Dancing with Murder

by Robert T. Jeschonek

I pushed away from the stage and grabbed her arm. "Can I see it? Right now?"

  Mom stared into space for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't see why not."

  Baba hobbled over and grabbed her other arm. "Just so there's no Miss Peggy involved." She raised an eyebrow in my direction.

  I shook my head. "Just me, I promise." For now, anyway.

  "All right then. Let's all go have a listen." Mom said it casually, as if she were talking about a run-of-the-mill recording, not the last artifact of two dead polka legends. "I'll bet it's good."

  I gaped in disbelief as I followed her. "You mean you haven't listened to it yet?"

  "I guess I was saving it," said Mom. "So I could hear his voice one last time."

  "Oh, brother." Baba Tereska coughed loudly as she hobbled alongside me. "When are you going to get over him?"

  Mom waved dismissively over her shoulder at us. "I don't think that's any of your business."

  *****

  Chapter 47

  Mom wouldn't show us where she'd kept the recording hidden. She made Baba and I sit on the plaid sofa in the cramped living room of her apartment with the TV on, volume up high, while she retrieved it. We couldn't see where she'd gone, and we couldn't hear a thing over the sound from the TV.

  Then, she strolled back in carrying a manila envelope. Printed in big black strokes on the front were the initials "LK/EK."

  Lou Kachowski and Eddie Kubiak.

  Mom grabbed the remote control from the dark brown wooden coffee table and switched off the TV. "Ta da!" With a flourish, she held up the envelope for us to see before undoing the clasp and opening the flap. "Drum roll please."

  "Now who's the showman?" Baba Tereska gave me a sly wink.

  A strand of brown hair had worked its way free of Mom's bun, and she had to brush it back off her forehead. Then, with a quick smile at Baba and me, she reached into the envelope.

  My heart beat fast as Mom fished out the contents. The thought of finding the missing recording was thrilling; I couldn't wait to hear what was on it.

  "Gotcha." Mom pulled out her hand, and a disk came with it...but not the kind of disk I'd expected. Instead of a CD with a smooth, mirrored surface catching the light, Mom brought out a black disk, also shiny but ringed with thin grooves.

  A 45-RPM record, in other words.

  "Ha!" Baba rocked forward and slapped her knees. "I hope you've got a record player, synowa!"

  Mom held the 45 carefully, by the edges, and stared at it with fascination. "Of course I do, teœciowa. You didn't think I'd prolong the suspense, did you?" She handed the record to me and walked off down the short hallway that led to her tiny bedroom and office/wardrobe/storage room. Life after the divorce hadn't been as kind to her as to Lou; her little apartment was quite a contrast from his spacious house in Upper Gdansk.

  As Baba and I waited for Mom's return, I gazed at the black disk in my hands. Turning it over, I saw that the flip side was smooth, without grooves. "They only recorded on one side. All that's on here is one song."

  "It better be a hell of a song," said Baba.

  It already felt like a letdown, the fact that they'd only recorded enough material for one side of a 45. I'd been hoping for more--a whole album's worth of music on a compact disk or flash drive. It would've been more of a legacy, more of a thrill.

  But this would have to do.

  "Here we are." Mom marched back down the hall carrying a box covered in pink vinyl. It was about a foot long on each side, and a foot high. "Clear off the coffee table, would you?"

  Leaning forward, I scooped up magazines and the TV remote control from the coffee table and dropped them on the floor beside me. There was a centerpiece, a glass bowl full of black and white marbles, and I slid that to one side, leaving room for Mom's box. "How's that?"

  "A little more room, please, honey." I moved the centerpiece closer to the edge, and Mom set down the box. "Thanks." Smiling, she popped a brass latch on one side. "I've had this since I was a little girl." The box opened like a clamshell, unfolding along a pair of hinges. Mom laid down the top half, revealing a turntable complete with spindle and stylus in the bottom half.

  There was a power cord coiled in the lid between two speakers. Mom pulled out the cord and ran it over to the wall, where she plugged it into an outlet. Stepping over the cord, which hung six inches above the deep brown shag carpet, she reached for the record.

