Dying for a Dance

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Dying for a Dance Page 17

by Cindy Sample


  “How perfect. My scholarship event is that afternoon,” she said. “Maybe you can stop by for a few minutes. I guess I'm the only amateur from Golden Hills competing this time. Dana was supposed to dance with Yuri, but...” Her voice trailed off.

  I sighed. “It's horrible, isn't it? Dana must be beside herself with grief. I still can't imagine our bank president killing anyone, no matter how jealous he was.”

  “It sounds to me like they've arrested the right person,” Richard said. “I was concerned about Paula being at the studio but with that Chandler fellow in jail, I can relax. My wife is too passionate about her dance to worry about her own safety.”

  Paula smiled fondly at her husband. “Richard has all of these important clients to deal with and how does he spend his time? Worrying about me.”

  “Are you an attorney?”

  Richard made a face at the mention of the legal profession. “No, I own Mason Wealth Management. We're an investment banking firm.”

  He reached into his pocket and handed me his business card. “You never know when you might need a good financial manager to help you with your portfolio.”

  “My portfolio is barely large enough to keep my kitty supplied with cat food, but if Hangtown Bank needs to cut back on staff, I may be looking for a job. I'm a mortgage underwriter.”

  “With your experience analyzing financial statements, you could easily transition into this end of the financial sector. We offer a full range of services to our clients, from stocks and bonds to commodities.”

  Paula smiled at her husband. “Richard is the consummate salesman.”

  “The financial markets can be difficult to gauge but we invested wisely in the commodities market and our clients are thrilled with their returns.” He put an arm around Paula. “My wife is a huge asset in the business.”

  He turned to me. “And we're always looking for new talent.”

  I smiled at Paula. “You'll be happy to hear that my underwriting skills are far superior to my ballroom dancing skills.”

  She laughed. “Just keep practicing. By this time next year, you could be competing, too.”

  Richard's gaze was proud as he looked down at Paula. “My wife is totally dedicated to her dance.”

  She smiled affectionately at him. “And fortunately, Richard is totally dedicated to me.”

  We said our good-byes as they headed for the register and I went in search of my kids. It was nice to see a couple who cared so much for each other. Someday, I too hoped to gaze fondly at my spouse, assuming a new spouse was in the picture for me. For right now, I would concentrate on gazing fondly at a new pair of boots, a far easier task.

  A half hour later I was not only the owner of a pair of black mid-calf boots, but I had also found silver shoes to replace the broken pair still sitting in an evidence locker. They weren't as well crafted and lacked the suede soles of my old dance shoes, but they were considerably cheaper. Since I would be wearing them for less than eight hours during the wedding and reception, the cost was manageable. At least I only had one dance routine to worry about. I couldn't imagine worrying about multiple dance performances through several days of a ballroom competition.

  I now knew that ballroom dancing was a stressful, competitive and potentially dangerous sport, particularly at the professional level. Female dancers often risked life and limb during complicated aerial lifts with their partners. Lack of sleep or concentration could result in a critical injury. Stress levels among the studio's professional dancers would be extraordinarily high during this competition.

  It could be the perfect opportunity to find out more about the killer, although I had to be ultra careful.

  The last thing I wanted was for my new shoes to also end up in an evidence locker.

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  * * *

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  * * * *

  The next two days were a blur of activity. Even though Liz still had an occasional Bridezilla meltdown, she was realistic enough to realize that holding a shower, bachelorette party and a wedding during the holidays might be one too many festive events.

  On Wednesday night, the two bridesmaids, my mother and I threw Liz a combined shower/bachelorette party at the Snooty Frog, just down the street from Mother's office. Michelle, the owner, whipped up an enormous batch of her smoked salmon tortellini alfredo. Between the to-die-for pasta, gallons of wine and a karaoke machine one of the bridesmaids thought would be a good idea, we had wonderful memories of Liz enjoying her last moments as a single gal.

  Despite my protests, someone shoved the mike in my hands and I eked out a rendition of “I Will Survive” that hopefully would not survive nor go viral on You Tube. My mother and I stayed behind to clean up after the happy guests and bride-to-be departed.

  “I didn't have a chance to tell you the latest news about Dana,” she said.

  “Oh, no, what happened now?”

  “The Board of the Hangtown Women's Guild asked her to step down from her position as president. It's a shame because she's done so much good for our community.”

  I shoved the paper plates in the garbage bag. “I know life isn't fair, but that totally sucks.”

  “I agree but there's nothing you can do about it. Just concentrate on enjoying the wedding weekend.”

  I was planning on enjoying the wedding weekend. Especially once the wedding was over. But in the meantime, I was still concerned about Dana and Mr. Chandler, the bank, and well...me.

  * * * *

  Since my Prius was not equipped to haul three people, luggage, skis, and snowboards, Bradford and my mother decided to leave a day early and take the kids up to Tahoe on Thursday. The senior citizens agreed they would not cohabit in front of my kids so Mother would spend the night with Jenna, and Ben could hang out with his oversized pal.

  With our fearless leader locked up, our mortgage division was overwhelmed with borrowers wanting to close by year end. Or maybe they wanted to ensure the bank still had the money to fund their loans.

