Dances With Ghosts - Erin McCarthy Page 0,3

the scene. I stepped outside, took a deep breath of the spring air, and positioned myself in front of the door, hauling my bag with my shoes against my chest, hugging it for comfort. I knew almost nothing about Carmen. I’d spent exactly three hours in her company and all of it was while Jake was tossing me around like a rag doll.

The studio was filled with Carmen’s personal ballroom trophies and those of her students. She was the Heart of America International Latin pro-amateur champion in 2008 and had a myriad of other awards and placements. The first lesson we’d arrived early and she had been with her prior appointment, so I had studied all the trophies, along with the photos hung of her posing with her partner, a man probably ten years younger than her. She rocked one sparkly, short costume after another in them. Carmen Fox was not an outfit repeater.

I wondered if she was originally from Cleveland and why she might have an enemy. It wasn’t like anyone would target a dance studio for a robbery. We were in Tremont, a neighborhood once a stronghold of Eastern European immigrants before falling on hard times. But then in the nineties and later, the area had seen a gentrification and was now a mix of various income levels, with trendy restaurants, restored houses, and new-build condos. It was an area that had more than a couple of car thefts and muggings of hipsters coming out of industrial chic bars at two in the morning drunk, but it wasn’t known for murder. Residents in general felt safe if you lived by the laws of common sense. Don’t leave your doors unlocked. Don’t walk alone at midnight. The usual.

For Carmen to be killed during daylight, right where her studio window was visible to any number of urbanites walking their Labradors, was bold as hell and risky.

We were in Cleveland proper, which was Jake’s jurisdiction. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Ten minutes later when Detective Debby Smith rolled in, I decided it wasn’t the greatest thing ever. She had an attitude with me, that went back to when I had discovered a couple of body parts in a field and she hadn’t believed me when I’d said I was just out for a walk. As if I had purposefully wanted to discover a human thigh. Maybe that was her jam since she did investigate murder for a living, but it wasn’t mine.

No one in their right mind could mistake me for a killer either. I have zero arm strength, a lousy poker face, and feel guilty when I accidentally squish a bug.

“What’s going on?” Detective Smith asked me. She was chewing gum, had on sensible shoes and black pants with a blue button-up, and her hair in a ponytail.

“I have no idea. Jake and I are taking dance lessons and we showed up for our lesson and our teacher is dead. I don’t know if it was an accident or what.”

She and her partner glanced at each other and grinned. “Marner is taking dance lessons? Get the hell out of here.”

Oops.

He was not going to be happy with me that I had let his little secret out. I didn’t even know it was a secret, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was not going to want his co-workers to know he was learning to swing. Dance. Swing dance.

“His mother wanted us to do them,” I said in an effort to fix my gaffe.

“His mother?” They both burst out laughing.

Double oops. That had made it worse.

But whatever. Lots of men dance and they needed to stop being part of some cop bro club. Dancing had been popular back in the day and it was having a resurgence. I couldn’t do anything about the perception of him being a mama’s boy because it was quite possibly true. He didn’t exactly tell Mrs. Marner no on a regular basis.

“Dancing is a great way to socialize. You should both try it. Look at how many professional athletes compete on Dancing with the Stars. Ballroom is trending.”

I was saved from my babbling further by Marner opening the door to the studio and greeting his co-workers.

“So do we call you Detective Twinkle Toes from now on?” the male detective asked.

“Kiss my ass.” Jake pointed to the etched sign on the door. “Get a load of this name though. Tippy-Toe. Tippy-Toe.”

“Lemon tree,” Detective Smith said.

They all