The front wall was one big window with a view of the north mountains peeking above the low building across the street. The reception desk was empty, and Dinah and I walked to the side of it and looked into the lesson area.
Considering the early hour, I was surprised to see two couples on the floor dancing to tango music. It was easy to tell teachers from students. Both male teachers wore black bowling-style shirts with “Lance Wells Dance Instructor” embroidered in white across the back.
When I looked over at Dinah, I saw that her eyes were practically bulging out of their sockets. She pointed at the back of one of the instructors. “It’s Vincent, my student. The one who had the problem with his test.” I watched him for a moment. Whatever problems he had with English, he had the tango down.
Dinah wanted to leave, but just as I stopped her, a door opened on the side wall and a man and woman came in. As soon as they saw us, they became very animated and moved quickly toward us. She started her pitch as soon as she was within earshot. The man was barely a step behind her. “Welcome, welcome ladies. Here about lessons?” She didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “Everybody wants to dance like the stars now. The first lesson is complimentary. We can do that right now if you’ll just wait until our fabulous instructors finish with their current clients.” The couple went behind the reception counter and before I could blink, they were handing us clipboards with questionnaires attached.
Now that I was closer to the counter, I saw the row of photographs of Lance Wells Sr. on the temporary wall. Below them a banner read, “Dancing is the Footwork of the Gods.”
When I didn’t take the clipboard, the woman explained the questionnaire had to be filled out before we could take our complimentary lesson.
“It’s for insurance purposes,” the man said, stepping out from behind her.
Since I was more interested in talking than dancing, I took the clipboard but didn’t do any writing. Dinah didn’t even pick hers up.
“I work down the street at the bookstore.” I introduced myself and Dinah. “And you are?”
“Roseanne and Hal Klinger,” the woman said, speaking for both of them.
“I saw the sign on your door. . . .” I let it trail off, hoping they’d explain their connection to Mary Beth Wells. My words hung in the air for a moment, and I saw the woman’s eyes tear up. Hal stepped in and explained Roseanne’s sister had died recently.
“Maybe you heard about it. Her name was Mary Beth Wells,” he said in a somber tone.
I did my best to appear surprised. This was a golden opportunity and I didn’t want to blow it. When I glanced at Roseanne again, I saw her resemblance to Mary Beth, although the overall look was totally different. Mary Beth had appeared glamorous, with her golden hair and fine features. On Roseanne, those same features were sharp and foxlike, and her hair was short and red. Mary Beth seemed to have done better in the husband department as well. Lance Wells Jr. might not have been much of a dancer, but he’d inherited his father’s good looks. Hal Klinger had bland features and a fringe of hair around a bald spot that gave him an insipid aura, which his demeanor matched. He seemed to stay one step behind his wife.
Both Dinah and I expressed our condolences. Roseanne nodded in recognition of our sympathy but then shut the door on her emotions and went back to business. She motioned toward the questionnaires, which were still not filled out. Meanwhile, the tangoing continued on the dance floor. I picked up the pen attached to the clipboard. If I wanted her to talk, I was going to have to act like a customer. I nudged Dinah and with a grunt of protest, she began to fill out her sheet as well.
“Is that Lance Wells?” I said, glancing up from my writing and gesturing toward the row of photos on the wall. I noticed he was in a different outfit in each picture. The first showed him in a tuxedo, the next in a theatrical version of a cowboy outfit, then in a pirate getup and the final picture was when he was older. He was dressed in normal clothes and flanked by two younger men, both of whom resembled him. It wasn’t much of a stretch to figure they were Lance Jr. and Matt.
“Yes, that’s Lance Sr.”
“Then he owns this place?” I said innocently.
“He started the dance studios, but he died a number of years ago,” Roseanne said.
“Are you the owners now?” I asked.
“We manage—” Hal started to speak, but his wife gave him a sharp flash of her eyes and he stopped.
There was an edge of impatience in her voice. “What possible difference could that make?”
Dinah stepped in and said we wanted to know who we were dealing with before we committed to lessons. “You know how it is—you pay for a bunch of lessons and the place suddenly goes out of business.”
Roseanne seemed offended at the comment. “I assure you we have been in business for a long time.” She launched into the studio’s history. “Lance Wells started the dance studios to get Americans on their feet. The tradition is being carried on by Lance’s nephew, our artistic director, Matt Wells.
“We’ve been managing the studio for years. If anything, it’s doing better with all the television dancing shows.”
As Roseanne finished, I noticed another man had come in the side door and joined us.
“New students?” he said, beaming a charismatic smile in Dinah’s and my direction.
Hal introduced him, though I had already guessed who he was. Matt Wells looked better in person. The photo didn’t do justice to his thick dark hair and sparkling gray eyes. Hal went on to explain to him our concern about the ownership of the place.
Roseanne gave her husband a sharp stare—for what, because he dared to speak?
“I have it covered,” she said to Matt. I tried to calculate how Matt and Roseanne were related. He was Lance Wells Jr.’s cousin and she was Mary Beth Wells’s sister, did that even make them family? How ever they were related, I sensed hostility in the way Roseanne and Matt looked at each other. Roseanne had positioned herself so she was standing between Matt and me. But I wanted to talk to
“If you’re an actual Wells, does that mean you’re the owner?” I’m not generally a flirty kind of person, but something about Matt brought it out in me, and it seemed like a good way to get some information. I started twirling my hair and batting my eyes, and I heard Dinah choking back a laugh. But it worked. Matt’s expression softened and his smile broadened.
“I’ll take care of them,” he said. Roseanne’s eyes grew stern and she didn’t move. Nor did Hal. I explained our concern to Matt.
“I’d just like to know who owns the dance studio,” I said, eyes batting all the while.
His face lit with understanding. “There’s nothing to be concerned about. This is our flagship studio, and I can assure you, it’s not going anywhere.”
“I understand that. I’d just like to know who owns the place.” I had to stop batting my eyes—it was giving me a headache, as was their reluctance to answer what seemed to be a simple question.
The charm abruptly drained from Matt’s face and he appeared almost annoyed. “Why don’t you stop worrying about who owns what and just take your complimentary lesson.”
The
“What’s wrong with you people?” Hal said at last. “It’s not secret information.” He turned his gaze to me. “The dance studio belongs to the Lance Wells estate.”
Roseanne shot her husband another angry look, and he seemed to slink into the background. The tango music stopped and the two students headed toward the door. I had the feeling Roseanne had decided we were more trouble than we were worth. She gave up on trying to get us to fill out the forms on the clipboards and instead, with a sigh of resignation, just took them from us and told the instructors we were here for a complimentary lesson. When Vincent saw Dinah, his face lit up.
“I’m taking her,” he said to his coworker. Dinah was making choking noises. “We’ll see who’s the teacher now,” he said with a smirk. I was about to say we’d changed our minds about the lessons, but both instructors were already pulling us out onto the dance floor.