  Although the loan department was busy, the tellers spent far more time filing their nails than filing any paperwork. The gossip around the office was that significantly more money was flowing out of the bank than coming in. Numerous local merchants had either withdrawn substantial amounts of money or completely closed out their accounts.

  Not only were new deposits absent, but so were our end of the year bonuses. Several employees grumbled, but considering the impact Mr. Chandler's arrest had on the future of the bank, we were lucky we were still employed.

  I'd counted on receiving my own bonus by the thirtieth to offset the expenses of Christmas, the wedding, and our stay at the beautiful but not inexpensive Royal Tahoe resort. Liz had offered to pick up the tab for our hotel room but I refused. The hotel expense was the price one paid for friendship. I would do anything for my best friend, as evidenced by my tortuous dance lessons.

  My phone rang in the middle of checking off underwriter conditions. “Laurel speaking,” I said, concentrating on getting the current loan file I was working on off my desk and over to the funding department.

  “It's Dana.” Her voice caught as if she might break into sobs at any moment.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Okay, I guess. Poor Gordon is still in jail. They haven't set bail yet. The boys are furious with me...” At the mention of her sons, a torrent of tears flooded the phone line.

  Eventually she calmed a bit and got down to the reason for the call. “Tomas Novi said the bank is losing a ton of clients. I can't believe I created such a mess. Is there any chance we could meet?”

  Since I still believed in Mr. Chandler's innocence I was more than happy to get together with Dana. With the kids at Tahoe my only task this evening was to pack. We agreed to meet at The Pantry as soon as I got off work. With reporters from local newspapers and national gossip magazines camped at her Victorian mansion in the hopes of snaring a story, it seemed safer to meet elsewhere. One rag had publish
ed an issue featuring a photo of Mr. Chandler being led into the courthouse for his arraignment. The title still burned my eyeballs: Banker Bludgeons Bimbo's Boyfriend.

  Dana might be many things, but she definitely wasn't a bimbo.

  A little after five, I entered the coffee shop looking for the pretty, short-haired brunette. A platinum blonde with Gwen Stefani curls waved at me from one of the maroon leather-backed booths. Being the astute detective that I am, I headed in her direction.

  “Nice, um, disguise,” I muttered, taking in the curly wig and blue tinted glasses that rested on Dana's nose. With new lines etched alongside her pale lips, the getup made her look more like a faded rock star than a bank president's wife.

  “A reporter followed me into town. Fortunately I'd already stuck this old wig into a bag in case I needed to make a switch. Then I stopped at Placerville Clothing Company and bought this new outfit to fake him out.” She stretched her arm toward me. “Don't you love the feel of this natural cotton?”

  I rolled my eyes. Dana needed to focus on murder, not fashion.

  She patted her artificial curls. “Gordon always loved this wig. Whenever I would put it on he used to...” She blushed and fortunately our server chose that moment to stop at the table and drop off some menus. The young waitress didn't bat an eye at Dana's strange disguise and I was thrilled with the server's interruption. The last thing I wanted to visualize was the portly president and his blonde bewigged wife engaged in some marital role playing.

  We took a few minutes to peruse the menu. With a sleek bridesmaid dress to fit into, my choice was easy—the low fat, low calorie, low taste dinner of grilled fish and veggies. Once we ordered, Dana took off her oversized glasses and rubbed her eyes. “My life has been hell this past week. We've hired Michael Girling for Gordon's criminal defense work, but I had to put up a $250,000 retainer.”

  The expression on my face must have reflected my thoughts. Ouch!

  She nodded. “Right. And that's on top of the $300,000 that I gave to Dimitri, which used up our entire equity line. With property values still in the tank, we have no equity left in our house. We're also upside down on the value of a vacation home we own in Tahoe.”

  The Chandlers owned a vacation home in Tahoe? I wondered if they ever let family, friends, or favorite employees stay there for free.

  “The attorney is trying to get Gordon released on bail, but it's not easy on a homicide charge. Even if the DA allows it, the bail amount will be a huge sum of money like two million dollars and we don't have the collateral for that.”

  “Can your family help?”

  She lowered her eyes. “No, they're not...well, let's just say our relatives are not happy about this situation, nor are they able to help financially. And I can't see Gordon approving for me to hold a spaghetti fundraiser at the Elks Lodge to raise bail money. He has his pride.”

  One would think that wearing an orange jump suit 24/7 might erase some of those prideful notions, but what did I know?

  “Dana, I wish I could lend you money, but since there were no Christmas bonuses,” I threw that in because technically it was her mess that impacted all of the bank employees, “my balances on my credit cards far exceed the balances in my bank account.”

  Her face grew paler than the platinum wig she sported.

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “That was out of line.”

  “No, you're absolutely right. My crazy idea to open a dance studio with Dimitri has led to the murder of my teacher, the arrest of my husband, and bank employees possibly losing their jobs. Maybe even the closing of the bank.” She wiped her palm over damp eyes. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  The waitress chose that moment to bring our dinners. I looked at my diet plate with distaste. This conversation would be far more palatable if some batter-fried onion rings were smiling up at me instead of the overcooked veggies.

