Parking my Jeep a block away from the Harrison Dance Studio, I walked up Coppersmith Street—the town fathers have a bit of a theme—and entered the studio’s redbrick building, a once-desirable address, and clambered up the wooden stairs inside.
Perhaps “clattered” is a better word choice, given the sound my black patent kitten heels made on the uncarpeted steps. The shoes were a gift-with-a-message from my persistent mother, who valiantly tries to make me more socially presentable. “It depends to whom you are planning to present me,” I always say in return. Which she never finds amusing.
Tonight I was grateful for the fashionably dance-appropriate shoes. My concomitant efforts with lipstick, hairbrush, and eyeliner were equally appropriate, and proficient as well. I had been in disguise many times before, appearing frazzle-faced as a harried mom, sleek as an undercover cop (what Watson dubbed as meta), and once, to snare a particularly unpleasant spouse, as a hoody-wearing hit man. I’d realized this afternoon, as I prepared for this new adventure by removing my signature eyeglasses, inserting my rarely used contact lenses, and loosening my hair from its ponytail, that I’d never disguised myself as an attractive woman. To me, this felt like a difficult task. Others might disagree. We will leave that for the historians to decide.
Climbing the two flights, illuminated by a row of bare bulbs struggling to tempt a few languid moths, I approached the door of the Anthony Selwyn Harrison Dance Studio. Painted a streaky gold and sporting an elaborate “ASH” logo, the door, the only one in the hallway, was amateurishly decorated with a sprinkle of musical quarter notes in electric blue.
Classes tonight announced a makeshift sign, handwritten and framed in dime store black, affixed to the adjacent wall. Ballroom 6 and 7 pm, it read. All are welcome.
It was only five now. So I had, if all went as I hoped, plenty of time. The studio’s own website had given me the entrée I needed.
The door opened with a feeble creak, and I was inside. Watson and I could not visit Stoke Moran without alerting the owner to our association with Mr. Daley, but we could hope that Penelope Moran would appear as scheduled at tonight’s dance class. A first step, at least.
Under the flutter of a weary fluorescent, a twenty-something woman, all curls and pink lipstick, sat behind a computer at a desk that appeared to have been rescued from elsewhere, possibly adopted from a prior tenant. If my present tactic failed, I could simply sign up for a single class. But I’d prefer to work on the inside, and thus be reasonably present for many classes—and the potential sources of information who participated.
“I’m inquiring about your help wanted for the teaching position.” I offered my best smile, engaging and confident. “I’m Irene Irvine.”
I needed an undercover identity, and assumed no one would recognize the name of my father’s teacher, the brilliant Boston geologist.
The receptionist proved me correct. “Resumé?” She held out a beringed hand.
“Of course,” I said. “But it’s online.”
I gave the woman a URL, and she clicked it up and scrolled through. The proficient Watson had rigged up a website for me with impressive speed, showing off the generic stock photos and graphics she’d selected. Technology has made it easier to invent a convincing new identity.
“Ms., um, Hudson?” I read the nameplate on her desk. “I can start right away.”
She frowned. At what, I wondered? Surely I had not been here long enough to make an unfavorable impression. She made a dismissive sound and plucked the nameplate from her desk, stashing it in a drawer. “That’s left over from the last tenant. I keep forgetting. I’m Della.”
I stepped back as Della stood, wobbling on her black stiletto boots for a beat. “Can you fox-trot, waltz, Lindy?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, channeling Watson. “No prob. Cake.”
Apparently I had satisfied her, for she started down a narrow corridor, gesturing me to follow. On one side of the hall, the mirrored studio I’d seen on Arthur Daley’s video. The other wall, once pale blue but now faded into submission, displayed a single life-sized photograph of a dancer I assumed to be Anthony Selwyn Harrison. Standing in front of an old-fashioned wrought iron street lamp on water-dappled pavement, the man wore toggle-latched galoshes tucked into khaki trousers, and held an open black umbrella in front of his face.
“Singin’ in the Rain, I get it,” I said, proving my knowledge of the industry. “I can see your boss is a big fan.”
“Huh?” We approached a closed door. “Ash?” Della’s question was punctuated by her knocks. “It’s me. You have a teacher candidate.”