Dying for a Dance

by Cindy Sample

  I stared at Dana, appalled that this woman, a respected and admired community leader, possessed such a lack of judgment.

  She shook her head and met my gaze. “I know, in retrospect, it sounds absolutely idiotic. Dimitri kept coming up with more and more grandiose concepts. First the high-cost floor then one of those large glitter balls for our special events. He even ordered special mirrors that make everyone look slender.”

  Mirrors that make you look skinny? Now that was a brilliant concept. I needed to find out where you could buy one of those.

  “The last check I gave him was supposed to be used for signing bonuses for the big name teachers from the Bay Area. One of the professionals who occasionally performed on Dancing with the Stars agreed to be a guest instructor. How could I refuse?”

  She couldn't. I would mortgage my house to dance with one of those guys.

  “I'm still not sure why your business arrangement with Dimitri automatically makes you a suspect. Didn't you show the detectives your partnership agreement?”

  “I was afraid to put anything in writing in case Gordon found out. It seemed better to stick to a verbal agreement. I've been dancing with Dimitri for almost three years and I felt like we had a special relationship. I trusted him.”

  Amazing how good looks and biceps could transform a banker's wife into a silly teenager.

  “Okay, what else do they have?”

  “The sheriff is positive Dimitri was my lover since I gave him so much money. They insinuated I killed him in a jealous rage.”

  “The money aspect is somewhat suspicious, but why do they assume you were angry with Dimitri?”

  She stared down at her hands then raised her eyes to me. “Someone overheard us arguing at the studio earlier that afternoon. Someone who heard me threatening that I would...” Her voice broke off.

  “Threatening that you would tell someone he stole your money?”

  Her eyes locked with mine. “Threatening to kill him.”

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  * * *

  TWENTY-ONE

  * * * *

  Just when you think you've heard everything.

  “Pretty strong words,” I commented.

  “I was upset and it was merely a figure of speech but...” She held her palms up and looked at me apologetically.

  “So who overheard your conversation?”

  “Anya.” She mumbled something under her breath that rhymed with witch. “She's the one who informed the police about our argument. I'm certain she and Dimitri were lovers, and I bet she suspected he and I were fooling around. A couple of times my dance shoes disappeared and I noticed her snickering as I combed the studio for them.”

  I remembered the sultry manner in which Anya and Yuri danced in the studio the other day. “Are you certain Dimitri and Anya were lovers? She and Yuri seem joined at the hip, thighs and most of their movable body parts.”

  Dana tilted her head to the side. “As far as I can tell, Anya is only interested in one thing...and that's Anya.”

  I looked at her curiously.

  “Whatever it takes for Anya to advance her career she'll do, whether it's sleeping with the other teachers, married or single, or her clients, married or single. Even Boris.” Dana chuckled. “Okay, maybe not Boris. She has some standards.”

  Ouch. So the only man Anya wouldn't sleep with was the studio owner who thought he and I would make a great couple. My love life sucked.

  I contemplated Dana's remarks. “When did you and Dimitri argue?”

  “Around lunch time. I was so furious with him that I stormed out of the studio and drove home. For weeks, I'd been asking him to bring me copies of the leases, the invoices and the employment contracts with the Bay Area teachers. He assured me the money was well spent, but he could never produce anything definitive. I have no idea where all the money went.”

  “Maybe he tucked it away in a bank account,” I offered.

  “Yeah, right. The Bank of Dimitri,” she snorted, but in a ladylike banker's wife manner. “I was done with his lame excuses. All I could think about was that the money was gone and there was no studio. No big name dancers.”

  She cradled her head in her hands. “And no more dream.”

  “Does Mr. Chandler know what you did?” It was bad enough that her husband suspected his wife was fooling around with the dance instructor. I had a feeling financial hanky-panky would really hit him in his banker's gut as well as his wallet.

  She nodded sheepishly and began twisting the tissue again. “Gordon came home for lunch that day as he often does. I was so riled up from the argument I told him everything, that the money was gone and I had nothing to show for it. Gordon was absolutely silent. He didn't even get red-faced like he usually does when he's mad. He stood up from the kitchen table and left. No kiss. No hug. No comment. He got in his car and drove back to the bank.”

  I was starting to feel much more empathetic toward my boss. My life seemed relatively calm in comparison to what he recently suffered. I still couldn't decide whether or not to believe Dana's claim that her relationship with Dimitri was completely innocent. In the best case scenario, she had stolen money from her husband. Worst case, she had stolen money and committed adultery.

  “So why did you go back to the studio Thursday night?”

  “I had calmed down and hoped somehow I could force Dimitri into telling me what he really did with the funds. He just laughed at me earlier when I threatened to kill him. Said it wasn't the first time someone threatened him.”

  “You must have been stunned when you heard he was dead.”

  She stared at me in horror. “Honestly, I couldn't believe it.”

  I peeked at my watch. We had to wrap this up soon. “It still doesn't seem like they have enough evidence pointing to you. Do you have any suspects in mind? What about those death threats Dimitri said he received?”

