Dead Man Dancing Read Online Free PDF Page A

speculate.’
    The J & K building itself, flat-roofed and constructed of cinder blocks painted a creamy yellow, was as far removed from the modern brick, glass and steel facades of the towering condos two blocks away as a building could possibly be. In a former life, it had probably been a dark and dreary warehouse, but in converting it to a dance studio, the contractors had opened the building up to the light by replacing the cinder blocks along one wall with a row of picture windows. Through the windows, illuminated by bright overhead track lighting, I could see polished wooden floors. Mirrors covered the opposite wall, reflecting our cloaked, gloved and hooded images as we peered in.
    Paul turned toward the entrance, but I tugged on his sleeve. ‘Look, Paul.’
    Inside the studio, two couples were circling the ballroom, dancing to music we couldn’t hear. From the hopping, bobbing and quick little running steps they were doing, I guessed it must be the quickstep. One tall, impossibly slim couple was dressed almost identically in black stretch pants and white, sleeveless, high-necked tank tops. The second male dancer wore a green polo shirt with white and yellow horizontal stripes, tucked into a pair of slim black jeans. Only someone as trim as he could have gotten away with horizontal stripes, I thought. His partner was a woman I guessed to be in her early thirties looking incredibly sexy in a red leotard. A comb headband held her chestnut hair away from her forehead, and her shoulder-length curls bounced like springs as her partner led her in a series of slow-quick-quick-slow-slow steps across the dance floor. Then, after an appraising glance at the other couple, they switched seamlessly to a quick-and-quick-and-quick-quick-slow pattern that was so rapid and intricate, I marveled that their legs didn’t get impossibly tangled, causing them to trip and fall down in a heap.
    I squeezed Paul’s arm. ‘I want to learn that. Doesn’t it look like fun?’
    â€˜Looks suspiciously aerobic to me,’ Paul complained cheerfully.
    â€˜Aerobic, yes, but without the boring bits.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t it be easier to run a couple of 800-meter dashes?’
    I was about to clobber him with my handbag, when Ruth and Hutch arrived and joined us at the window.
    â€˜I can’t believe how much this area has changed, Hannah. Guess I’ve been spending too much time in my shop.’ Ruth pointed to the Rapture Church across the street. ‘The last time I went into that building, I was wearing red and white shoes a half size too big, and I bowled a 120.’
    With chain-store encroachment, rising rents, and the recession (whatever the economist Alan Greenspan might have had to say to the contrary), Ruth had been through a couple of tough years with Mother Earth, the New Age shop she owned on Main Street in downtown Annapolis. But with a renewed emphasis on stocking natural, eco-friendly products, she was turning a tidy profit these days, enough to hire a full-time assistant so she didn’t have to shanghai relatives like me to store-sit on a regular basis.
    I did my part, though. My elderly LeBaron boasted one of her ‘Compost Happens’ bumper stickers, and my kitchen shelves were stocked with spice jars made out of re-blown beer bottles, and bags of fair trade coffee and tea. I’d bought a hemp notebook, and a picture frame made of recycled newspapers from her shop, but I drew the line at alternative menstrual products like washable GladRags (Glad? Get real.)
    As the four of us rounded the corner of the building, Daddy was waiting for us, holding open one of the glass double doors. Neelie waited inside, and we tumbled in after her, appreciating the welcoming blast of warm air. We huddled to the right of the doors waiting politely for the dancers to finish, enjoying both the warmth of the ballroom, and the impromptu exhibition. Now we were inside, I could hear the music: