The Pie Maker hated to dance. Not that he couldn't—no he could. He just hated it. For dancing always brought up the worst of memories. There was the first co-ed dance he ever attended, where instead of joining in the merriment of his fellow classmates he found himself alone on the bleachers drowning himself in sweet punch. His only company was the chaperones as he watched the gawky teenagers dance gawkily and silently wished he could join in. Then there was the second co-ed dance, when a young girl actually asked him to attend. Ned, in anticipation of a second chance for a real dance, had practiced in secret for weeks up to the event, dancing in the school library at night to scratchy records on his portable player. He had the moves, but not the confidence, for as soon as they hit the floor he stepped so hardly upon the girls toes that she ran from the room crying. No other girl would dare go near him, and he was once again relegated to the bleachers, and never attended another dance his whole school career.
No, dancing had turned out to be more trouble than it was worth. So, it was no surprise he was not happy as he took to the dance floor for the first time in years.
The couples that filled the room around him were deeply engaged in the dance of the Tango, and Ned and Olive were no exception. But as graceful as the others were, they were anything but. For Olive's tiny frame barely reached his elbows, and Ned's lanky frame threatened to swallow her whole as he held her timidly. Ned tried to guide her forward, but found his feet tripping over hers until he felt the soul of his shoe collide with her toes.
"Ow! Watch it!" She hissed, trying her best not to be flustered.
Ned was instantly thrown back in time; the memories of prep school dances flooded his mind, and he was quite shaken. In that moment he wanted to save Olive's toes and simply give up, but he was here for a purpose and he couldn't forget it.
The Pie Maker and Emerson had recently found themselves investigating the murder of a ballroom dance instructor named Hugo Martinez. An immigrant from Venezuela, he had grabbed the American dream and opened a successful dance school that specialized in the dances of the Latin persuasion. But one morning he was found dead in his studio, the stiletto heel from a woman's shoe lodged in his throat. They had found their number one suspect to be a Miss Vidalia Figaro, an immigrant herself and the owner of the Figaro Dance Academy, his biggest competitor. But Miss Figaro had only agreed to answer any questions after Ned took part in one of her classes. He needed a partner, and given the fact that the Pie Maker couldn't touch Chuck, and Emerson was out of the question, he found himself now entwined in Olive Snook's arms.
"This is ridiculous," Ned hissed back, just as frustrated as Olive was. "I don't know why she just won't talk to us—why do we have take dance lessons?"
Normally, this would have been a fantasy come true for Olive, but the moment was anything but, as his wooden movements and constant crushing of her toes snapped her into reality. "I don't know. You guys investigate kooks and crazies all the time. Who knows what her motives are." Olive rolled her eyes as Ned grazed her toes again. "She probably figures if you're gonna accuse her of murder, she might as well get 99.95 for dance lessons."
"Now remember class, the Tango is a dance of passion. I want you to really connect with your partner—become one with them." Miss Figaro instructed, moving through the crowd and surveying the swaying couples with a discerning eye. She carried a large, mahogany walking stick in her hand which she used to correct the dancers postures at a distance, but now she was simply banging it on the floor to command attention.
Olive felt Ned tense against her. She highly doubted he would be able to connect with her. No, to Olive he was the most disconnected man she'd ever met. "Here," She gripped her hands tightly in his and tried to move him, but it was like trying to move a mountain. "You have to glide, er, like this." She struggled to get him to move more than one awkward step at a time, but it only ended up making things worse.
"You two have it all wrong." Miss Figaro appeared at their side. Taking her stick she shoved it hard into Ned's back. Ned glared at her from the corner of his eye, and she swooped over to him, her long black dress flowing out behind her, to whisper into his ear. "If you want to know who killed Mr. Martinez, you will dance." She said, her accent thick and drawling. Ned instantly perked up and Miss Figaro took a step back, once again tapping him with her stick, pushing him closer against Olive. "You must envelop each other as you dance." She purred. She let out a hearty laugh as she looked them over more closely, noticing the obvious height difference. "Not that you should have a problem with that. Now dance!" She said, raising her hands to the heavens as she once again swirled around the room.
The music played by the live band in the corner of the room swelled to its crescendo as a couple, who had obviously been at this for ages, danced past them. The man moved with the greatest of ease, his hips rocking dangerously, and the woman moved as if she was an extension of him. They came to a stop next to Ned and Olive; the woman wrapped and unwrapped her leg around the man's thigh like a snake before he dipped her and then brought her crashing back into his torso seductively.
As he watched the couple perform, Ned suddenly grew aware of just how close he was to Olive. He realized he hadn't been this physically close to another person in what seemed like forever. She was so close he could feel her every curve pressed into him. So close that he could feel the heat coming off her body, intensifying the sweet smell of her perfume. If this is what dancing was really like, he told himself, he would have given it another try years ago.
Suddenly, even though he was feeling a bit lightheaded, something in him came to life. The movements he had practiced faithfully in that dark library years ago came back to him, and his confidence surged. This was it—this was his real second chance to have a real dance. A dance that would not only end successfully, but spectacularly.
"Come on." He said to Olive; there was a fierceness in his eyes that was so unexpected it momentarily scared her. "We can do that." He reached down and grabbed her leg, throwing it across his. He looked back at her and found she was now smiling, her eyes twinkling with the thrill of competition.
"Yes," She nodded towards the couple who were still showing off near them. "Let's show them how it's really done." With that she wrapped her leg around his tighter and grabbed at him, pulling him even closer than imaginable.
Spurred on by the feeling of Olive in his arms he lunged forward; holding onto her tightly he dipped her. She was probably much lighter than any other woman in the room, and he found himself dipping her so low that the top of her head brushed the floor. Olive let out a little squeal of delight and he pulled her up quickly, bringing her back to him as he had seen the couple before do. But, being as strong as he was and Olive being as little as she was, he found his efforts had instead lifted her completely off the floor, leaving her feet kicking in the air behind her.
"Wow." Olive gasped. She was lightheaded, but unsure if it was from the sudden topsy turvy movement, or the fact that she was now only inches away from Ned in a most intimate position. Whatever it was, the fantasy was back.
"Well, well." Ned and Olive's intense gaze was broken by the shrill calling and the boom of Miss Figaro's wooden tick on the floor. "That was masterful. Such passion, such fire." She looked them over, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't think you had it in you." She tapped the floor by Ned's feet with her stick.
Ned immediately stiffened up and broke his embrace with Olive; he had momentarily lost himself in the music and now was once again aware of his surroundings, of everyone stopped around him, staring and applauding. He had finally had his real dance after all, and it had ended spectacularly….Spectacularly confusing.
"Alright," Miss Figaro shimmied closer to him. She gestured towards a door at the back of the room. "You have thoroughly entertained me…Come with me to my office and I will tell you all I know about the murder of Mr. Martinez."
But Ned had trouble remembering any of the questions he was supposed to ask, instead he could only hear the pulsing beat of the band in his head, and could only remember the way Olive Snook felt in his arms. He was confused and bemused by the way his heart sped up just thinking about it. Once again, he realized dancing had turned out to be more trouble than it was worth.
.