Dying for a Dance (7 page)
Authors: Cindy Sample
Mother smiled at Bradford and me. “You two seem to be bonding.”
“Bonding over bodies,” I replied without thinking.
Ben's intermittent bionic hearing kicked in. “Bodies?” he squealed. “Dead ones?”
Jenna dropped the plate of cookies on my glass-topped coffee table. The china plate hit the table with a clunk, sliding across the slick glass before landing on the floor. Snickerdoodles splattered everywhere.
“Jenna!” I bent down, scooping up crumbled cookies and chunks of vanilla icing before our kitty appeared in search of dessert.
With her arms crossed over her chest, my daughter shot me a look that would have scared a lesser woman. “Mom, are you involved in
another
murder?”
My opinion of my future stepfather elevated a few notches when he jumped into the fray in an attempt to calm my infuriated daughter. He unfurled his massive body from the sofa and put an arm around her shoulders. “Jenna, you have nothing to worry about. Your mom happened to be at the dance studio when someone got hurt and later died. It's merely a coincidence.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Okay, if you say so. But you know how she is. Before you know it, Mom will think she has to find out who done it, and some crazy dude will be chasing after her and trying to kill her. Again.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she dropped to her knees and started rounding up the scattered cookies. “Sorry, Mom,” she mumbled as she stood, apologetic but still fearful. I could see it in her eyes and in the tenseness of her body.
“It's okay, honey.” I brushed my lips against her pale cheek and held her close to me. “Your reaction is completely understandable. Like Bradford said, I unfortunately happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wearing the wrong shoes.”
“Huh?”
“Believe it or not, one of my dance shoes was the murder weapon.”
She stared at me in disbelief. “Promise you'll stay out of trouble.”
I nodded, expecting another lecture but she merely tilted her head. “Otherwise Grandmother and I will have to ground you.”
Her comment brought a round of laughter. I grabbed one of the flutes from the tray and offered a toast to the happy couple. After a few sips of excellent champagne, I started to mellow. Maybe Bradford wasn't such a terrible person after all. Perhaps we just got off to a bad start when he investigated me.
Ben stayed glued to the retired detective's side, playing with his shiny gold official sheriff's badge. My mother watched the two males, her eyes shining with love.
She obviously cared deeply for the man. My daughter appeared to respect him. It wouldn't hurt to have a former detective on my team.
Especially when a shoe-stealing murderer lurked out there.
ELEVEN
* * * *
Saturday morning I awoke with a hammer pounding in my head and a blender churning in my stomach. When would I learn that my body couldn't handle the intoxicating bubbles of champagne? Even if I only drank one or two glasses.
Or was it three?
After a breakfast consisting of coffee, toast and four aspirin, Ben and I took off for our usual Saturday whirlwind of domestic chores, including the purchase of a new pair of shoes for him. My son didn't need to advertise our pathetic financial condition by standing on stage wearing dingy gray frayed sneakers.
Our shopping trip was a huge success and by 5:30 Ben was dressed for the performance in a red cotton shirt, beige cords, and his new black Nikes, decorated with glow in the dark reflectors. I almost talked him into a forest green vest dotted with reindeer but he refused on the grounds it might incriminate him as a dork.
Mrs. Saddlebeck, Ben's second grade teacher, had requested that parents drop the students off an hour before the seven o'clock performance. During the brief ten-minute drive to his school, Ben serenaded me with every verse of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Twice.
The corridors of the elementary school bustled with children. The younger girls dressed in holiday attire. Ruby, emerald and sapphire velvet dresses trimmed with lace and ribbons, over white tights and shiny black patent leather shoes.
The older girls sported pastel colored T-shirts, a significant number bearing the likeness of Justin Bieber, worn over short black skirts. Even ten-year-olds have discovered that black is slimming.
Ben and I strolled into his classroom, hand in hand. Bedlam was too tame of a word to describe the noise emanating from the room. Mrs. Saddlebeck, whose smile appeared freeze-dried on her face, seemed oblivious to the antlers flying over the scratched oak desks. Ben raced into the room, his own homemade head-gear poised for flight.
Before he could propel his antlers across the room, I grabbed his arm and brought him to a halt. “Stop right there, young man. I have too much time and material invested in your costume. Find something constructive to do.”
