Dying for a Dance Read online

  For a long moment the new widow stared at the picture of her deceased spouse as tears coursed down her cheeks. With her belly resting on the back of the sofa, Irina reached down and with difficulty removed one of her tiny size five shoes. Having borne two children myself, I could empathize with the swollen feet of a woman with an impending delivery date.

  Smack. The heel of her shoe bounced off the framed photo, making direct contact with Dimitri's face. Her voice rose to a screech as she once again hurled invectives at her deceased husband's image. Worried the glass might shatter, Paula and I ducked.

  A sinewy arm reached out and plucked Irina off the sofa. She collapsed into the arms of the new arrival.

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  * * *

  THREE

  * * * *

  Irina flung her arms around the neck of Boris, the studio owner. Even hugely pregnant, the widow still looked tiny in the arms of the six-foot five former championship dancer. He stroked her curly blonde hair and murmured in her ear, their conversation so intimate it made me feel like an intruder.

  I backed away into a rock hard male body, stomping with full force on his shoe. I whirled around to apologize for mashing yet another dancer's foot. My heart catapulted up to my eyebrows when I realized my victim wasn't a dancer. It was Detective Tom Hunter, my ex-boyfriend, assuming someone you dated only two weeks could be identified as a boyfriend.

  Two weeks emblazoned in my memory bank. And on my lips, because somehow between solving murders in San Francisco, and now here in El Dorado County, Detective Tom Hunter had mastered the art of kissing to perfection.

  “Laurel, what are you doing here?” Confusion mingled with pain as he gazed at me with Godiva brown eyes that made me contemplate something spicier than a box of chocolates.

  I straightened my spine and attempted that suck-in-your-gut and lift-your-butt thing which brought me almost an inch closer in height to his six-foot-three frame.

  “I'm taking a dance lesson. Are you here because of the, um...Dimitri?” My attempt to remain poised and collected failed as I choked up, once again picturing the poor victim lying in the parking lot.

  Tom started to speak when Deputy Katzenbach's boom box voice cut him off. “Hey, Hunter, about time you got here.”

  “I just received the call, Deputy,” Tom responded in a voice cooler than an Eskimo Pie. His eyes quickly scanned the room. “Have you interviewed everyone in the studio?”

  Katzenbach shrugged. “Nah, we were waiting for the hotshot to arrive.”

  Tom's shoulders tensed. No love lost between these two. I attempted to sidle away but Buzz Cut clamped his rib-roast-sized paw on my shoulder. “You'll wanna interview this gal first. She claims she discovered the body.”

  I bristled and reached up to shove Buzz Cut's hand from my shoulder when Tom removed it for me.

  “Get me a list of names and contact numbers for everyone who was in and outside the studio tonight,” he ordered the deputy in an authoritative but measured tone of voice. “Find out who can corroborate the presence of anyone else and during what time period.”

  Katzenbach jutted his bulldog jaw in my direction. “What about her?”

  “She'll be questioned by me. Is there a private room I can use for interviews?”

  “Yeah, Boris Gorsky, the owner of this place, said we can use his office.” Katzenbach pointed to the rear of the studio. The deputy's gaze flickered back and forth between Tom and me.

  He started, as if a light bulb finally clicked inside his brain. “Hey, you two know each other.”

  Must have been only a forty-watt bulb. It certainly took him long enough.

  “We've met,” Tom snapped. “I'll interview Ms. McKay right now. Bring me that list as soon as possible.”

  Dismissing the deputy, Tom guided me a few steps toward Boris's office then paused. “Wait here a minute. I need to talk to Deputy Montana.”

  He strode to the other end of the room where the professional dancers were segregated. The young good-looking deputy sat next to two of the female instructors at one of the small tables lining the side of the studio. The women leaned forward, their hands moving in tandem in that graceful pose invented by Fred Astaire, the third finger positioned lower than the other three fingers.

  I wondered how many of the students knew Fred had invented that style to disguise his overly large hands. As Liz, my bawdy British friend would say, ‘why would he cover up a bloody great asset like that?'

