Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

mewling—
    A gentle hand capped her head. The frightening images vanished.
    David said, “But we know you’re not Mary Lou, don’t we?”
    She raised her head and his hand slid away. “I don’t know who I am, but I know I’m not Mary Lou.”
    Zoey cried, “Damn it, David, you really scared me.”
    T.J. watched both warily. Was it an act?
    “The papers said you were found wandering in Central Park covered with blood, that you were identified as the missing woman from the Teterboro explosion. You don’t remember anything?”
    “Bits of things not related to what happened to me, like I prefer Zabar’s bagels to H & H’s and that I own a dog and that I may be a—”
    “Dancer,” David finished for her.
    “How do you know?”
    “The way you move, the way you folded yourself up just now.”
    “Yes, you’re right. It’s instinctive. About that explosion—I think I was there because when I thought you would turn me in, I heard a terrible noise and felt myself flying and falling—”
    “Go on.” His gaze was penetrating.
    She shuddered, got up, walked a few paces, turned back to them. “I landed on something soft and squishy.”
    “Gross,” Zoey said. She jumped up and held T.J.
    David picked up the mugs and set them on the counter.
    “They told me at the hospital that I would start remembering, in isolated moments, or large chunks. I want to do it with, forgive me, strangers, who won’t lie to me about who I am.”
    “They’re looking for her, David,” Zoey said. “They came to the Main Brew this morning because someone spotted her with me last night and told. What can we do?” She made no mention of her seizure, staring hard at T.J. as if to say, don’t tell on me .
    His response, if he intended one, was lost in the dramatic arrival of a trio, an inordinately tall woman and two men, filling the huge room with “good mornings.” Their curiosity colored their movements as they sent quick glances in T.J.’s direction while draping their coats over the wall hooks. They were all dressed in black long sleeved, tight fitting tops and black, equally tight fitting pants.
    David settled his arm around T.J. shoulders. “I wasn’t kidding about the reward being offered,” he whispered, his breath cool in her ear. She stiffened. “But we can hide you in plain sight, can’t we, Zoey?”
    “Oh, David,” Zoey cried, “Of course.”
    “Come,” he said. He stepped toward the three newcomers, pulling T.J. with him. “This is T.J., and these splendid characters are the rest of the Lumare Mimes. Mona—” Mona made a quick swirl. “— Jeff—” Jeff did a back flip, and bowed. “—And Eric.” Eric sprang forward, went down on one knee before T.J. and lifted her hand to his lips.
    T.J. suddenly found herself in the midst of a pirouette that ended with an elaborate curtsy. How on earth—she rose self-consciously, feeling the rush of heat to her cheeks. Zoey clapped her hands. David had a smug smile on his face.
    T.J. thought, he’s a man who has to be right.
    “I don’t have to tell you, T.J. is a dancer,” David said. “We’re going to add her to the troupe and see how the dynamic changes.”
    “What about this afternoon’s performance?” Mona sat on one of the tall stools and reached into her backpack. In no time at all, she was smoothing white makeup over her face.
    Eric and Jeff did the same.
    Clown white, T.J. thought. It was something she knew.
    “T.J. can make up and watch us work, then ...”
    “Grab a stool, dude,” Zoey told T.J. “I’ll show you.”
    Zoey’s makeup kit was a pale green tool box. She snapped it open. The pungent odor of stage paint was a madeleine. T.J. closed her eyes, inhaled deeply.
    She was on stage, a line of dancers, laughing, curtain up, music up, the taps glory. The joy of it, the intense joy.
    The window closed.
    “Don’t move your head,” Zoey said. “Lean back against the mirror. When I turn you around, you’ll be surprised.”
    “The face is a cartoon,” David said. “The eyes and eyebrows darkened. And Columbines have high brows. Wide-eyed innocence.”
    “Chin up,” Zoey said.
    Eric, fully made up, peered over Zoey’s shoulder, puckered over-sized red lips, outlined in black. Palms together, he laid his cheek on his hands.
    Zoey giggled. “He wants me to give you smoochy lips.”
    Mona looked sad and hung her head.
    “Please don’t be sad, Mona,” T.J. said. “I’m not in love with Eric.”
    Mona’s huge red lips