  “I've wracked my brain but, honestly, Dimitri was so unpopular with the male instructors, any one of them could have sent those notes. Boris would have been furious about Dimitri starting his own studio. I'm sure Irina, his wife, suspected he might have been fooling around with Anya, or even with me. As for Anya?” Dana's lips curved in a slight smile. “She's number one on my list but I don't have any proof other than she's a conniving bitch and I'm not sure that's enough for the sheriff.”

  I edged up from the wicker loveseat. “I need to leave, Dana. I'm not sure what I can do to help.”

  Dana grasped my forearm so tightly I thought my bones might shatter. “The detectives are still investigating other suspects but you can see it doesn't look good. You're friendly with Detective Hunter so I thought maybe you could put in a good word on my behalf. The DA hates Gordon so he probably can't wait to put together a case and prosecute me.”

  Her frightened eyes implored me. “Please. You're my only hope.”

  Could I refuse her plea? Possibly.

  Would I? Probably not.

  I said goodbye, slipped out the front door, started the car and drove the two blocks back into town. Driving past the Bell Tower, I caught up to Doc Wisner's black and red nineteenth century stagecoach. His team of sturdy black horses clip-clopped down Main Street carrying a boisterous group of boys and their exhausted parents. I followed in their wake on the lookout for a parking spot, which would be at a premium on the last Saturday before Christmas.

  A left blinker flashed and a dirty beige SUV scooted in front of the stagecoach, leaving a choice spot directly in front of the Old Town Grill.

  Bells jingled as I pushed open the frosted glass door to the Grille. Mother sat in a corner table, tapping away on her Blackberry, her gigantic diamond blinding me with its beams of light. I hoped she was so preoccupied with her messages, she wouldn't notice I was over ten minutes late.

  “Hello dear,” she intoned, not looking up, her thumbs working in tandem. For a sixty-two year old woman, her reflexes were excellent. “Late as usual.”

  “Sorry.” My stomach rumbled a
s I grabbed one of the glossy menus resting on the oak-topped tables. If she was going to ignore me, I might as well distract myself by ogling the photos. I was so hungry I briefly considered ordering a cheeseburger with garlic fries, chocolate shake, and a stack of pancakes. And maybe an apple pie chaser.

  Mother punched a button then set her device on the table. Even on a Saturday morning she was dressed to kill, in a belted green tweed jacket, complementary forest green pleated skirt and matching suede pumps, one of which was nudging my ankle. “So what were you doing this morning? You were so mysterious on the phone.”

  “A special project for the bank.”

  Our server appeared to take our orders. Mother chose her usual Cobb salad with dressing on the side and I followed suit, wistfully hoping a few stray French fries might leap off the fryer and accidentally land on top of my leafy greens.

  “I'm glad the bank finally appreciates your talents. Have you heard the rumors that Dana Chandler was having an affair with that dancer who was killed?” Her powdered nose wrinkled in dismay.

  “How well do you know Dana?” I asked.

  “We've worked together on several fundraisers. And we're both on the Holiday Can Drive committee.” She peered at me over her rose-colored reading glasses. “By the way, we need more volunteers to transport some of the items.”

  I can take a hint. The Holiday Can Drive would be added to my increasingly lengthy to-do list.

  “Dana is such a classy woman,” I commented. “I can't imagine her having an affair, much less murdering someone.”

  Mother took off her reading glasses and sighed. “She certainly doesn't appear capable of murder, but I'm probably not the best judge of character.”

  Considering she had been known to fraternize with a killer, I agreed with her assessment.

  “Do you know Dana from bank functions?” she asked.

  I nodded. “They also invited me to their house this morning. Supposedly Dana is the number one suspect in Dimitri's death. They thought I could help.”

  My mother's eyes widened. “Honey, I know Mr. Chandler is your boss, but I don't think you should get involved in another murder investigation. Especially one involving a Russian dancer. It wouldn't surprise me if the Russian Mafia was involved.”

  “Mom, you've been reading too many spy novels.” I chuckled at the thought of muscle-bound men sporting black leather jackets running around killing dance instructors attired in see-through mesh shirts.

  She shook a manicured index finger at me. “There is a large Russian community living in the foothills and in Sacramento. Many of them have purchased houses through me. Most are very sweet, but you never know what kind of ties they could have to criminals here and abroad.”

  I pondered her statement. Was there some truth in what she said? Could Dimitri have been involved in a scheme involving the Russian mafia? What happened to all the money Dana had given him? My mind whirled with possibilities—black market vodka, caviar.

  Yum. Caviar.

  Our server appeared with our entrees. No caviar but a tasty assortment of chicken, bacon and veggies rested atop the crisp greens.

  “I suppose you'll investigate whether I want you to or not,” Mother said as she took a bite of salad. “It would be terrible if Dana was arrested if she's not guilty. She does a lot of good in this community with all of her charity work. And the bank provides more loans to local residents than any other lending institution. So where would you start?”

  My fork hovered over chunks of avocado as I contemplated my approach. “According to several people, Dimitri was not the most popular instructor in the studio, at least among the guys. Plus there could be some jealous females. But I don't know where I can find the time to interview all the instructors.”

  “I may have a solution for you. Robert and I want to take ballroom lessons.”