  Montana held a thick yellow pencil in his right hand, evidently in an attempt to interview the witnesses, but he appeared so mesmerized by the glossy haired beauties that I doubted he'd scribbled any notes on his pad. One of the women placed her palm on the deputy's right forearm. His face reddened and he dropped his pencil under the table. When his head popped up, he made eye contact with Tom Hunter. Montana jumped to attention with the alacrity of a young recruit.

  This seemed like an opportune moment to call home and warn the kids I'd be late. I yanked out my cell. My sixteen-year old daughter answered on the third ring. “Hi, Mom, what do you want?”

  That's my daughter. All business. “I'm still at the studio, honey. There's been a...” A what? An accident? A murder?

  “I can't hear you,” Jenna said. “Too much noise in the background. Don't forget to bring home milk.” The dial tone buzzed in my ear as my daughter terminated the call. Brevity was the order of the day when it came to conversations with Mom. Especially if her boyfriend, Michael, was on the line. It was refreshing to see my studious daughter acting like a normal giggly teenager these days.

  The last thing I wanted to do was inform the kids I'd discovered a body. Jenna still hadn't forgiven me for becoming involved in a murder investigation several months ago. It's tough enough surviving the teen years much less having one's mother considered a murder suspect.

  I snapped my phone shut and dumped it back into my purse. The noise from across the room had increased in volume. Four females now demanded Tom Hunter's attention.

  Anya was no longer wailing over Dimitri's demise. Instead, the gorgeous dancer perched on top one of the tables, long legs crossed seductively, her left foot, encased in a copper satin sandal, moving to its own beat. Two other female instructors, Tatiana and Wendy, clad in minimalist dance attire of brightly colored abdomen baring tops and gauzy black skirts, appeared more interested in ogling the detective than sharing relevant information.

  Nanette was also trying to get Tom's attention but having little success amid the tall dancers. It would take more than a nudge from the elderly woman to distract the detective from the scantily clad females surrounding him.

  Ouch! The stiletto point of Nanette's shoe jabbed the detective's foot, right above the leather of his cordovan loafers. Tom yelped but she had definitely found a way to get his attention. Nanette reached into her pocket and handed something to him which he dropped into a plastic evidence bag. She whispered into his ear and pointed across the dance floor at me.

  Me? Why was she pointing at me? And what had she given him?

  Tom's jaw tightened as he looked in my direction. Katzenbach approached the men, a brown paper lunch bag in his hand. The three officers moved away and held a mini confab as they looked at the item Nanette had given Tom. Then each peered into the bag. Katzenbach threw a suspicious glance in my direction, my definition of suspicious being a downright nasty look.

  Deputy Katzenbach led Nanette away and Tom headed in my direction, the brown paper bag clutched in his left hand. Despite his forbidding expression, my body tingled with the anticipation his presence evoked.

  Although stumbling over a body was not how I envisioned him coming back into my life.

  “What's in the bag?” I asked.

  “Evidence.” His voice was curt and the hand pressed against my back wasn't as gentle as before. Tom propelled me down the corridor leading to the back office. He flicked on the wall switch illuminating four pale gray walls lined with framed photos of gorgeously attired
female ballroom dancers, posed with... Hmmm.

  All the photos featured Boris. I had never been in his office so I hadn't realized what an oversized ego the studio owner possessed. Despite his immense size, he was supposedly an amazing dancer, combining dexterity along with extraordinary strength.

  Although Boris's muscles had turned a little flabby, as evidenced by his increasing girth. Possibly one too many piroshkies?

  My stomach growled a visceral response to the visual of those tasty Russian dumplings. Tom pulled out one of the chairs for me then went around Boris's desk and sat in the owner's massive black leather chair. The detective shoved both hands through his thick chestnut hair. Despite my angst at being involved in another murder investigation, I couldn't help noticing he was letting it grow longer. It looked good on him.

