High Kicks, Hot Chocolate, and Homicides Read online

  Maybe, maybe not, I thought, leaving the room to get my tap shoes. I gave the shoes a quick shine and popped them into my bag. How I loved those little shoes. Because of them I had traveled to Russia, Spain, Paris, and Rio. I had tapped, flamencoed, sambaed, and cariocaed.

  Dancing to me was like being set free to whirl out into space, to let go of all my inhibitions and let my body lead me wherever it wanted to go. When I danced, I forgot George and New Jersey and even my children. I wasn’t Mary Louise Temple any more. I was a shooting star, a sparkling rocket, a flash of light. I hugged my bag with the shoes in them against my chest and did a couple of twirls around the room.

  George walked into the room at that moment and smiled.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said and kissed me.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” I said. “I won’t be late. I’m cooking your favorite dinner tonight—salmon and anchovies.”

  “I may be a little late,” he said. “The Alderson case is taking longer to prepare for than I thought.”

  “Tell me again what that case is about,” I said, trying to comb the curl out of my hair. I wanted that nice straight look everybody else had, but my hair always rebelled and popped out with a little wiggle whenever it got the chance.

  “This woman is suing the company because her husband stepped into an empty elevator shaft in the building they own and was killed.”

  “That’s horrible!” I said. “How do you defend that?”

  “It was obviously the fault of the company that built the elevator, not the company that owned the building. The door shouldn’t open onto an empty shaft, but it did. It’s a complicated case, though, and it’s a lot of work.”

  He looked preoccupied, worried. I had a glimpse into the long hours he spent with each case because of his care and perfectionism.

  “You’ll do a great job,” I said. “You always do.”

  He smiled his thanks at me and hugged me.

  I gave him a quick kiss and went downstairs to wait for Tina and the others.

  * * *

  At nine, right on the dot, Peter’s car pulled into our driveway. I like Peter a lot. He makes Tina happy. He had been her husband Bill’s law partner, and he and his wife had been close friends of theirs while Bill was alive. Then Peter and Helen divorced, and a couple of years later, Bill died of brain cancer.

  Peter did everything to help Tina adjust to life without Bill. He was especially good with her children. He helped them choose a college and drove them there in the fall and went with Tina to pick them up in the spring. He took her out to dinner every chance he got. He drove her to planes when she had to travel for business. He fell in love with her in the process. For a long time Tina just thought of him as a good friend, but gradually she grew to love him too. They kept talking about getting married, but somehow Tina was always off somewhere dancing instead of arranging the wedding. She was lucky that Peter was such a patient man.

  Now that we were going to be in New York for a while, I hoped she would stop putting the wedding off and do it. Tina wanted the reception to be in the Frick Museum in New York, one of my favorite places in the world, as well as hers, because it was so much like a home as well as a museum. I could always picture the Fricks living there. Knowing Tina, it would be an exquisitely beautiful reception.

  I ran outside and hopped in the van where the rest of my Hoofer friends were already ensconced. Somehow all four of us fitted in the back seat with plenty of room to sip our coffee and munch on the rolls that Peter had supplied.

  “Hey, Weezie,” Peter said. “I hear you’re going to be a Rockette.”

  “Is that crazy or what?” I said. “How Tina talked them into letting us dance on that huge stage at Christmas time with all those perfect Rockettes, I’ll never know.”

  “Didn’t you know?” Peter said with a loving glance at Tina sitting next to him in the front seat. “Tina can do anything.”

  “Except plan her own wedding,” Gini Miller, our documentary filmmaker Hoofer, said in her usual in-your-face mode.

  “Gini,” Tina said, her voice low, warning.

  “Oh, Gini, shut up,” Janice Rogers said, using her stage director voice instead of her usual gentle one.

  “Let’s not talk about that right now, Gini,” Pat, our peace-making family-therapist Hoofer said, dispelling the threat of a quarrel before we even got out of the driveway.

