2 Dancing With Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

Bill took a moment to study the loving cup in all its gaudy glory before shaking his head. “I don’t think the fact that it’s hideous would stop many thieves, but you’re right about the winners.”
         “Right about what?” Wes asked, coming up to them with Clarise and a small woman in her late sixties. “Wow!” he exclaimed, catching sight of the cup. “That’s an expensive piece of ugliness.”
         “Wesley Bundy!” Clarise scolded, smacking him on the shoulder. “It isn’t trash. That’s a piece of ballroom dancing history! You apologize to Miss Knolhart right now!”
         The older woman who’d accompanied them laughed. “That’s alright,” she said. “He’s right, it is ugly.”
         “But Miss Knolhart,” Clarise exclaimed, aghast at the woman’s nonchalance. Miss Knolhart held up her hand.
         “Oh, I know. It has a legacy older than our lives combined. And as such,” she eyed Wes sharply, “it’s worthy of respect. But,” she said, a smile creasing the corners of her eyes, “My dear Miss Birdsong, that doesn’t change the fact that it’s hideous.”
         I love this woman, Betty thought. Really and truly. I’d like to be her in forty years. Though, she added as an afterthought after examining her more closely, perhaps with a little less plastic surgery.
         Miss Knolhart was dressed in a beautiful, navy and silver floor-length evening gown that glittered with sequins at every tiny movement. Her steel grey hair was swept up in a bun. She had the carriage of a dancer, with slim shoulders, ramrod posture, clearly defined wrists and collarbones and a lightness on her feet that women half her age would envy. She also had the face of a Hollywood actress who’d refused to age gracefully. Her cheekbones and eyes were just a touch too high and drawn tight, her lips were too plump and her face had that plastic look that seemed to indicate she’d melt in the sun. What must have once been striking natural beauty had been distorted and destroyed. Miss Knolhart had the body of a dancer, and the face of a poorly molded, aging mannequin.
         “Miss Knolhart,” Clarise said, “I’d like you to meet my friends, Betty Crawford and Bill Owens. Miss Knolhart is a celebrity judge,” she told them. “She was one of the best ballroom dancers of the twentieth century.” Miss Knolhart’s smile froze in place, the mirth leaving her eyes. Clarise continued on, oblivious. “Watching her routines when I was little was what first got me interested in dancing!”
         Miss Knolhart clapped her hands together, her smile firmly in place. “Yes,” she said, “Well, that’s all in the past now, isn’t it?” She turned to Clarise. “As lovely as it was to meet you in person my dear, I’m afraid I must be off. Places to go, dancers to judge!” with a last airy wave, and without even waiting for Clarise to acknowledge her exit, she wove her way through the crowd towards the other end of the ballroom, waving at a man on the sidelines.
         “Don’t fall for it,” a woman said, coming up to stand beside them. She looked to be about the same age as Miss Knolhart, although her face contained no ravishes of cosmetic surgery. Her curly hair, swept back into a bun now, was still streaked with traces of red, and her dancer’s training was obvious as she seemed to float in her high heels and pale green chiffon and silk dress. Her accent sounded Irish, and she had a smattering of freckles across her still toned arms.
         The woman jerked her head towards Miss Knolhart, who was now on the arm of the gentleman she’d gone to meet and talking into his ear. “See that man? That’s her latest catch.” The word catch was spat out like something poisonous. “Earnest Foone. He’s a television producer. She got into his pants to get him to push a television show based on her life. I hear it’s working too. That woman,” the dancer continued, “is a