Dying for a Dance (20 page)

“Nope, it was Santa. I heard his jingle bells ringing.” Ben's face switched from ecstatic to crestfallen. “But he didn't leave any presents.”

Tom and I exchanged glances. We were out of the car and at Ben's side in seconds. I shooed Ben back in the house then Tom and I both walked the perimeter. It was too dark to ascertain if there were any footprints on the hard ground. Tom checked the windows but all the latches were locked. As was the back door.

We examined every inch of the interior but other than a few embarrassing dust elephants, everything seemed in order. Jenna had been upstairs studying in her room. She heard nothing that sounded like Santa and his reindeer or even a gang of rowdy squirrels.

Tom and I stood on the front porch, puzzled by the lack of evidence that a prowler had paid a visit. “Do you think Ben could have imagined the noises?” Tom asked.

“It's hard to say. He does have a vivid imagination.”

Tom smiled and drew me closer. “Sounds like he might have inherited that from his mother.”

“Hey, I just like to think outside of your investigative box.”

He opened his mouth but evidently thought better of responding. Then he said, “Do you want me to arrange for a patrol car to periodically drive by your house tonight? I don't feel comfortable with you being alone with your kids. I'd stay here myself if I didn't have to get home to Kristy. Our neighbor's daughter is babysitting her and I'm already late.”

“No, I'll make sure to set the alarm. It probably was some type of animal. After all, Jenna didn't hear anything unusual.” I placed my palm over my mouth as I felt a yawn coming on. It was past everyone's bedtime.

Tom still looked worried. “Call me if you hear anything unusual. Anything at all. Please don't be a hero.”

He kissed me goodbye and once he was out the door, I promptly slammed it behind him and double locked it. I set the house alarm, something I'd never felt was necessary living in this peaceful community. But if someone evil knew where we lived, I wasn't taking a single chance.

With no car on the premises, I needed a way to get to work the next morning. Even though there was no proof of Ben's imaginary Santa Claus or a hostile intruder, I decided it would be better if the kids spent the day with their grandmother. Mother picked up all three of us. We stopped at her house first to drop off the kids. Bradford sat at the table reading the newspaper and nursing a cup of coffee, obviously quite at home in her kitchen. Were these senior citizens co-habiting?

I pushed those unwelcome thoughts aside. Despite my feelings about Bradford and his relationship with my mother, for today, I was grateful that a former police officer was there to protect my children from harm. My mother dropped me off at the bank then headed down to the Centurion real estate office in Cameron Park.

The atmosphere in the bank was somber, far from the chaotic morning we had encountered two days earlier. Tomas Novi, the chief financial officer had temporarily assumed Mr. Chandler's executive responsibilities.

A few minutes before noon, John Regan, the bank's attorney, arrived at our office. He met with Mr. Novi for over an hour then they both left the bank. The chief financial officer, whose youthful face was at odds with his mane of white hair, looked like he'd added a few more wrinkles in the last few hours.

Since Christmas Eve fell on a Saturday, the bank would be closed on Friday so our annual employee gift exchange was scheduled for three in the afternoon. Normally the “dirty Santa” version of exchanging presents produced good-natured giggles and a few snarls when someone decided they'd rather confiscate a gift that had already been opened, rather than select an unknown wrapped present.

Today the staff was subdued as we gathered by the fourteen-foot Christmas tree. Whenever a number was called, that person would quietly walk to the stack of wrapped parcels, choose an item and open it.

Vivian un-wrapped her gift—a gingerbread man cookie jar—which led to oohs and aahs from some of the female employees. As far as I was concerned, nothing says Christmas more than a gingerbread man cookie jar, but the gift was an unpleasant reminder of Irina's teddy bear jar with its dangerous contents.

Did the new widow have any other deadly items hidden in her house? Such as antifreeze? Useful not only as a coolant for a car engine but also as poison?

Stan and I left work a few minutes early. We arrived at the body shop just before they closed at five. My auto insurance covered the windshield replacement and my roadside service plan covered the rest which meant I still had a little room on my plastic for Christmas gifts. I drove back in to town and parked in one of the town lots. My head swirled with thoughts of murder and murderers, making it difficult to concentrate on my shopping.

