Page 11 of No Offense

“It’s not that kind of dance, Dad,” Katie said with a laugh. “It’s a dance performance. I’m giving it, with the Snappettes.”

John relaxed. “Oh, your dance troupe. Oh, that’s fine, Katie, fine. Congratulations. When is it? I’ll make sure I’m there.”

With his new position as county sheriff had come a lot of responsibilities John hadn’t had as a detective. His social calendar was full, although not in the way he would have liked. He was constantly being called upon to attend fundraisers and political events that required him to wear his dress uniform, often outdoors in the blazing heat. It was a wonder to him that he had time to solve any crime, let alone ones as bewildering—and complicated—as the High School Thief and the Garbage Bag Baby.

His daughter’s dance recital would be a welcome relief—he’d be sure to have Marguerite mark it down on the schedule as a priority. Katie really was a talented dancer, and the school auditorium was fortunately air-conditioned.

“Dad, you’re not listening. It’s a special dance.” Katie sankinto one of the dining room chairs beside him. Christina had insisted on ultrasuede because it’d been both stylish at the time and wouldn’t show dirt with the baby—Katie. Christina had had all the chairs stain guarded. They looked as new as the day they’d arrived, much like Katie’s eyes, as blue as his own, but of course years younger and filled with an innocence he’d lost long ago looking at burned-up corpses in dumpsters in Miami back when he’d worked homicide there. “It’s a mother-daughter dance.”

He nearly choked on his beer. “A what now?”

“A mother-daughter dance. Every year all of the Snappettes from previous classes get together and perform onstage with the current Snappettes. They do a really old number from like, the nineties, and then a number that the current class of Snappettes is working on. It’s one of the biggest fundraisers of the year.”

John shook his head in bewilderment. “Fund-raiser for what?”

“For the Snappettes, of course. You know we’ve been invited to perform at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade next year. It’s a huge honor, but we need to provide for airfare and housing, plus costumes, for thirty girls and eight chaperones. That’s a lot of money.”

John nodded as if he understood what she was talking about. It seemed like he was always doing this. Ever since his pretty, vivacious daughter had auditioned for and gotten into the high school’s all-female dance troupe, she’d been happier than he could ever remember her being. This was good, since she’d been a little down, first over thedivorce, then the move to Little Bridge, and then finally her best friend’s acquisition of a boyfriend, Marquis Fairweather, a fine young man of whom John approved because he did well in school, played sports, and kept himself out of trouble.

Even though the Snappettes’ name was absurd (literally, they were named after the fish most commonly found in the local waters, the red and yellowtail snapper) and seemed to rehearse an ungodly number of hours, Katie loved the camaraderie and creative outlet of her school dance troupe.

“Dance,” she’d informed her father dreamily one day after another grueling four-hour rehearsal, “is my life, Dad.”

So what was one more performance now?

“Well, honey,” he said, taking another swig of his beer. “Sounds good to me. I will definitely be there. How long till we eat? That chicken smells good.”

“No, Dad,” Katie said. She was scowling. “I don’t think you heard what I said. It’s amother-daughterdance.”

He was still confused. “Well, no, I heard you. And you can invite your mother down for it. I’m sure if you give her the date in enough time, she’ll be able to—”

“Dad, you don’t understand.” Katie’s voice had gone hard as flint. “The mothers and the daughters perform in the dancetogether. Onstage. Rehearsals start now. And continue for the next twelve weeks. The performance is in June.”

Now John realized what the problem was. And why he probably was going to need a second beer after all.

“Well, honey,” he said, carefully. “I don’t think that sounds real fair to the girls like you whose mothers don’t live on the island. Or what about girls whose mothers are too busy with their jobs to spend twelve weeks rehearsing for a dance?”

He knew for a fact that several of the girls’ mothers on Katie’s dance team fell into this category. Like Molly Montgomery, for instance. Not that she had any children—he knew this, because, God help him, he’d found a little time to google her and discovered her social media page (she had only one). He’d learned from it that she was completely devoted to her job as a children’s librarian. Or at least that’s what he assumed since she only posted pictures of books and links related to books, libraries, and reading. There were no photos of herself—no selfies that some women seemed to love so much—and not a single photo of whoever had given her the ring that was now gone from her left hand.

This, he felt, was a good sign. Of what, he wasn’t sure.

“And how about the girls who don’t have mothers?” he asked. “Or who have two dads? Or whose mothers can’t dance? What if there’s a girl who has a mother like me, who has two left feet?” He did a fumbling step-ball-change, attempting to lighten the mood. “Are they gonna make those moms perform anyway?”

Katie did not crack a smile. “Of course they aren’t. People like Leila’s mom, who runs her own restaurant, or Sharmaine’s mom, who’s a surgeon, or Kayla’s mom, who just had a baby—obviously no one expects their moms to participate. We have some of the old Snappettes alumni coming back to take their places. It’s fine. We’ll be fine. Except—”

He saw those blue eyes he loved so much fill with tears. It was exactly as he’d feared. Something was wrong.

“Except what, sweetheart?” He reached out to brush back a soft lock of her dark hair as she bent her head.

“Except I asked Mom if she would dance with us, and she said no. She’d just make a donation.”

He’d known this was coming, of course. Of course she’d already asked Christina, and of course Christina had said no. What else could Christina say? She had a thriving design business back on the mainland. It took three hours—and that was in good traffic—to drive to Little Bridge, and another three hours to get back. She couldn’t spend that much time driving back and forth for twelve weeks of rehearsals, several times a week.

And for what? A fundraiser? It was simpler to send a check. Which is what practical, level-headed Christina had very sensibly offered to do instead—especially considering how much they’d already paid for all of Katie’s dance gear and choreography fees, which was nearing a thousand dollars for the year so far.

“But that isn’t the point,” Katie explained to John, who’d wrapped his arms around his daughter, pulling her in for a big bear hug as she sobbed. “It isn’t about the m-money!”

“I know,” he said into her hair as he patted and rocked her. “I know. But we’ve talked about this before. You’re mother just isn’t—”