  I hated to let go of it, but I handed it over.

  Mom slipped it down the skinny chrome stylus and fit it over the plastic disk at the bottom--an adaptor for 45s with their big central holes. "The suspense is killing me." She turned a knob that switched on the power and started the platter spinning. "Here goes."

  There was a whirring sound as the stylus arm popped free of its cradle and slid toward the record. The stylus stopped, then smoothly descended. When it touched down on the edge of the spinning 45, the speakers hissed and crackled.

  Then, the needle hit the start of the recording cut into the black vinyl, and there was music.

  The first thing we heard was a typical fast-moving polka intro with horns, drums, and accordion. Somebody whooped in the background--I think it was Eddie Sr.--and then the song kicked into full gear.

  And I was stunned. I was really blown away.

  I'd never heard an angry polka before.

  The tune bounced along, as breezy as any polka, but the lyrics were fierce. Sung alternately by Dad and Eddie Sr., they were all about the oppression and abuse of the Polish people during World War II and the Soviet occupation. The theme was sweet revenge carried out by the Poles--and polka itself--exemplified by the phrase repeated over and over in the chorus:

  Polka strikes back.

  The first time I heard it, I understood what Charlie had overheard Lou and Eddie arguing about at the Falcons: not "strikes" as in bowling, but "strikes" as in polka and Poland striking back.

  Amazingly, the craziest part of the song wasn't the angry tone or the title, though. The part that really made my head spin was the bridge.

  Instead of a straightforward instrumental, the bridge was a jarring jumble of sound effects. I heard gunfire, explosions, crashing, clanging...weeping, screaming, screeching tires, crackling flames...dogs howling, lions roaring, hyenas laughing. There were other sounds that I couldn't identify, too, thrown into the mix with seemingly no rhyme or reason.

  For instance, snippets of what sounded to me like chattering gibberish. I caught several of them threading through the muddle of noise, and at first I couldn't guess what they might be.

  But then, I got it.

  "What kind of garbage is that?" Baba Tereska scowled at the ruckus coming from the turntable's speakers. "They call this a song?"

  I heard one last flurry of gibberish before the chaotic bridge gave way to another clean, bouncy verse. And I had an inkling of what Dad and Eddie Sr. had done with this recording.

  I smiled as the verse led to another chorus and a big, swirling finish. "More like a message in a bottle, I think."

  Baba smacked my arm. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I'll let you know, if I can borrow that record." I pointed at the 45 under the needle.

  When the last notes had faded, and the stylus had hopped off the record and swung back to its cradle, Mom switched off the turntable. "I don't know, honey. Lou said it's the only copy."

  "The only copy, maybe, but there must be a master tape or file somewhere. Either way, it doesn't matter." I waved my hand like I was shooing something. "This might be Dad's last message, and we'll never figure it out if we keep it locked up."

  "Let her take it." Baba folded her arms over her chest and shook her head. "It's not much of a song. Maybe it'll still be good for something."

  Mom gently lifted the record off the turntable. She stared at it for a long moment, then sighed and retrieved the manila envelope from the end table where she'd put it.

  Slowly, she lowered the 45 into the envelope. "You have to promise me you'll protect t
his." Withdrawing her hand from the envelope, she folded down the flap and closed the brass clasp. "It's the only thing he left me."

  She said it like it meant a lot to her, which made me sad. Would she ever get over her feelings for him? I doubted it. Had he taken advantage of those feelings to find a safe place for his record? Probably.

  Had he had a good reason for doing so? I was going to find out. "I'll take good care of it, Mom. I promise."

  She held the envelope out to me, then pulled it back. "Maybe I should just go with you, honey."

  "Please, Mom." I got up from the sofa and reached for the envelope. "Trust me. I won't let it out of my sight."

  Baba Tereska sighed loudly. "Just give it to her, synowa! Let her break it over her knee if she likes! Why spoil the memory of that ex-husband of yours with that awful racket?"