As I strolled down Main Street, my somber mood lifted. I peeked into the festive window display of Placerville News Company. The store, founded in 1856, was crowded with other holiday shoppers also buying last minute gift items. Scents of cinnamon, pine and cloves bombarded me with nostalgic memories of my youth, of walking along the sidewalk, hand in hand with my father. My portly pop would never have been able to resist the dancing Santa in front of the Candy Strike Emporium. The candy-filled mecca almost lured me into its chocolate clutches, but I resisted.

For now. I was fairly certain there was a piece of tawny port fudge with my name on it that would require a stop before I returned home.

Placerville Hardware, the oldest hardware store west of the Mississippi was crammed from its ceiling to its wooden plank floor with every tool imaginable, as well as more culinary items than I could ever dream of using. My mother had mentioned she needed a new cast iron skillet and this store had the biggest selection in the area. They also had the largest selection of cookie jars I'd ever seen.

My hands began to tremble so I averted my eyes from the colorful display, pushing past other customers in my haste to forget the previous evening's events. By the time I reached the cashier, my hands had stopped shaking enough for me to throw in a few pieces of homemade caramel logs which were conveniently displayed next to the register.

The skillet felt like it weighed at least twenty pounds, so I decided to drop it off at my car rather than drag it all over town while I finished my errands. As I trudged down the sidewalk a large man dressed in a camouflage hunting jacket, tan cap with ear flaps and tall laced-up boots burst out of the door of the camping supply store, nearly colliding with me.

“Laurel, fate has brought us together once again.”

I summoned up a nervous half-smile. “Hi, Boris, are you off on a hunting expedition?” Since my hands have the tendency to move when I talk, I narrowly missed flattening an important part of Boris's anatomy with the shopping bag containing my cast iron gift. Fortunately, the agile dancer scooted back in time to ward off a numbing blow from the frying pan.

“Please, let me help.” Whether out of self-defense or old fashioned politeness, Boris reached out to grab the heavy bag. Since my arm ached from lugging the skillet down Main Street, I acquiesced.

“Thanks.” I directed my eyes to the forest green canvas satchel he carried in his other hand. “Are you taking time off from the studio?”

He nodded. “Yes. The studio, I close her from Christmas Eve to New Year's. The newspaper reporter from the
Mountain Democrat
, he is very persistent. First he calls about Dimitri and now he is calling about poor Yuri, so I think it better to disappear. In Russia, is not good idea to talk to newspaper peoples.”

With the studio closed there would be no opportunity to rehearse the wedding dance, a thought that caused me to break out in a wide smile. Boris looked startled but he responded with a grin of his own, displaying a set of canines that outmatched Count Dracula.

“I go to Tahoe. It will give me nice break to spend time in the mountains. I have a little cabin on west shore not too far from the lake. Lots of snow for cross-country skiing. You are skier, Laurel? Downhill, perhaps?”

That depended on your definition of “skier.” I owned a parka and insulated pants, ski mittens, hat and matching scarf in a beautiful turquoise and pink knit. I also had skis, poles, and boots. Given the choice of donning all that gear and schussing down the slopes or nursing hot-buttered rum in front of a roaring fireplace, it wasn't too hard to guess where you could find this skier.

I shrugged in response.

“Ah, perhaps someday we ski together.” The right corner of his bristly black moustache lifted as he winked at me. “Night skiing is very romantic, especially when there is full moon shimmering on snow-covered slopes that no one has yet traversed.”

Ah yes, nothing like the frigid night air of the mountains to unleash a woman's passion.

We reached my little car. I beeped both locks open and threw my purse in the front seat as Boris stowed the package in the back of the Prius.

“So, Laurel, have a good Christmas. I hope you get all things you deserve.”

“Umm, thanks. Have fun in the mountains.”

“I shall. You try stay out of trouble, no?” His bushy dark brows melded together resembling a pregnant caterpillar. Then his gaze turned to my recently repaired car.

