Dances With Ghosts - Erin McCarthy Page 0,12

grain silo as I drove down the highway headed south, trying to focus on whatever the heck the GPS was telling me. “Take a slight right turn” always throws me. Is that a turn or just a curve in the road, in which case, why is it being mentioned? If it’s a genuine true turn, then just say turn right. It’s all very confusing to me.

At least I had a potential job. As mentioned, the business had not been booming. I wasn’t sure what had happened after the holidays but things had been slow. As in creaky, crawling slow. Anemic turtle slow. There was no real downturn in the housing market to attribute for the lack of business, so I was starting to feel a little panicky. Did that mean somehow I had a lousy reputation?

It wasn’t exactly a secret that I had been kidnapped by a serial killer. Did that make homeowners nervous? Come on. What was the likelihood of that happening twice? Besides, it would never happen in a homeowner’s house. Killers weren’t that stupid. Generally speaking.

This was an appointment to give a proposal to a new housing development to stage their three model homes. Easy money. Everyone out in the far-reaching suburbs wanted the Joanna Gaines farmhouse look now, so lots of white and black with cute signs that gave inspirational messages. I could do that all day long.

My personal style was more modern French country, which is totally different from modern farmhouse, I swear. Jake said it just meant I added green. Speaking of green, I wanted to repaint my kitchen. The powder room downstairs was now a peacock blue and I wanted to wallpaper that in a buffalo check print and then darken the kitchen from citrine to emerald.

Lost in my musings of redecorating (because hey, I had time if not money at the moment), I didn’t realize the DJ on the radio was talking about Carmen.

It wasn’t until I heard “Tippy-Toe” that I paused to listen to what was being said.

Nearly spilling my coffee as I returned it to my cup holder, I turned the radio up.

“Local dance instructor and renowned ballroom dancer, Carmen Fox, was found murdered in her studio last night, along with her new partner, Jason Walker. Details on the double homicide are not being released at this time, but reports indicate both were bludgeoned repeatedly. Ms. Fox is not only known for her long-time commitment to the development of the ballroom community in Cleveland, she was also the girlfriend of Don Shantelle, local sportscaster and legend.”

So her boyfriend was a legend? A legend of what?

Also, how irritating to have your boyfriend be a legend in your murder story.

At any rate, Carmen was a bigger deal than I had realized. I wondered why she needed to be offering discount lessons through Groupon. Maybe she had an office manager or something who thought it would be smart to get new business rolling in.

Maybe I needed to do a Groupon myself.

I ordered my phone to call Jake. I wasn’t sure if he would be awake or not but I wanted to ask him what he could tell me about the case. I know, I know. Not getting involved. But a little curiosity never hurt, right?

“Hello?” He sounded sleepy and grumbly.

I instantly felt bad. “Hi, sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“What are you doing?” he asked, punctuating the question with a yawn.

“Driving to Medina for a job and I just heard on the radio that Carmen was murdered. They said she was dating some big cheese.”

“Yeah. The former NFL player turned sportscaster. He played for one season and wasn’t even that good and yet everyone is always up his ass. You know how that goes. Everyone wants to be buddies with a pro athlete.”

Not me. But I hadn’t ever met a professional athlete. I am sure some are lovely people, but I’ve never really grasped the hero worship they inspired. Then again, I worship at the shoes of Alexander McQueen, so was that really any different?

“Is he the murdering kind?” I asked.

“I have no personal knowledge of the type of guy he is, but I can tell you that most people are the murdering kind under the right circumstances.”

“That’s a cynical approach to your fellow man.”

“This job isn’t for Pollyannas.” There was rustling, like he was sitting up. “The partner was in the back room. Looked like he was trying to escape. Blood on the back door handle and he was lying