  Peter backed the van into the street and headed for Route 24 that led to Route 78, which would take us through the Lincoln Tunnel and into the city to Rockefeller Center. Peter was an excellent driver and maneuvered his vehicle in and out of the morning traffic with skill and expertise.

  “So, Tina, what’s happening today?” Pat asked, choosing a safe subject.

  “Well, Glenna, the head Rockette, was a little vague,” Tina said, “but I got the impression that they just wanted to meet us, introduce us to the Rockettes, give us a tour of the theater, and tell us what we will be doing in the show.”

  “Why are we bringing our tap shoes?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Tina said. “But I think they want to be sure we can really dance.”

  “Of course we can dance!” Gini said impatiently. “What do they think we were doing in Rio—directing traffic?”

  “Almost getting killed,” Pat muttered with a little shudder.

  I put my arm around her for a second in a gesture of sympathy. She had been through a terrifying time in Brazil.

  Tina reached over the seat and squeezed Pat’s hand. “They knew we were dancing in Rio,” she said, “but they want to be sure we can really tap their way. We mostly flung ourselves around doing the samba and the bossa nova in Brazil. It’s not the kind of disciplined dancing the Rockettes do.”

  “Think we can do it?” Janice asked.

  “With a lot of work,” Tina said. “And I mean long hours of rehearsal.”

  George will have a fit, I thought, and then, Tough! I seemed to be having such ambivalent feelings about him lately since I met Mike. I needed to talk to somebody about it. Pat was the logical choice. She’s a wonderful therapist. I would talk to her. She always helped. I glanced over at her with a querying look. She read my mind.

  “Will George be okay with long hours away from your wifely duties, Mary Louise?” she asked.

  “He’ll have to be,” I said. “He has no choice.”

  “There’s always a middle way,” she said, “Life isn’t just black or white, perfect or not perfect.”

  “Can we talk?” I said, and my understanding friends chuckled. They all knew how much Pat helped us when we had problems. Every one of us had turned to her in times of crisis. She was always wise and insightful.

  “Any time, hon,” she said.

  Peter emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel, wove his way to Sixth Avenue and Fiftieth Street and let us out in front of Radio City Music Hall.

  “Give me a call when you’re ready to leave,” he said to Tina. “And I’ll come pick you up”

  “We might only be here a short time, Peter,” she said. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll take the train home.”

  “Call me anyway,” he said. “I can usually work something out.”

  I wished George had such a flexible schedule in his firm as Peter had. George never seemed to be able to “work something out” even though he was the main partner of the firm.

  We thanked Peter and followed Tina into Radio City.

  “May I help you?” the ticket taker said.

  “We’re the Happy Hoofers,” Tina said. “We’re looking for Glenna Parsons. We’re going to be working with her.”

  The ticket taker, who looked about fifteen, said, “You’re going to be Rockettes?” He tried, but he couldn’t hide his disbelief that women our age could possibly be Rockettes. We’re only in our early fifties, but to him, we must have seemed ancient.

  “You bet we are,” Gini said. I love Gini. She always says what the rest of us don’t have the nerve to say. “They’re begging us to jo
in them. Want to tell Glenna we’re here?”

  He fumbled with his phone and then clicked a button.

  “M-m-m-s Parsons,” he said, “they’re here. Them,” he said after a pause. “You know, those Happy Hookers. They’re here.” People often call us that to tease us, but this boy just made an honest mistake. I think.

  Tina gently pried the phone out of his hands.

  “Glenna?” she said. “It’s Tina. I brought my gang as you requested. We’re dying to meet the Rockettes. Where do we go next?”

  Tina listened to the answer and then said to us, “She’s meeting us on the stage. We ought to be able to find that without any problem.”

  She handed the phone back to the flustered young man and motioned to the rest of us to follow her into the theater. My first sight of that magnificent foyer brought back the memory of coming to this theater when my children were little. I used to come here while they were in school. In those days, you could see a feature movie, some cowboy short films, a stage show—with the Rockettes of course—and a comedy skit.

