The Turnout(81)

Everyone loves a pretty dancer, their mother used to say. But strong is better.



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*

They crowded into the lighting booth, away from the whir of the custodial staff working below. Through the window, you could see them clearing away all the dirty Band-Aids, the browning apple cores, the frills of torn elastic straps, errant toe pads and toe pouches like pale rose petals gathering, the stray ruffs of lamb’s wool like the aftermath of an animal fight, a beast and prey standoff.

“We told you all we know,” Dara said. “But go ahead if you must.”

Walters and Mendoza exchanged looks.

“Most people,” Walters said, a grin back in his voice, “are a little intimidated by the police.”

“Most people are guilty,” Dara said. “Of something, at least.”

Walters looked at her, that pen out again, the mangled cap. “Clean living for you, huh?”

“That’s the way our mother raised us.”



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*

Below, onstage, one last custodian swirled a giant tentacled mop like a sailor swabbing a deck. The puddled remnants of Bailey Bloom’s fluorescent vomit, like a gasoline rainbow, disappearing. The creamy brown of the stage turned dark, luminous.

The two detectives were asking her the same things as before, the contractor’s schedule, his comings and goings, and was it typical for him to be there at such an early hour and alone, and why might he have ended up in the back office, the staircase. Wasn’t that all a bit strange?

“Maybe,” Dara said. “I didn’t know him.”

Mendoza threw Walters a look, but Walters didn’t blink, his eyes on Dara.

“I just don’t see the point in all this,” Dara said. “The insurance investigator already came by.”

“We know.”

“She seemed satisfied.”

“The bulldog,” Walters said to Mendoza, with a wink.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. We love Randi.”



* * *



*

Dara began doing eight-counts in her head—six, seven, eight—her tongue tapping on her palate like a metronome. Counting off imaginary piqué turns. Keeping her cool. They didn’t know anything. They couldn’t.

“And you said the third floor—what did you say you used that for?”

“Storage,” Dara said.

“And this . . . accident with the contractor,” Walters said, a definite pause in the middle. Cinq, six, sept, huit—“that’s the third recent incident on the site. Is that correct?”

Dara stopped her silent count. “I’m sorry?”

“Let’s see. You had a flood on October thirtieth?”

They hadn’t asked about that before. Why would they ask about that? Dix, onze, douze.

“Well, yes,” Dara said. “That was related to the renovation. They hit a pipe. How did you—”

“And the contractor—he was injured, correct?”

“No,” Dara said. “I mean, I guess. Some minor burns. He was fine.”

Walters looked at her a moment, then looked back down at his notepad.

“And then a fire on September fifteenth?”

The fire. Dara tried not to look at them. Tried to concentrate only on the steadiness of the voice.

“The fire, yes, but that was before the construction. That’s why we hired him. To repair the damage.”

“Right,” Walters said, nodding, an opaque expression on his face. Mendoza’s eyes wandered to the stage below.

Dara looked too. Other than the lone custodian, his trailing bucket, the stringy spill of his mop, all was still below, the black maw of the theater.

There was a pressure at her temple, the detective’s talc tickling her nose.

Dara looked at her watch. “Excuse me,” she said abruptly, “but what does this have to do with what happened?”

Walters looked up from his notebook. Even more interested now.

“Maybe nothing,” he said. “Space heater, right?”

Dara could feel her spine tighten, like a crank turning. Cinq, six, sept . . .

“Yes.”

“Call came in . . . your sister called it in to nine-one-one. Four a.m.?”

“I don’t know. I—”

“What was she doing there at that hour?”

Dara took a breath. “Marie goes in early, stays late. We don’t punch a clock.”

“Report says she’d been sleeping there that night,” Walters said, flipping his notebook shut.

Dara paused. Mendoza turned and looked at her.

“She’d camp out in her studio once in a while,” Dara said, “if it was late. But not recently. With the construction, there’s always dust, noise.”

“How about on the third floor?” Mendoza said abruptly. It was the first time he’d spoken since they’d begun. Walters looked as surprised as Dara. “She ever camp out up there?”

Dara paused again, thinking. Remembering squinty-eyed Pepper Weston, her impudent mouth: Is it true that Mademoiselle Durant sleeps in the attic now?

“That was our mother’s space,” Dara said carefully. It wasn’t an answer but sounded like one. “It was just for her.”