Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(46)
Ash, I noted: his initials. The door opened, and behind it, Anthony Selwyn Harrison, I assumed, in black trousers and a black T-shirt, standing behind a cluttered desk, reading his cell phone screen and tentatively sipping pungently-hazelnut-flavored coffee from a carryout cup. Attractive, I couldn’t help thinking as he ignored me. Cheekbones high, dark hair dramatically long. T-shirt possibly a bit too tight. But then, he was a dancer.
The frayed hem of his trousers told me he’d come upon hard times. The struggling black of his T-shirt bespoke many washings. But he still purchased barista coffee, and his cell phone had the distinctive shape of the expensive new ones.
“I see you just got here,” I said, before I could stop myself. “Happy to wait, if you want.”
“And you are?” He looked me up and down. From my newly flat-ironed hair to my black cocktail dress (purchased, with much optimism, two New Years Eves ago, but never worn until today) to the kitten heels.
“Irene Irvine,” I said, hoping he wasn’t conversant in geology.
He shifted his attention to Della, then looked at me again. “Experience?”
“Experience? Sure. Lots. Did Ms.—Della—show you my website?”
“How long have you been dancing?” He went on, half his attention remaining on his cell screen, which piqued my interest. Certainly it was possible that whatever upset Ms. Moran had its center in this dance establishment, where Arthur Daley had met and wooed the young woman—that was my intuition at least. But intuition is the pitfall of investigation. Only facts are my allies.
“How long? Ever since I can remember.” Undercover is most successful when you stay near the truth.
“We’re down two teachers, and under the gun. Can you start tonight?” Harrison tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. “Hey. How’d you know I just got here?”
I’d hoped he’d forgotten about that. Now I needed to downplay.
“Your coffee.” I pointed to the cup he’d set on his paper-strewn desk. “It’s still steaming. So, you know.” I gestured toward outside, though his office had no window. “Maybe you’d just come from the Starbucks down the block. No biggie.”
“Ah,” he said. A text pinged onto his phone, and he glanced at it. Clicked it away. “Quite the little observer.”
I’m almost six feet tall. Not that little, I refrained from saying.
“How about this,” he said. “You take the classes tonight. Fox-trot, Lindy, waltz. Del, you’ll make it happen? We’ll see how it goes. You like us, we like you, we’ll negotiate.”
Smiley-face! I thought. “I’m in,” I said.
I was in the midst of “Stardust,” explaining the intricacies of the double-step grapevine crossover to my new partner, when my phone buzzed. Cocktail dresses being what they are, I’d kept my cell in a trim little handbag of leather and silver, worn crossbody over my chest. It had quickly become apparent that this bag was not only valuable to keep the phone near at hand but also to impede my bear of a partner from his persistent attempts to press his tweedy body against mine.
When I first took ballroom lessons, in mandatory white gloves and with Mrs. Gregson’s vintage record player scratching out Sinatra, we pre-teens were required to keep half an arm’s distance between us. As with everything else, things changed, and now this Mr. Donovan Brett seemed to think the tuition he’d paid to Anthony Selwyn Harrison Dance Studio gave him permission to paw the instructors.
My phone buzzed again. I knew it was Watson checking in, but I couldn’t respond, not now. Not in this guise as a job-seeker. I smiled, executing a clockwise under-hand spin to distract my partner from my vibrating chest. Arthur Daley was scheduled to teach the seven P.M. class, which he’d told us was one of Ms. Moran’s scheduled lessons. So far, the elusive fiancée was nowhere to be seen.
As the class continued, six of us circled the floor, our big band music emanating from what appeared to be a Mrs. Gregson-era record player. Anthony Selwyn Harrison himself, changed from phone-obsessed businessman to suave danseur in dinner jacket and shiny shoes, was transforming a sixty-something dance student into a Ginger Rogers, her face beaming as he twirled her in a controlled pirouette.
Was Ginger a suspect? Her manicure indicated care about her appearance, her chic haircut and fashionable dress the wherewithal to afford personal luxury. No wedding ring. Newly divorced? Newly searching? Or maybe a happy and satisfied soul, allowing herself the time to dance. Did she send emails with emoticons?
I guided my partner into the three-point turn, forward forward side-close, positioning myself to get a better look at the other two dancers.
A young couple, he in blue jeans and she in an unflatteringly short skirt, giggled and tripped over each other’s feet. One of his hands rested intimately on her curved rear, and she’d flattened herself against his chest in a most un-ballroom-appropriate way. A tiny diamond solitaire attempted to twinkle on her third finger, left hand. Engaged couple practicing for their wedding, it appeared. Emoticon suspects? Possible.
“Forward forward, side close,” I said it out loud this time, in my best encouraging voice. Was Mr. Brett—who began telling me within five minutes of our meeting that he’d be delighted to show me the new arrivals on his dealership floor, and that I could drive away happy for nothing down and a mere three hundred dollars a month—the one sending pictograms to Penelope Moran?