Delicately she shook her wrists until her diamond tennis bracelet and matching watch floated down her toned arms and onto her slender wrists. “I was supposed to interview the celebrities this weekend.” She wiped the corner of her mouth with one finger and rubbed at her lipstick. “Too bad no celebrities bothered to show up.”
I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks. In all the hubbub of helping Uncle Eddie follow the ICA rules for the chili cook-off, attending the dance rehearsals for our parade performance, and writing Lenny’s blog, I’d completely forgotten to reach out to my friends in Austin—friends who knew popular musicians and actors who might be willing to make the drive down for the weekend. “Uh, yeah, about that . . .”
With his long arm, Ryan reached over and gave my shoulders a squeeze. “Celebrities don’t always follow through. You should know that.”
A deep furrow marred Hillary’s perfect forehead, and her eyes narrowed.
Ryan added his million-dollar smile. “Not you, Porcupine. The people you rub noses with. You’re acquainted with celebrities, aren’t you?” He shrugged. “Or at least I thought you were.”
She tossed her head. “Of course I am.”
I began to make a list in my head of the minimum number of celebrities she could count: the judges at the Miss America contest—five or so—the master of ceremonies, the director, producer, the television bigwigs—did they count? There was always someone performing with a name to draw more viewers. So one more. A dozen. It was more than I knew, but not so many as to elevate her status above mine or anyone else’s in Broken Boot.
She drew a deep breath and assumed a thoughtful pose. “True celebrities do move to their own beat.” She waved a hand in the air. “Blow wherever the wind takes them.”
“No stories for the paper, I guess.” I tried to look sympathetic, but I was having a hard time feeling anything but irritated. I didn’t want her here.
“I have one about the murder.” She lifted one brow and a corner of her mouth.
“Hands off. You know I’m the crime reporter.”
She placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “She wants to be the crime reporter, but it’s my understanding that Majors hasn’t given her that title.”
“Sumter Majors gave you my story?”
With a tilt of her head, she considered for a moment. “Let’s see. I told him that I was working on a story about the chili cook-off killing.”
“And he told you that it was my story, right?”
“I believe his exact words were: ‘Go ahead, and may the best story win.’”
“Why pay us both for the same story?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Why, hon, the best story makes the front page and the second best makes the next edition . . . after it’s been edited down to say, two inches. Maybe even an inch if it turns out that Lucky Shaw—”
“Straw.”
“Straw—what a peculiar name—died from natural causes, like a little old everyday heart attack.”
Ryan brushed her arm away and stood. “Come on, let’s dance.” He reached out a hand.
“Nah,” I said, standing and pushing in my chair. “I’m not much for two-stepping.” The band was playing “All About Tonight,” which was causing nondancers to flee the dance floor and others to rush it like a sale on spiral-cut ham at Thanksgiving.
He grabbed my hand and yanked. “None of your excuses, Callahan.” He sidestepped a couple whirling by, took my other hand, and twirled me into promenading two-step position. “And don’t step on my feet.”
I couldn’t respond with anything snarky as I was doing my best not to cripple him with the heel of my boots or trip any of the other dancers.
“Relax,” he said into my ear, which caused goose bumps to rise on my neck and down my spine.
I drew a deep breath and let the music flow over me, and then something magical happened. My feet took over, and my worries withdrew. Guess ballet folklórico was giving me confidence and allaying my fear of making a complete fool of myself.
“Watch out.” He pulled us out of the way of a couple doing what could be described only as a ’60s pony—only the ponies were running wild and stampeding the other dancers. If I had to guess, I’d say too many beers at the Shiner Bock stand.
I’m not thin, but Ryan did a good job of making me feel light on my feet. As we continued, it became obvious we were making it around the circle of dancers without incident, because he had a gift for leading me out of the path of oncoming disaster.
The music segued into something slower, which failed to be romantic as the lyrics had something to do with beer and the singer’s photo album filled with his lady and her truck. Before I could hightail it off the dance floor, Ryan pulled me to him.
I refused to put my arms around his neck like Hillary had done. Who could compare with the third runner-up to Miss America, even on her bad days? I grabbed him by the upper arms.
“About Hillary—”
“I don’t care. To answer your question, Gold Rush Lighting was broken into by a thief that needed a spare part.”
“What?” He drew back in confusion. “Wait.” He stepped close again. “Let me say my piece without you being so accommodating.”
“Be my guest.”
“I didn’t ask Hillary to dance, she asked me.”
I shrugged, and returned the wave of Anthony and his fiancée. “No explanations necessary.”
He searched my face. “Okay, uh, good.”
“When were you two thinking of going to Austin?” My voice was even and friendly.
“Did you check the White Pony’s concert schedule?” Ryan was assuming that I was still going. I had checked, but I wasn’t going. No way was I going to be the proverbial third wheel.
“Not yet.”
He didn’t answer as we continued to sway across the dance floor, not quite middle school Sadie Hawkins dance, but close. “Tell me what’s going on with you tonight.”
My heart started to thump in my chest until I realized he meant the robbery.
“I can’t give you
