Dying for a Dance (12 page)

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?”

[Back to Table of Contents]

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?” What 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.”

Jenna placed her hands on her hips and scowled. “Looks like Ben will be visiting the dance studio with you, doesn't it?”

I didn't appreciate Jenna's tone, but my eldest rarely complained when I asked her to babysit. It wouldn't be a huge issue to take Ben along with me.

I looked at Ben and he shrugged. “No biggie.”

Okay, that was easy. If I gave Ben a pen and pad of paper, he could add another addendum to his ever-expanding Christmas list. That should keep him out of trouble.

Twelve hours later, Ben and I entered the dance studio. I settled him into one of the white molded plastic chairs next to a round matching table on the side of the large ballroom. Between his Happy Meal treat and a spelling assignment, Ben should be able to entertain himself while I availed myself of the opportunity to talk to some of the teachers.

At least twenty couples of varying sizes, ages and nationalities moved around the ballroom, participants in the newcomer waltz class. Ballroom etiquette mandates that couples dance in a counterclockwise direction, but ballroom technique, as I'd quickly come to realize, cannot be learned overnight.

I chuckled as two pairs of dancers collided. At least I wasn't the only “klutzky on the floor.” Both couples appeared to be in good spirits and they laughed as they ventured back into the circle formation their instructor had demonstrated.

At the far end of the room another couple narrowly missed mowing down several pairs of dancers. The male dancer whirled his partner with force and determination, totally oblivious to the three beats of a waltz melody.

Marcus, dressed in a tight black T-shirt and even tighter designer jeans, his dark hair pulled back in his standard ponytail, was teaching the newcomer class. Or at least attempting to teach them. The harried instructor stomped to the CD player and the music abruptly stopped. He clapped his hands bringing the dancers to a halt.

“People, c'mon, you gotta pay attention. Hear the rhythm. Feel the music. Don't rush through it. It's not a race.”

The students chuckled and nodded. Marcus's smile looked practiced and insincere. Teaching beginner students had to be one of the less appealing aspects of his job. “Okay, we start again. You two, come closer to me.” He pointed to the couple that had been careening recklessly around the floor. They stared back at him with puzzled looks on their faces. “Yes, you, please come here. It will be safer for the class.”

Marcus chuckled and the other students laughed along with him. The couple reluctantly moved to the center of the dance floor. Their expressions revealed they weren't happy to be singled out.

I tried not to giggle myself when I recognized the troublemakers. Detective Bradford and my mother. She must be mortified that the teacher had chastised them in front of the other patrons. This dance class could be just the thing to tear them apart.

Ben yanked on the sleeve of my sweater. “Mom, that looks like Grandmother and Detective Bradford.”

I nodded at him, intent on watching Marcus demonstrate a basic box pattern.

The shrill cry of a seven-year-old boy echoed across the cavernous room. “Hey, Detective Bradford, are you here to catch the killer?”

Marcus stumbled in the midst of demonstrating the rise and fall of the waltz. My mother paled. My own face burned as twenty pairs of eyes turned to my son. I was
so
not going to get the Mother of the Year award.

As for Bradford, once again the big man startled me. Instead of the anger I anticipated, his face lit up with that smile I only saw when he was in the company of my mother. He loped to the side of the room and scooped up Ben with little effort. My seven-year-old squealed in delight. Whatever connection the two of them had, it was obviously a positive relationship for both.

Bradford whispered in Ben's ear, set him back in his chair then returned to his place by my mother's side. Marcus walked over to talk to Yuri, his frenzied hand movements and somber expression indicative of his distress attempting to keep the class under control. It was difficult enough teaching forty newcomers, much less having the class interrupted by a disruptive child.

I hoped Yuri had some advice for the other instructor that did not entail sending a seven-year-old boy home with his mother.

Yuri shook his head and walked away. Marcus punched a button on the CD player and music filled the room once again. The dance teacher addressed the students. “For now, practice what I have taught you. And try not to crush anyone.”

He nodded to the class then rushed across the room toward the back of the studio where Yuri had disappeared.

The front door to the studio burst open with a bang. Liz propelled herself toward me, dropping her purse and assorted bags into one chair and herself into another. Her beautiful porcelain complexion, pampered on a daily basis, normally made my friend look ten years younger than the forty she had turned three months earlier. But tonight she looked bedraggled.

“Is anything wrong?” I asked.

Liz's shoulders sagged as she slumped in her chair. “That bozo DA is making Brian's life hell, which is making my life equally hideous.”

“What's going on?”

She ran her fingers threw her highlighted bronzed curls which oddly enough made her hair look even more stylish than before. How did she do that?

“The DA wants someone arrested who we both know, but who I can't say anything about because it's confidential. Brian says there isn't enough evidence to arrest her yet.”

“So Brian's in the doghouse.”

“More like the outhouse since his boss is such a piece of...” She glanced at Ben who hung on her every word. “I swear that DA is so full of himself I don't know how Brian stands it. It's like this every election year.”

I murmured a comforting response. The door to the studio banged open once again. Nanette, the dancing nurse, and her friend, Samantha, wandered in, followed by Paula lugging in a huge garment bag.

The three women settled into the vacant chairs alongside ours. Paula noticed my curious expression as she struggled with the oversized vinyl bag. “I'm practicing with Boris tonight and I need to ensure that the length of my competition gown is okay. The seamstress was supposed to hem it so it would fall right at my ankle, but it seems lower than that. If it catches on the heel of my shoe, I could trip.”

Ballroom dancing was the most masochistic hobby. Despite years of lessons, there were so many ways you could make a fool of yourself. I couldn't understand why someone would spend thousands of dollars on ball gowns and private lessons if there was a chance that one tiny misstep might land them on their sequined butt.

I didn't have the money, time or the ability to ever worry about competing, but that didn't keep me from watching Paula unzip her garment bag.

“Wow, your gown is gorgeous,” Samantha said. The lights from the mirrored ball in the studio transformed the Swarovski crystals on the royal blue silk dress into miniature diamond stars.

“I love the cut of the skirt.” Liz smoothed the fabric between her fingertips. “Who's your seamstress? Do you think it's too late to alter my wedding dress?”