  “There's nothing to forgive, Dana. Let's concentrate on figuring out a way to spring your husband. Do you have any idea what evidence the police have other than him parking his car close to the studio the night Dimitri was killed?”

  “The police probably haven't shared everything with me but Gordon evidently called Dimitri a couple of hours before he was killed and left a threatening message on Dimitri's voicemail. They have proof of the call on his cell.” She fiddled with her salad, rearranging the greens and ending up with one tiny piece dangling on her fork. “I still can't believe my husband went to the studio to convince Dimitri to end our so-called affair. How could Gordon believe I would be unfaithful, after all of these years?”

  “Um, well, you did give all that money to your dance instructor without telling your husband.” Dana's naivete amazed me. She needed to get out of her mansion and experience life in the real world. I looked at the slightly askew wig on her head and decided she was already learning about the seedy realities of life.

  “Anything else?”

  “Not telling the detective he was at the studio is, of course, a huge deal, but I think it's understandable. My husband knew he didn't kill Dimitri so he didn't think it was necessary to share.”

  Typical CEO response.

  “Oh, and they went through Gordon's car after they arrested him. You know what a stickler my husband is about making sure all of the bank regulations are strictly followed? He's the same way with his car. He personally makes sure that all maintenance items are done right on schedule. With the first snowstorm of the season predicted, it was no surprise to me what he had stored in the trunk of his Mercedes.”

  I contemplated my arsenal of winter supplies. “A shovel? Window scraper?”

  “Of course. Gordon is prepared for every eventuality,” she said. “That's also why he had an open container of antifreeze.”

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  * * *

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  * * * *

  It was looking more and more like the only way to get my boss a “get out of jail free” card was to figure out who killed the two dancers. While it didn't surprise me that Mr. Chandler carried a supply of antifreeze in his car for a winter emergency, it sure didn't help our case since the odorless and colorless liquid was the ultimate cause of Yuri's death. If the District Attorney and the sheriff were positive they had the culprit, it was going to take the skill set of an underwriter to prove them wrong.

  Dana and I parted with hugs. She agreed to keep me informed of any new updates and I promised to continue investigating. With the wedding taking place at the same location as the Holiday Ball, I might be able to ferret out some information.

  I returned home just in time for the ten o'clock weather forecast. The weather guy stood next to his electronic map and not alongside the highway freezing his icy butt off which meant it wasn't snowing yet. Why television news shows think their audience enjoys watching ice crystals form on a reporter's face every time a blizzard blankets the mountains never ceases to amaze me.

  According to the forecast, there should be no new snow until the morning of New Year's Eve at the earliest. I had no problem with that. We'd be safe and cozy in our mountain lodge and there was nothing prettier than watching soft snowflakes fall on the cobalt blue water of Lake Tahoe.

  Especially from inside the resort.

  The phone rang and my maternal autopilot kicked into gear. I ran into the kitchen to grab it, worried something had happened to the kids. My caller ID revealed there was no need to fret. “Hey, Stan, what's up?”

  “I'm so screwed.”

  “How eloquent. What's wrong?”

  “My car won't start and I need a ride.”

  “Up to Tahoe? Sure. Without the kids and their gear I have room for you. What time will you be ready to leave in the morning?”

  He cleared his throat. “Umm, how about now? I'm at the Golden Hills Studio. AAA said it wasn't the battery so they're towing the Beemer to the dealer.”

  “What are you doing at the studio this late?”

  Stan emitted a sound that was a combination of
a moan and a wheeze. “Anya talked me into competing in the newcomer tango event at the Holiday Ball. We just finished practicing, but she already took off. Said she had to be somewhere by ten.”

  “Are you kidding? Why didn't you tell me you're competing?”

  He blasted a sigh over the phone line. “I didn't want anyone to find out in case I totally embarrassed myself.”

  I was stunned Anya had talked Stan into dancing at the New Year's Ball. It was worth the drive to find out how she'd managed to do it. When I arrived at the studio twenty minutes later, Stan catapulted out the door and into my car almost before the vehicle came to a full stop.

  “Anya sure has amazing persuasive abilities,” I commented. “She should join the legal profession. How come you were able to practice tonight? Boris told me the studio was closed this week.”

  “The teachers all have keys in case they need to rehearse their routines before an event. I can't believe I'm competing either, but Anya is positive I'll take first place in newcomer tango.” Stan shifted in his seat and turned in my direction. “Did you know that the more awards the teachers and their students take in a competition, the better opportunity they have of winning the Top Teacher award for that event?”

  “No, I didn't know and I don't particularly care, although...” I mulled over his statement. “So what do they get if they win Top Teacher? A trophy? Money?”

  “Anya said this competition is so big the top award is ten thousand dollars.”

  “Wow. That is a big prize. Would that be significant enough to kill someone?”

  My eyes were glued to the road, but Stan's snickering echoed throughout the car.

  “Laurel, no one would kill for $10,000.”

  “Hit men kill for less than that. Plus the prestige of winning Top Teacher could result in additional clients. Those hourly rates add up.”

 

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