  I would go into the theater about eleven o’-clock in the morning and snuggle down in my comfortable seat. I’d pretend I didn’t have to go back to my housewifey world. That I could just stay there totally immersed in the feature movie, dancing with them, singing with them, worrying about some incredibly silly problem that of course was solved in ninety minutes. Then I’d stumble out of there around two o’clock and go back home in time to greet my children when they came home from school.

  It was heaven. I always came back home refreshed, entertained, calm and ready to cook some more meals, wash some more dishes, pick up stuff all over the house, and drive my children wherever they needed to go after school. I had two boys and a girl and raising them was the best job I ever had and the hardest work.

  Two of them are in college now and one in law school, but I wouldn’t have traded those years for anything. Radio City was a blessed respite. I still felt that way as I looked at the huge mural on the wall next to the staircase leading up to the balcony showing a man searching for the fountain of youth. Or at least that’s what I always thought he was doing.

  I followed Tina and the others through the impressive gold doors up the long aisle to the huge stage. Someone once told me the stage was meant to represent the sunrise with enormous gold arches framing it. Everything in this vast theater built by Samuel L. Rothafel that seated six thousand people was planned to suggest joy and a new day full of promise and fun.

  We clambered onto the stage and an attractive woman with dark hair pulled back into a twist, long legs, and a wide smile, hurried out of the wings to greet us.

  “Welcome, Hoofers,” she said. “I’m Glenna. We are so glad you’re going to join us for our Christmas show.”

  “Hello, Glenna,” Tina said and introduced each of us.

  Glenna looked us over, and we could see her planning make-up, hair arrangements, costume sizes for each one of us in her mind. She seemed happiest when she turned her attention to Janice, but we’re all used to that.

  She wouldn’t have to do much for Janice because she was so beautiful. Effortlessly beautiful. We’d all hate her if she weren’t one of the world’s nicest people. Kind, loving, totally unimpressed with her beauty. She just thought of it as something she inherited—like good teeth or nice hair or young skin. Nothing she should be proud of or ashamed of. UsefuI in the theater. It was just there. And it got us lots of jobs, to be crass about it. Producers took one look at Janice and hired us on the spot.

  Actually, we’re all pretty good-looking. Because of the hours we spend dancing, we’re slim and in good shape. If it weren’t for that, I’d probably sit home and eat chocolate peanut butter Häagen-Dazs ice cream until I weighed a hundred and fifty pounds. We also have great legs, but that wasn’t really because of dancing. We just inherited them from mothers or grandmothers with smashing gams.

  “The Rockettes do their own hair and makeup,” Glenna said. “But I thought you might like a little help since you’re not used to our system. The girls only wear lipstick, fake eyelashes, and fix their hair in a French twist. They’re used to it and can do it really fast. Would you like one of us to give you a little help?”

  We all nodded vigorously, me especially. I couldn’t imagine turning into a Rockette with “lipstick, fake eyelashes, and a French twist.” My own hair pretty much resisted being pulled back and tied up. And lipstick and fake eyelashes weren’t going to do it. I needed a lot more than that. Was she kidding?

  “That would be great, Glenna,” Tina said, speaking for all of us. “What about our costumes?”

  “Well, as you know, you’re going to do the Santa bit, and the costumes weigh about 40 pounds! Think you can dance with that?”

  “Forty pounds!” Gini said. “What the heck are they made of—lead?”

  Fortunately, Glenna laughed. We’re never sure how people are going to react to Gini. We’re used to her, but not everyone appreciates her comments.

  “It has a fat round ball inside it so you’ll look like Santa with his big tummy,” she said. “But maybe we can work something else out and get lighter costumes for you guys.”

  “That would be good,” Tina said. “Anything you can do to make it easier for us would be wonderful. We want to be like the Rockettes, but I don’t think we can ever actually be the Rockettes.”

  “Not to worry,” Glenna said. “We’ll get you as close to us as we can. Mostly it’s rehearse, rehearse, rehearse, and exercise, exercise, exercise. Are you ready for that?”

