Dying for a Dance (2 page)

Bobby, with the help of a dark-haired instructor named Marcus, finally dragged her away from Dimitri's body. Her diatribe against her dead husband grew fainter as the men forced her back into the studio.

The shrill cry of sirens announced approaching vehicles. A dirty white El Dorado County Sheriff's Department patrol car squealed to a stop alongside the curb on the main road. Two uniformed men jumped out of the car and hurried in our direction. Seconds later, an ambulance whizzed around the corner, its brakes working overtime. Two paramedics jumped out of the back and raced over to our gathered throng.

“Stand back. Give him some air,” shouted the older short-haired deputy, a heavy set guy whose face resembled a bulldog but without the charm. Nanette marched up to the officer, the gray bun on the top of her head not quite reaching his armpit.

“He doesn't need any air,” she proclaimed. “I'm a nurse and I already checked. He is one dead dancer.”

One of the paramedics crouched next to Dimitri. After a brief examination he nodded to his coworker, evidently agreeing with Nanette's determination.

“Who called the dispatcher?” the deputy asked, his platinum buzz cut gleaming under the lights of the parking lot.

I slowly raised my hand.

“Did you see what happened?” he asked.

I shook my head. “He was lying on the ground when I first spotted him.”

So it
could
have been an accident. But the odds of my heel
accidentally
landing in his mouth seemed on the low side.

“Okay, people, I'm Deputy Katzenbach.” Buzz Cut introduced himself then pointed to his younger, slimmer and cuter companion. “This is Deputy Montana. We'll be taking statements from every one of you. Wait inside the studio until we're ready.” Groans and mutters ensued from the spectators.

“You. The one who found the body.” Buzz Cut pointed his index finger at me. “Stay here by me.”

I gulped and nodded. Montana, the young black-haired deputy, shepherded the rest of the audience back into the studio. Some of the dancers grumbled, while others trudged slowly and silently back into the building.

I gazed at their retreating backs and wondered if any of them were acting suspiciously.

How would I know if they were?

Deputy Katzenbach conferred with the rescue workers then gestured for me to follow him into the studio where pandemonium reigned and the noise level exceeded that of two three-ring circuses.

I contemplated the impact of the dancer's death on the studio. Dimitri was their star, the man who garnered first place dance competition trophies by the dozens. Not to mention the new clients he brought in by the droves. His alluring topaz eyes, broad shoulders and muscled thighs attracted more female dance students than the other teachers combined.

Not that I'd noticed. Much.

I was taking lessons for one purpose only, to learn Liz's
perfectly orchestrated
wedding routine. She had commanded each member of her wedding party to first learn the foxtrot routine with a professional instructor. Then one of these days the entire bridal party would attempt to dance it together.

Hopefully before the wedding day.

The reality of Dimitri's death suddenly hit me. I blinked back tears and thought about the students who would be devastated by his loss. As I glanced around the room, I noticed one of his more accomplished students, Paula, a middle-aged brunette, sitting on the lobby sofa, attempting to comfort the pregnant widow.

Paula caught my eye and motioned me over. I tapped Buzz Cut on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Deputy Katzenbach. Can I—” My words were cut off by the crackle of his radio. The deputy turned and stepped a few feet away. He glared at me but didn't stop me from joining Paula and Irina. I walked over, perched on the couch's maroon crushed velvet arm and leaned in. “How's she doing?” I mouthed.

“She's in shock and so am I.” Paula gently massaged Irina's back. The widow hunched over, her hands twisting a sodden handkerchief.

“I can't believe Dimitri is dead,” Paula said in a low voice. Her eyes traveled up to a two by three foot framed photo which hung on the wall behind us. It displayed Dimitri and his dance partner locked in one of those intimate embraces evocative of the rhumba, the sexiest of all the Latin dances. The pose was so suggestive, steam practically radiated from the photo.

Irina followed our gaze; her body stiffened. The widow had danced professionally with her husband both before and after they wed, but once she became pregnant the doctors insisted she stay off her feet, and specifically off the dance floor.

The man and woman in the erotic pose were none other than Dimitri and Anya, his new professional partner. Irina struggled to her feet. She attempted to climb on the sofa, but her enormous belly interfered with her ascent. She knelt on the soft cushions, grabbed hold of the padded back, and pulled herself up.

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?”