  My stomach grumbled again. “Sorry,” I apologized. It was way past my dinner time.

  “You can say that again,” he muttered.

  “What?” My stomach and I spoke at the same time.

  “Laurel, what is it with you and dead bodies? I can't believe you were the one who found him. And that nurse, Nanette, insisted it couldn't be an accident because the victim had the heel of your shoe in his mouth. What the heck is she talking about?”

  He frowned as his gaze slid down to my black pumps. “Please tell me you're not wearing shoes tied to a potential crime scene.”

  I rolled my eyes. Really, he could give me more credit than that. After our last experience, I was practically a pro when it came to crime scenes.

  Not that that was anything to brag about.

  I pointed at my Nine West heels. “These are my street shoes.” He looked confused so I proceeded to explain.

  “When we dance ballroom, we wear special shoes with suede soles. It helps us glide across the floor.” At least it helped some of the dancers. It wouldn't matter if I danced in jogging shoes since I hadn't mastered that gliding thing yet.

  “Okay, but tell me what this pair has to do with the victim?” Tom aimed the contents of the brown bag in my direction.

  I glanced inside the bag. My silver dance shoes?

  My blue contact lens almost popped out of my eyes. “Where did you get them?”

  “The crime scene guys found the bag in a dumpster in the parking lot.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the plastic bag I'd seen him holding earlier. “Nanette pulled this heel out of her pocket and gave it to me. I still can't figure out how this pair of shoes is tied to the accident.”

  “Trust me, this was not an accident.” I pointed to the broken heel in the evidence bag. “Someone crammed that heel into the victim's mouth.”

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  * * *

  FOUR

  * * * *

  Tom smothered an expletive and glared at me. “Laurel, what have you gotten yourself into now? Back up and tell me everything.”

  “I was planning on it,” I said, miffed, “But you didn't give me a...”

  “Every. Last. Thing.”

  Fine. I shared every frustrating detail of my dance lesson, including crashing into the dance pros, and the disappearance of my shoe heel that magically reappeared in Dimitri's mouth. What I did not share was how devastated I was when the man facing me disappeared out of my life without a word.

  I had reached the point where I'd discovered Dimitri's body in the parking lot when the door to the office slammed into the wall. Deputy Montana fell through the doorway, almost crashing into my chair. I half expected to see a bevy of female dancers in hot pursuit.

  Tom frowned. “What's the problem, Montana?”

  “The woman. The wife. Baby.”

  The wrinkles between Tom's brows formed parallel lines. He looked at me in confusion.

  “Irina, the victim's wife is pregnant,” I clarified.

  “Now. She's pregnant now,” the deputy yelled. “I mean, she's having the baby now. Her water broke.”

  We jumped out of our chairs and reached the door at the same time. Tom politely gestured for me to go first, but once we reached the hallway, the two men in their rubber-soled shoes moved a lot faster than I could in my heels.

  Irina's screeches of fury when she discovered her dead husband had been horrible. Her cries during labor were worse, resembling the hideous keening of some of the female singers tossed off American Idol during early tryouts. She reclined on the sofa in the reception area, her left palm pressed against her belly, her forehead covered with crystalline dots of perspiration.

  Samantha leaned over the pregnant woman. The student grimaced but she let Irina squeeze her fingers as a powerful new contraction began. Nanette stood next to Samantha, scrutinizing her watch.

  Waaaaagh! The high C emitted by Irina caused the mirrors on the walls to rattle.

  “Less than a minute between contractions,” Nanette announced. Her gray bun bobbed up and down with every word. “I think this critter's ready to pop.”

  Tom turned to Montana. “Where are the EMTs?”

  The deputy looked panicked. He motioned to Tom and they withdrew from the group surrounding the widow. I didn't see any reason not to join them so I did.

  “The ambulance just left,” Montana said.

  “Why didn't you have them turn around?”

  The deputy's face reddened. “Because her husband is in the back. Of the ambulance. Sir.”

  Okay, now that's awkward.