  “You bet,” Tina said. “When do you want us to start?”

  “Not ’til tomorrow,” Glenna said. “Today, I want you to meet the rest of the Rockettes.”

  “How many are there?” Pat asked.

  “Eighty all together, but there are only thirty-six on stage at any one time. With you, there will be forty-one.”

  Glenna clicked a number on her phone and said, “Send ’em in, please, Annie.”

  The sound of all those tap shoes clickety-clacking down the stairs and onto the stage sounded like an army lining up for inspection. We were soon surrounded by what seemed like thousands of pretty young women even though there were only eighty. They were smiling and friendly and amazingly lively for that hour of the morning.

  “Ladies,” Glenna said, “I want you to meet Tina, Gini, Janice, Pat, and Mary Louise. They’re the Happy Hoofers. They’re going to dance the Santa Claus number with us.”

  “Lots of luck dancing in jackets that weigh forty pounds,” one woman said.

  She was one of the taller Rockettes. I knew that you had to be between five feet six inches and five feet ten and a half inches tall to be one of the Rockettes. She must have been about five ten. Her legs alone looked five eight. She had blond hair, highlighted with lighter streaks. She must have been about twenty-five years old, but her face was hard. She didn’t smile when she commented on the Santa costumes.

  “Knock it off, Marlowe,” Glenna said. “I already told them we’d take the fat out of the suits to make them lighter. Stop trying to scare them. They’re going to be a delightful addition to our Christmas show.”

  “If we have to dance in those things with the fat in, they should have to wear them that way too,” Marlowe said, still unsmiling.

  “Audiences are used to seeing us like that,” Glenna said. “It’s a tradition. But our Hoofers here can probably get away without the extra addition.”

  She looked around at her whole group of Rockettes. “Can I count on you guys to help these Hoofers become temporary Santas?”

  Loud shouts of “Sure,” and “You bet,” and “Of course,” from all those super-thin, stunning dancers made us feel great. I noticed Marlowe didn’t join in the generally helpful shouts. She just stared at us unsmiling.

  “OK,” Glenna said, ignoring Marlowe. “Let’s show them what we’ll be doing. Line up and do your stuff.” She switched on the music that would be played by a real orchestra for the actual perform
ance.

  “When we perform,” she continued, “we wear little microphones attached to the backs of our heels to make the tapping louder. You will too. Otherwise people in the back row would miss that great sound.”

  Microphones on our shoes! I could see this would be unlike any dancing we had ever done before.

  We moved off the stage to watch as the Rockettes lined up and swung into the routine for “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” They kicked higher than I could ever imagine doing. This was going to take a lot more work than I had dreamed. But we were going to be Rockettes! Or as close to them as we could manage.

  When they finished, we jumped to our feet and applauded.

  “Think you can do that?” Glenna asked.

  “We’ll knock ourselves out trying,” Tina said.

  We all had questions for Glenna.

  “When do we start?” Gini said.

  “How long will it take us to learn how to dance like they do?” Pat asked.

  “What time will we finish rehearsing?” I asked. The memory of George’s Be home in time for dinner echoed in my mind.

  “Do we get a lunch break?” Janice asked. Somehow she managed to eat all the time and never gain an ounce. I could read her mind, though, and knew she wanted to plan some lunches with her boyfriend Tom in her favorite city in the world. I sort of hoped I could sneak in some time with Mike when he wasn’t delivering somebody’s baby. Lunch was harmless enough.

  “We rehearse every day—not weekends—from ten in the morning until five in the evening,” Glenna said. “But we have a lot more routines than you have. We have eight costume changes with every performance and we do five shows a day. You only wear the Santa outfit, and you’re all through after that part of the show.”

  That was a relief. I couldn’t imagine doing what they did. These Rockettes were incredible.

  “You won’t spend the whole rehearsal time dancing, though.” Glenna continued. “You’ll have an hour-long workout of push-ups, leg raises, running in place—lots of things like that. Then you’ll spend the rest of the time practicing the dancing. It’s not easy what we do.”