  Tall, Bald and Homely on the dance floor? With my elegant mother?

  She really was in love.

  “You're not planning a dance routine for your wedding, are you?” The bite of egg I'd swallowed turned to cement as I realized how committed my mother was to marrying her new fiance. Despite her announcement last week, I'd pushed her impending marriage to the farthest recesses of my mind, figuring that eventually she would come to her senses.

  I wanted to be happy for my mother. I really did. She'd been glowing like a freshly-facialed starlet since the two of them had begun dating. And even though the woman sitting across from me, dressed in pearls, tweed and high heels drove me crazy most of the time, she had been my lifeline for all of my thirty-nine years. Marriage to Bradford would change our mother/daughter dynamic and I wasn't sure I was ready to share her with anyone else just yet.

  She chuckled. “We're in love but we're not as loony as Liz. Robert already admitted he has two sized thirteen left feet, so the best I can hope for is one brief dance at our wedding that won't embarrass us too much.”

  Yeah, well good luck with that.

  “With Robert's background, he could probably ferret out more information than you can,” she said.

  My mind recalled Detective Bradford's interrogative technique when he investigated me. Not the most subtle approach, but it couldn't hurt for him to do a little detecting at the dance studio.

  And dancing together might be the perfect way to break them up. I felt kind of guilty at such a devious thought, but my only concern was my mother's well being. And I sincerely doubted Bradford was the man to make her happy for the rest of her life. Their dance lessons could actually serve a dual purpose.

  “I can't believe I'm saying this but that sounds like an excellent plan.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Detecting while dancing. It certainly can't hurt, can it?”

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  * * *

  TWENTY-TWO

  * * * *

  Monday morning found me singing lustily to “I'm a Single Lady” while I inhaled the scent of a new coconut lime shampoo Liz guaranteed would make my hair bounce when I walked. Personally, I thought enough of my body parts bounced when I moved, but I wasn't averse to adding shine to my hair.

  The phone on my nightstand rang the second I lathered the magical concoction into my reddish brown curls. I threw open the shower door, grabbed a towel, and picked up the cordless phone.

  “Hello,” I said, attempting to wrap one cumbersome towel around my shivering frame, and the other over my dripping locks, which made it impossible to hear the response on the other end. The squawking that resonated over the line sounded faintly imperious so I had a fairly good idea who had chosen to interrupt my morning shower.

  “Laurel, what the blazes are you doing? It sounds like you're in a tussle with someone.” She giggled. “Did I interrupt some morning nookie?”

  I poked a finger in my ear trying to decide if it was plugged with water. Did Liz ask if I had my morning cookie?

  She forged ahead without waiting for a response. “I have wonderful news. Boris said everyone can get together to practice the wedding routine tonight. Isn't that brilliant?”

  Brilliant remained to be seen. I had no idea how well the other members of the wedding party were doing with their lessons, but presumably they were progressing faster than me, since I wasn't progressing at all. At least it would provide an opportunity to squeeze in a little more investigating.

  With my morning routine delayed by Liz's call, I blow dried my hair, slapped on my make-up and dressed in less than half an hour. I threw water and quick-cook Irish oatmeal into a pan and brought it to a boil. Then I stirred in cumin and cinnamon and turned the burner down to simmer.

  Ben arrived first at the table. He slid into the spindle-backed chair and threw a three-page document into my hand.

  “What's this?”

  “It's an addendum to my Christmas list.” He grinned at me, the empty space where his two front teeth had fallen out visual proof that despite his improving vocabulary, he truly was only seven years old.

  “An addendum?” Wha
t kind of spelling words were they giving second graders these days?

  He frowned at me. “Mom, don't you know what an addendum is? It's an addition to my Christmas list. I missed a few things in the first one.”

  I perused the forty-seven new items on the three-page document. My son was an eternal optimist.

  Steam erupted from the pot on the stove. I shut off the gas burner before the oatmeal could stiffen into glue. I spooned some of the cereal into a chipped blue enamel bowl, poured in some milk, threw in a handful of golden raisins, and placed the concoction in front of my son. He began shoveling it into his mouth.

  “Ben, slow down.”

  “Yeah, Ben, you sound disgusting,” complained his sister who had entered the kitchen and was now dishing her own oatmeal into a bowl.

  Her brother blinked long-lashed green eyes at her and gave her an owlish look. “Yeah, well, you look...”

  She thrust her chin at him. “I look what?”

  “You look pretty.” He grinned knowing a compliment from her little brother would be totally unexpected.

  I scrutinized my daughter's appearance: tight black jeans, trendy long-sleeved top and more makeup than usual. Jenna rarely wore any cosmetics beyond cherry lip-gloss. What was the deal?

  “You look nice, honey. Is there something special going on at school today?”

  “The winter concert for the jazz band is tonight,” she replied. “A bunch of the kids from chorus are going together. I told you about it last week.”

  Of course she did. I hoped my forgetfulness was only a sign of how overbooked I was and not a sign that an approaching birthday was bringing diminished mental capacity.

  I grimaced. “Sorry, I did forget and someone has to watch Ben tonight. Liz issued an ultimatum. Everyone needs to be at the studio at eight.”