“You’re a dancer,” I said. The camera panned right, revealing a sign on the wall: Anthony Selwyn Harrison Dance Studio. “Or an instructor?”
The music died as our visitor clicked off his cell phone. “Instructor. Harrison had his assistant take this video of my class. It’s on the studio website, too.”
“Here’s the website.” Watson had fetched her laptop and held it so I could see.
Located nearby, I noted. The site listed classes, and instructors, as well as job openings and recitals. I could look more closely later, if need be.
“So, Miss Holmes?” Daley gestured at me with his phone. “After the gym where I was a personal trainer closed, the dance studio opened, and I convinced them to let me become a dance instructor. I’m into it now, you know? Even in a small town there’s a need for dancing. Weddings, or an anniversary. The prom. Or just a good time. The studio’s brand new, but making it. Most students are women, seems like. Some watch old movies on Turner Classics, and want to be swept around the floor in a pretty dress. I teach them, dance with them, give them some—romance.”
“Ro—?” I began. This was taking a potentially unsavory turn.
“Oh, no way, not really romance, not like that.” He put up both palms, as if to ward off any incorrect assumptions. “But when the music’s right, and the skirts twirl, well . . .” He shrugged, envisioning the entirety. “They have fun.”
“When you said your partner,” I now understood, “you meant your dance partner.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Well, to begin with, anyway. The woman you saw, dancing with me? She’s Penelope Moran. She moved back here, a year or so ago. Not to downtown Norraton, but out a mile or two. She’s the last of her family, and lives in her parents’ old house, they left it to her. It’s more like a mansion, really, what they call Stoke Moran. She told me it’s been in the family forever, and she’s really attached to it. ‘All I have left of my history,’ she says. Anyway, Penny and I got to know each other in class. We got along great. She started taking lessons twice a week.”
His face brightened, and he sat up straighter. “She’s—she’s good at it, you know? A fast learner, and smart, and . . . well, things developed. A month ago, I asked her to marry me. She said yes.”
He glanced at the now-opaque screen of his cell phone. “But now she’s—acting strange. Avoiding me. We always tell each other everything, but she’s not responding to my calls. She didn’t show up for last night’s lesson. That’s why I’m here.”
“Would you email that video to me?” Watson, interrupting, had been watching and listening in silence. She gave her email address, Watson at Holmes dot com, which provides everyone a chuckle. “Best never to have only one copy of anything.”
Daley clicked a few buttons, and the dancing men and their partners dipped and whirled through the ether and onto Watson’s laptop. In a trice, as she clicked her keyboard, the fox-trot music reprised and the dancers appeared again, their swirl of tulle and glitter now on Watson’s much larger screen.
“Better, right?” she said.
“Better.” I had to agree. Now I could make out the shabbiness of the ceiling, the smudged mirrors, black streaks from countless soles on the floor.
“Please continue, Mr. Daley,” I said, as Watson lowered the sound. “Ms. Moran, recently affianced to you, did not appear for a scheduled lesson? Had you quarreled?”
“No, no. We didn’t fight, not at all. So, yeah, when she didn’t show up, I was pretty worried. I have a key to the studio, so I stayed later than usual, but she still didn’t come. I called, texted, went to her house. Left a note. I went home. No messages. I even checked the hospital. Nothing. I hoped she would call, or something, but she didn’t. And then I fell asleep. I couldn’t wait to talk to you, that’s why I’m still in this getup.”
The man blew out a breath, and every one of my instincts whispered “lovesick,” though it’s not a word we often hear these days. I waited. People tell their stories in their own ways, and that is always instructive. If one is seeking the truth, sometimes it is best to listen.
“Anyway, the weird emails I told you about. Penny’s who got them,” Mr. Daley eventually went on. He paused, smoothed back a lock of dark hair. “Do I need to fill out a form, hiring you?”
“In due time,” I said. “For you still have not explained what you’d like us to do.”
“Okay, long story short. After Penny said she’d marry me, it was all pretty great.” He stood, began to pace. Not that he had much room to pace in our little office, his long legs taking him past Watson’s desk and toward the rear wall in four steps, then back to the swivel chair. “But then, two weeks or so ago? She started behaving strangely. Going off. She missed a class. Then came back as usual. Then missed again. She wouldn’t tell me why. I confronted her, you know? Had I done something wrong? If she didn’t want to get married, I thought, just say so. I mean . . .”