  Mom nodded and handed it over. "Good luck with it, Lottie."

  "Thanks, Mom." I kissed her on the cheek. "I'll let you know what I turn up."

  *****

  Chapter 48

  It wasn't until I pulled up in front of my room at the DeeLite Efficiency Motel that I realized I hadn't smoked all day. I hadn't even thought about it since that morning, when I'd tried to light up and found Eddie Sr.'s dead body instead.

  So did I want a smoke now? I considered it as I switched off the headlights. On the one hand, the fact that I hadn't thought about smoking all day was a good sign that I hadn't fallen off the wagon completely. I could just write off the one I'd smoked the night before as a fluke, a temporary relapse.

  On the other hand, now that I thought about smoking, I craved it again. Nothing helped me wind down at the end of the day like a cigarette. After the day I'd been through, who could blame me for having one?

  Since my room was non-smoking, though, I'd have to light up outside. Switching off the car, I fished the open pack of cigarettes out of my butterscotch leather purse, found my lighter, and got out. I took the manila envelope with me, tucked under my arm. It was the last artifact of my dad; I hated to let go of it.

  Standing beside the rent-a-car, I popped a cigarette out of the pack and slipped it between my lips. Even unlit, the tobacco smelled sweet to me. I flicked the lighter to life and inhaled deeply, drawing in a warm lungful of smoke.

  I could feel the stress draining out of me starting with that first breath. It had piled up all day, from finding Eddie Sr.'s body to watching Eddie Jr. break down, from facing off with Father Speedy to sparring with my family over Polkapourri. Now, standing under the night sky with the comfort of a cigarette in my hand and the comforting taste of tobacco smoke in my mouth, I began to relax.

  The parking lot fell silent--no traffic on the surrounding streets, no doors slamming, no voices, not even the wind. The only sound was the hissing of the cigarette as it flared when I inhaled...then the soft rushing of the smoke from my lips when I breathed out.

  In the quiet and stillness of the moment, I felt suddenly lonely. With nothing to distract me, I thought about Dad and Luke and the club--the people I'd lost, the life I could never go back to.

  How could I keep moving forward? How could I face the challenges that were coming?

  They were going to exhume my father's body the next day. Polkapourri would start in two days, but it would take a small miracle to make it happen. There was a secret hidden in Dad's last recording, and I had to ferret it out.

  Even with Peg, Mom, Baba, and the Furies involved in one way or another, it didn't seem possible to handle all that. The weight on my shoulders seemed heavier than any I'd ever felt there before.

  Looking up at the glittering stars, I wished I could go back to a simpler time. Just a few weeks ago, everyone I loved was still in my life. The only murder victims in my world were on TV crime shows. I worried about my failing business, but at least I wasn't lonely. No one I cared about was in mortal danger.

  Sometimes, it felt like I'd turned back the clock just by coming home to New Krakow. There were so many familiar faces and places, so many situations that stirred up old memories. But it still wasn't the same. Not with the knowledge of everything that had happened and every battle I had yet to fight still circling my mind like vultures.

  The best I could hope for right now was this cigarette, these stars, this stillness, this silence.

  Which, suddenly, was no longer still or silent.

  Footsteps. I heard them scuffing from somewhere nearby, coming closer.

  I tipped my eyes down from the view of the stars and looked around. I heard three more footsteps, and I turned in their direction--to my right, toward the front of the motel. I thought I glimpsed a figure there, peeking around the corner, but then it was gone. It might have been my imagination, fooled by the shadows from the overhang...

  But those footsteps had been absolutely real. And with the way things were going, I couldn't afford not to take them seriously.

  I flicked my cigarette across the parking lot. Its glow leaped through the night and landed on the pavement in a splash of orange embers.

  I reached for the door handle on the driver's side of my car, intending to retrieve my purse and keys. But when I glanced at the front corner of the motel building, my plans changed.

  A tall, dark figure stood in the shadows there, facing in my direction. The figure was shrouded in a trench coat and baseball cap, silhouetted in the dim red glow from the neon sign in front of the motel.