Knowing me, no was probably the correct answer. But his comment made me wonder if he knew about my recent problems. I climbed into the car, turned on the ignition and waited for Boris to walk away. He stood still, his gaze contemplative, as I backed my car out of the parking space then shifted gears into drive. When I looked in the rearview mirror, he was talking on his cell phone, his expression troubled.

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THIRTY-FIVE

* * * *

A stack of mail greeted me when I arrived home, including two parcels sitting on the wrought iron table on the front porch. Goody. Christmas gifts. I love presents.

I picked up a large battered box that looked like it had come via a slow freighter all the way from Kona where my brother currently resided. Hopefully it was stuffed with more of that deliciously addicting 100% Kona coffee from the big island of Hawaii. And maybe some macadamia nuts. Better yet, chocolate covered macadamia nuts.

The other package had no return address but it was postmarked from Sacramento, so it could be from my godmother, a sweet eighty-year old named Betty who loved to bake. And since I loved to eat, her presents were always a delightful surprise.

I dumped the mail and parcels on the kitchen table, anxious to discover what tasty treats were hidden inside the boxes. Pumpkin jumped on the table and pawed at the unmarked parcel. I was about to remove our playful pet when she howled, the fur on her back bristling like an outraged porcupine. She batted the box off the table then ran off.

I picked the package off the floor and examined it. It didn't appear damaged. I grabbed the scissors out of one of the kitchen drawers and with one swift motion ripped through the tape that sealed the carton from my inquisitive eyes.

Snow, in the form of those peanut-sized particles shippers use to annoy package recipients, poured down on the table, floating to the floor. Pumpkin reappeared and grabbed a few pieces with her front paws. They stuck to her nails as she tried to claw her way through them. With a puddle of white stuff pooling by my feet, I lifted another box out of the carton. It measured about one foot long and eight inches wide. Also wrapped in brown paper and sealed.

Headlights blazing up the driveway interrupted me so I went to greet the kids and my mother. They tromped into the house carrying a stack of shiny foil-wrapped packages. The time spent with their grandparent appeared to have been productive, at least from the standpoint of their wonderful mother who hoped to be on the receiving end of some of the gifts.

I returned to the kitchen and slit open the tape on the mystery package. The box revealed an unexpected surprise.

“Oh, look, Mom, it's one of those Russian nesting dolls,” Jenna said. “You know where each doll gets smaller and smaller.”

“Oh, yes. They're called
matruska
dolls or something like that.”

Jenna grabbed the wooden doll. The painted face smiled at us, blue eyes unblinking, the wood decorated in all three primary colors. Jenna twisted it open and as she had predicted, a tinier version was nestled inside.

Ben grabbed the little doll from Jenna and ripped it apart. Another matching pint-sized version was inside. I took it out of Ben's hands and screwed opened the head to find an even tinier doll. Almost identical to the first three painted wooden dolls yet with one slight difference—this one had a slash of red drawn right where a heart should be.

Was that red paint? Or blood?

A gift or a threat?

Never one to be interested in dolls, Ben disappeared upstairs. My mother and Jenna stared at the dolls then at me.

“Who do you think could have sent this?” Mother asked.

“I have no idea.” I examined the inside of the box for a clue to the identity of the sender.

“Is someone trying to scare us?” Jenna asked in a tremulous voice.

I shook my head, refusing to allow such a negative thought. “It's a traditional Russian present. It's probably from Irina to thank me, although...” I checked the parcel; the postmark was dated prior to my visit to her house.

My mother frowned but remained silent. Neither of us wanted to upset Jenna any further.

Jenna's cell rang saving me from an explanation. Hard to believe her teenage boyfriend had come to
my
rescue. She raced upstairs to continue their conversation in private.

“I warned you investigating these murders could be dangerous.” My mother examined the base of the largest doll then set it back on the table. “Someone must be worried you're getting close to figuring out who the killer is.”

“Don't you think they would have left something more frightening than a set of dolls?” I countered. “Besides, the police are still holding Mr. Chandler in jail for the murders.” I gazed at the miniature doll with the bright red splotch. My hand shook as I placed it on the table. “So does this confirm someone else is the killer, and they don't want me nosing around?”