue eyes, dark eyelashes that never had to endure the horror of an eyelash curler, and plump full lips. She also had a strong, lithe body with a large chest and a tiny waist. Those breasts had been the only thing keeping her from a real career as a ballerina, and she wasn't willing to give them up for the craft, so she concentrated on Jazz dance, which is what she taught for me. "What's the puddle?"
I looked down at my own short legs, thick waist and slightly bulging middle-needed to lay off the ice cream and Cheetos-and sighed. It's a good thing I still danced, or I'd probably weigh 400 pounds. "Ewwww," I said aloud, and Amber gave me the same look she always does when my mental processes get ahead of my mouth.
"Ella peed her pants. Mrs. Anderson thinks Ella should be the Sugar Plum Fairy, and she's appalled I'd call her daughter a buffoon. And she almost suffocated me again," I explained.
Amber peered at my face closely. "You've got bags under your eyes. You dreaming about her sitting on you again?"
"Hey, it could happen."
"Man, Jenny, you seriously need a life. Or a boyfriend, or something."
With that pronouncement on my pathetic existence--all of which I was perfectly aware of without any need of her pointing it out--she clapped her hands and called the girls to attention but no one listened, as they were fixated on the puddle.
I got a rag and cleaned up Ella's urine, because it was hard to teach little girls to dance when they were all huddled on one side of the small studio trying to avoid the river of pee headed swiftly in their direction.
That was where I was--on the floor, sopping up little girl pee--when I saw the shoes advance on me. Black, polished, dress shoes-man shoes. "No street shoes in here!" I shouted. "Out! Get out!"
The shoes didn't move. I followed them up to see a nice pair of dress pants, well pressed, a leather belt, a dress shirt and jacket, broad, athletic shoulders and on top of the entire package, an impossibly handsome face, saved from pretty-boy status only by a one-inch scar over the left eye. Dark hair. Cobalt blue eyes. I almost melted on the spot, except then I would have been puddled next to Ella's pee, and that was something I did not want to experience.
After exchanging with me what I wanted to believe were looks of instant and mutual attraction, Blue Eyes took himself over to the door where he slipped off his shoes and then padded back over to me. "Jenny Partridge?" Even his socks were elegant-no holes--and I thought of the pair I was wearing under my dance shoes. They were mostly one big hole. There wasn't much sock left.
"That's me." I finished cleaning up the pee, and stood. "I'd offer my hand, but I don't think that would be a good idea." He wrinkled his nose as the smell of urine from the rag drifted over to him, and he waved a hand.
"Not necessary. I'm Detective Tate Wilson. I'm here about Sandra Epstein."
I groaned aloud. Sandra Epstein, the worst stage mother of them all. Worse than four Emma Andersons. I'd taught her daughter Taylee dance for three years now, and the girl was incredibly talented, but her mother was going to be the death of any career she might have.
Epstein was mentally unstable at best, downright loony tunes at worst, and last week we'd had our final blow up. After Taylee had shown up for class half an hour late, with only one shoe and a pair of tights that were missing an entire leg, I'd kicked her out and told her to come back when she was ready to be serious. Of course, I was really mad at her mother, because Taylee was just a kid. I think she clued in to that, because she just stared at me with those big, mournful eyes, and I immediately felt like a total creep.
"Do you need me to get you some new tights and shoes, Tay?" I'd asked her gently, dropping the harsh tone. I could hardly afford to buy anything--including food--on my income, but something about the little girl just spoke to me.
"No. Mom can do it," she'd answered quietly.
Her mother had stormed in shortly after that, calling me an imbecilic moron and a joke of a dance teacher, and I said a few things I'd rather not repeat. Hey, I'm a redhead. Everyone knows how fiery we are. I also mixed up a few clichés, which I always do, too, but it resulted in me telling her that I was going to stick her head where the moon doesn't shine and… well, it's best not to go there. I'm very ashamed of my behavior.
"What is she saying now? She filed charges against me? I didn't touch her. She's whacko. She grabbed me and wouldn't let go. Look, I still have a bruise." I thrust out my arm toward him.
"I did mention I'm with homicide, didn't I?" Detective Wilson asked.
"Homicide?" Horror slowly dawned over me. Someone had killed Sandra Epstein, or worse, her daughter? And they were questioning me? "I'm sorry, but who was killed?"
"Sandra Epstein," he explained patiently, talking slowly as though I were an imbecile. Right now, I felt like one.
"Was it an accident?" I asked, feeling faint, the blood rushing from my head.
"No," he patiently explained again. "I'm with homicide. Mrs. Epstein was poisoned. In the course of our investigation, we discovered that the two of you had a recent altercation, and so I need to talk to you, if you don't mind. It would be best if we went to the station."
"To the station?" I repeated, like a parrot. "Poisoned? But, but…"
Next thing I knew I was on the floor, and Amber was kneeling over me, fanning at my face with her hands. James knelt next to her, his big blue eyes trained on Detective Wilson, who stood above all three of us, staring down at me, and I tried to scramble to my feet. Big mistake.
"Oh, man, the room is spinning. Did I land in the pee?"
"No, you cleaned it up, remember? Take it slow. Should I call the paramedics?" Amber asked, helping me to my feet.
"No, no! No paramedics, I'll be fine." Dance teachers don't have insurance, at least not those of us barely scraping by, and I knew I had only fainted from shock. And probably lack of food. Tuition wasn't due for another five days, and all I had in my fridge was some old bologna I was saving for a dire emergency--such as the immediate threat of starvation--and two light beers.
I knew why Detective Wilson was here. I knew someone had told him what I'd yelled at Sandra Epstein right after she grabbed my arm and gave me an Indian burn, and just before she stomped out of my studio dragging Taylee behind her like a small, forlorn rag doll.
"You better watch out or someone is going to give you what you deserve!" I'd yelled.
And someone had, although I wasn't entirely sure she deserved to die. What I was entirely sure of was that someone hadn't been me, but the police weren't, and now I was probably their main suspect.
Detective Wilson might be passionate about me, all right. Passionate about seeing me in jail! This was not good. Jail clothes were orange, and everyone knew that orange was not a good color for a redhead. Especially a redhead who needed Mary Kay concealer to cover her freckles. I doubted there would be a Mary Kay distributor in jail, anyway-they mostly hung out in upper class neighborhoods wearing pink clothes and driving pink cars. Another color that wasn't good for me. Pink.
I wouldn't be caught dead in anything pink. Hmm, maybe not a good analogy.
Good Lord. This was bad.
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