  Waaaaaaaaaaaagh! Irina increased her shrieks by a few decibels. I glanced at my own Timex watch. About thirty seconds since the last contraction. If memory from my own two labors served me correctly, Nanette was absolutely right. The baby was on his or her way.

  Tom got on his cell, calling for another ambulance. He sent Montana back to interview the seven instructors who were huddled on the opposite side of the studio, waiting to be questioned. They were surprisingly quiet for a change. I eyed the svelte female dancers doubting any of them had ever given birth.

  Although I might be jealous of their gorgeous bodies. I was still trying to lose the weight I had gained with my last pregnancy.

  Seven years ago.

  The doors to the studio flew open. The sight of a pair of El Dorado county emergency technicians pushing a gurney brought a collective sigh of relief from everyone in the studio, except Irina.

  “No!” She pushed the first EMT away when he bent over her. The other, older paramedic leaned in to assist his partner.

  “Go away.” She kicked at him, barely missing his chin.

  “Hey.” He jumped back a few feet for self-protection. Nice to know ballroom training would come in handy if I ever needed to assault anyone.

  With her legs thrust apart, Irina pointed down at her belly. “I haff to poosh!”

  Tom crouched next to the red-faced Rambo. His soothing voice settled her down. Nanette squatted next to him. Between them, they were finally able to talk Irina into walking down to Boris's office for some privacy. The two medical technicians followed at a safe distance.

  It didn't look like there would be room for anyone else in Boris's office, not that anyone had asked for my assistance, so I collapsed in one of the chairs lining the perimeter of the studio. The two deputies were still taking statements. My gaze shifted from the row of teachers to the students sequestered together, waiting their turn so they could go home.

  I shivered, realizing any one of them could be a killer.

  My dark musings were interrupted by loud cheers coming from Boris's office, followed by high pitched wailing. The baby sounded like a miniature version of his or her mother.

  Evidently I wasn't the only one curious to see the new arrival. The female instructors ignored Montana's protests to stay in place and rushed to the office, hovering outside the door like a flock of brightly feathered exotic birds. The tall, lithesome dancers blocked the doorway and I couldn't see into the room. My stomach rumbled with hunger as I wandered back into the main studio.

  Anya's satin turquoise outfit glittered among the more somber clo
thing worn by the male instructors gathered together. She appeared to be the only female not interested in the arrival of the baby. An hour ago Anya had been sobbing over the dead man's body. Now she laughed and flirted with Yuri, another instructor, her arm draped familiarly over the handsome dancer's shoulder, her slender fingers stroking his thick tawny brown hair.

  The sultry dancer's attention shifted suddenly to the entrance of the studio. She froze in place, staring at a tall, slim woman who was attempting to gain entry. The look of hatred that marred Anya's beautiful face brought the blood in my veins to a freezing halt.

  Deputy Katzenbach appeared to be in a heated discussion with the new arrival. When the woman turned her head, I recognized the short stylish black hair and profile of Dana Chandler, the wife of the president of Hangtown Bank, my employer. Although we occasionally crossed paths in the ladies room when the bank held its annual holiday party, we definitely did not travel in the same social circles.

  Did she and Mr. Chandler take dance lessons at this studio? It was difficult imagining the short rotund CEO ballroom dancing with his tall elegant wife. What was even harder to visualize was the two of them attempting the rhumba.

  Either vertically or horizontally.

  The clatter of a gurney on the wooden floor resounded throughout the studio, jerking me back to the present. The paramedics grinned as they conveyed their charge across the room. Irina waved one regal hand at her devoted subjects as she gazed lovingly at the newborn, swaddled in a white blanket, resting on her chest. Tom and Nanette both wore pleased expressions on their faces. There was nothing like the birth of a child to soothe the memory of a recent death.

  Tom moved toward the front entrance so I followed. I was hungry and tired and ready to go home. Surely he must be done with me by now. Dana slumped against the wall, a stunned expression on her face. Even from several feet away, Deputy Katzenbach's voice boomed as he chastised the new arrival.