  As I watched, he started walking toward me along the row of rooms.

  It wouldn't take him long to reach me. Heart racing, I threw the car door open, ducked inside, and reached for the key, which was still plugged into the ignition. I turned it and stomped on the gas pedal.

  Too hard. The engine wouldn't start. I must've flooded it.

  I tried again with the same result. Now there was only one other place I could go to get away fast.

  In a state of near-panic, I grabbed the keys and jumped back out of the car. As I slammed the door shut, I stole another glimpse of the mysterious figure.

  He started to run.

  Even as I bolted toward the door of my room, I knew it was going to be a close call. He was five doors away, then four, by the time I got my room key near the keyhole. My hands were shaking as the running footsteps approached.

  Which was why I dropped the keys.

  I ducked down to grab them, but by then it was hopeless. The figure was two doors away, closing the gap.

  I was about to end up like Eddie Sr. I was sure of it.

  Then, without warning, a streak of white leaped out of the shadows and darted across his path.

  Surprised, the figure stumbled over his own feet and went down, crashing into a flower planter in front of the room next-door. As soon as he hit, he started thrashing, fighting to get clear of the planter and back on his feet.

  I wasn't going to wait around for that. Panting, I snatched up the keys, fumbled my way to the one for my room, and jammed it home in the keyhole. One quick turn, and the deadbolt cleared the jamb.

  As my pursuer rolled away from the planter, I yanked the knob hard to one side and threw open the door.

  Just as I was about the run inside, I realized I didn't have the record anymore.

  Frantically, I looked down at the sidewalk, but didn't see it. Scanning back along my path, I spotted the manila envelope on the black pavement near the front of my car.

  Without thinking, I sprinted the four steps it took to reach the envelope. I scooped it up and dashed for the door, praying I could make it.

  Glancing right, I saw my pursuer was on his knees. I had a second, maybe two, to beat him inside.

  Adrenaline surged through me, fueling a burst of energy. I flung myself into the room and slammed the door shut...

  ...but not before a familiar streak of white flashed through.

  The instant the door crashed into the jamb, I locked the deadbolt, then the chain. Shaking and panting, I staggered backward, waiting for my pursuer to make his next move. I kept expecting him to kick in the d
oor or shoot it full of holes.

  But he did neither.

  I settled on the foot of the bed and put the envelope down beside me, never taking my eyes off the door. If he did come through, I had no idea what I'd do next.

  I should have called the police right away. He probably expected me to; maybe that was why he wasn't breaking down the door or shooting up the place.

  But instead of picking up the phone, I sat and waited. And my savior, the white streak, jumped up on my lap and kept me company.

  Ghost the cat had come back to me.

  "You saved my life." I whispered the words as I stroked his snow-white fur. "You're my hero."

  Ghost settled in a ball on my lap and purred softly. Like me, he kept his eyes trained on the door.

  "Thank you for coming back, Ghost." I rubbed his head between his ears. "I love you so much."

  We sat there like that for hours, watching and waiting. But no one broke down the door or even knocked.

  And eventually, we fell asleep, curled up together on the bed.

  *****

  Chapter 49

  A streak of warm sunlight woke me, slanting across my face from a gap in the curtains. I rolled away from it, but the damage was done; my brain snapped to full alertness.

  When I sat up, my eyes flew straight to the nightstand. According to the digital clock, it was just past 8:30. After sitting for so long with Ghost, wide awake till at least four in the morning, I'd slept in much later than planned.

  Speaking of Ghost, he wasn't on the bed with me when I came around. Scanning the room, I saw no trace of him...and then I checked his favorite hiding place. Sliding off the bed, I got down on my hands and knees, lifted the edge of the spread, and dropped my head to floor level. When I looked under the bed, two bright green eyes stared back at me, unblinking.

  "Hello, sweetie." I couldn't help smiling. "Time for breakfast."

  He didn't come out until I'd poured a bowlful of milk and put it down on the floor at the foot of the bed. He slipped out when my back was turned; the next thing I knew, he was lapping away at the milk.