Dying for a Dance (3 page)

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 clothing 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.

“Listen, lady, I don't care if you're married to the President of the United States. We have a crime scene here and enough suspects to fill a football stadium. You can't come in, so go home and let us do our job.”

Tom's tone of voice was less truculent, but equally firm. “I'm sorry ma'am, but you can't enter the building. We'll be tied up for the next few hours interviewing everyone as it is. If you leave your name and number, I promise to call you tomorrow.”

Dana straightened her shoulders and regained her customary regal posture. “Detective, I cannot understand why you won't let me share my thoughts about Dimitri's death.”

“Yeah, Tom, you should listen to Dana,” I interrupted as I joined them. The more information he possessed, the better for everyone. And the sooner I could go home.

“Laurel, it's nice to see you again but a shame we have to meet under such tragic circumstances,” Dana said. “I've tried to share some important information with these gentlemen, but they don't seem to be interested.”

“I'm sure Detective Hunter would be thrilled to hear anything you can share about this murder,” I replied.

“Ladies, no one has determined this is a murder,” Tom said, his face drawn. “Trust me. We'll be investigating all possibilities.”

“I would certainly think you'd want to know about the letters Dimitri received,” Dana replied.

“Letters?” Tom asked.

“Not just letters. Death threats.”

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FIVE

* * * *

“What do you mean by death threats?” Tom guided Dana out of hearing range. After investigating me for four weeks and dating me for two, he should have known that wouldn't stop me from eavesdropping.

I ambled over, bent down and played with the back strap of my heel, adjusting the metal clasp as I listened in on their conversation.

“Dimitri received the first warning about three weeks ago. The note was typed on plain white paper and left in an envelope up front.” Dana pointed in the direction of the reception desk.

“Did you see the note?”

“No, he told me about it.”

“And the reason he confided in you?” The suspicion in Tom's voice was evident to me although Dana didn't seem to notice. Of course I'd been on the wrong end of his interrogations a time or two.

Marriage to a successful bank president must have honed her instincts because Dana paused for a moment as she contemplated her explanation. “Dimitri has been my dance instructor for over three years. We became friends—very good friends. He felt he could trust me.”

Tom nodded his acceptance of the explanation. I tossed it around for a few seconds and decided to accept it too. After only a few weeks of dance lessons with Bobby, I felt comfortable confiding in him, much like the personal relationship with my hair stylist.

“Dimitri received three different notes,” Dana said. “Each one more threatening and disturbing than the previous one. He really freaked out when the third letter arrived.”

“Did you see any of them?”

She shook her head. “He told me he tore the first one up thinking it was merely a childish threat. The verbiage was vague. Something like, ‘stop if you know what's good for you.’ The second one was stronger, phrased more like ‘this is the last time we're going to warn you.'”

“When he received the third note, the threat seemed far more obvious, is that correct?” Tom prompted with his gentle investigator voice. The one he used to catch his suspects unaware.

And his girlfriends.

“The third note said, ‘you're a dead man.'”

“Was it in Russian or English?”

Dana paused for a minute, her expression perplexed. “I never thought to ask. I assumed it was in English.” She placed her palm on his forearm and blazed a dentist-enhanced pearly white smile in his direction. “Excellent question, detective.”

Tom nodded, ignoring her. He was used to women simpering over him, flattering him, and plain throwing themselves at him. Must be tough trying to solve crimes when your female suspects are all chasing after you.

The heavy tread of a paunchy deputy halted their discussion. Katzenbach's expression was as frazzled as the khaki shirt threatening to escape from the regulation belt that couldn't quite contain his non-regulation-sized stomach. Under his breath I heard him mutter something about, “crazy Sputniks.”

Tom intercepted Katzenbach. “Are you talking about the Russian dancers, Deputy?” he asked him in a sharp tone.

“All they talk is gibberish. I can't figure out a thing they're saying. How am I supposed to know if they're telling the truth or not?”

The deputy once again reinforced my low opinion of him. I felt like telling him off, but decided it would be wiser to keep my comments to myself. In the few weeks that I'd taken lessons in the studio, I had discovered that the professional Russian dancers were smart, funny, and ferociously loyal to their friends.

Tom looked fried, but who could blame him? In less than two hours, he'd contended with a murder, a birth, death threats, and an ex-girlfriend. Tom motioned for Deputy Buzz Cut to follow him out of earshot of Dana and myself. She tapped her right foot while maintaining her graceful posture, either the result of her ballroom dance training, or twenty plus years of community service.

This was probably the only opportunity I would have to chat with her alone. “Do you compete, Dana?”

She nodded. “A few years ago when our youngest entered college, I experienced empty nest syndrome. One night when I was watching
Dancing with the Stars
, I thought, why not? I certainly wasn't getting any younger. I took tap and ballet as a kid, but I'd always wanted to learn how to ballroom dance.