Ben crossed his eyes at me then plopped the antlers back on his head where they belonged, at least for the next two hours. He sauntered to the back of the room where a couple of girls, one tall, one small, were chatting and giggling. The tall girl with the pixie cut waving her hand at me was Kristy, the tow-headed daughter of Detective Hunter.
I waved back wondering if Kristy's father was in the vicinity, or if her grandparents had brought her to this event. The widowed detective tried to attend as many school functions as possible, but the life of a homicide investigator didn't allow much time for extracurricular activities.
Particularly extracurricular activities that involved dating. As a single mom, I agree that kids come first. I only wished he could have found time to include me in his life. Or at least explain why he stopped calling. Our children didn't object to us dating. Kristy liked me and Ben thought Detective Hunter was one awesome dude.
Ben's mom thought he was too.
I left the classroom and walked into the gym, determined not to demean myself by looking around for Tom Hunter. Halfway up the bleacher steps, my neck started to prickle. As if someone was staring at me. I looked to the left and then to the right. There he sat. Two rows up.
He crooked a finger, causing my heart to palpitate and my feet to stumble.
I missed the next step and landed on all fours, scraping my right hand on the rough wooden stairs. Crimson droplets oozed out of the tiny cut at an alarming rate. Within seconds, the detective stood next to me, holding my wounded palm in his large calloused one.
“See what you made me do.” My hands verbalized my frustration by fluttering a trail of bright red dots on the wooden stairs.
“Me? All I did was try to get your attention. I can't help it if you're a kl...” His voice trailed off as he realized his size twelve loafer was about to be inserted into his mouth. His face reddened. “C'mon, sit by me and let me see what I can do about your um...injury.”
Tom rested his palm on my back as he guided me toward the bleacher seats he had requisitioned. The mere touch of his hand made my body tingle. Unfortunately our relationship hadn't progressed to the point where we tingled together. Assuming I could even remember how that tingling thing worked. It had been a long time since my divorce.
Two very long years.
We reached his seats and as he sat down, his muscular thighs touched my own soon-to-be-muscular-if-I-can-ever-get-to-the-gym thighs. I felt like swooning then realized my injury had metamorphosed into a gushing red river.
“Lift your arm up and press this against your palm.” Tom reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a clean handkerchief. “That will keep the blood from streaming out of your hand and splattering all over the gym.”
Some bedside manner. You could tell he spent more time dealing with dead bodies than distressed damsels. I elevated my right arm and pressed the handkerchief against the wound. The dripping halted immediately.
“You were right.” I pointed with the index finger of my left hand to my now almost normal right palm.
“It happens occasionally.” He smiled and nudged my knee with his. “But not often enough when you're involved.”
Before I could respond with a brilliant retort, the squeal of a microphone shriveled my eardrums. The principal gave a quick introduction, thanking the teachers, students, and parents who had turned out in droves to attend the annual holiday show. The lights dimmed and soon the sounds of the season, as performed by the kindergarten through fifth grade classes, resonated throughout the gym.
Since Ben is on the small side, I worried I wouldn't be able to locate him among the other twenty-nine students in his class. Thanks to his new shoes with their blinding orange sidebars, and his front row position, I singled him out and took a couple of shots with my camera.
Thunderous applause greeted the second grade rendition of “Rudolph.” All the students donned red noses at the end of the song. Even after the song ended, I still couldn't get the melody out of my mind.
We were in such close proximity, I sensed Hunter slipping his hand into his left pocket. He took out his cell and I realized his phone was the source of the continuing chorus of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” He tossed me an apologetic look as he conversed with his hand clasped over his other ear to drown out the clamor.
He snapped the phone shut and shoved it back into the pocket of his jeans.
“Duty calls,” he said.
“Do you need to go help someone?” I asked, concerned about potential vehicle accidents on icy roads this time of year.
“Nope,” he said. “But there is a strong possibility I may arrest someone.”
TWELVE
* * * *
The bad news was that Tom had to leave the program early and go interview a suspect.
The good news was that I was not the suspect. Despite my attempts to weasel information out of him, he clammed up without sharing any clues to the person's identity. His only comment was a request that I inform his parents they would have to take Kristy to their home tonight.
The rest of the holiday program flew by like a four-hour foreign film. After the fifth graders sang what seemed like the thirty-ninth chorus of “Jingle Bell Rock,” the audience gave all the classes a standing ovation. I left the auditorium with the other parents and followed the crowd back into the hallway then down to Ben's classroom.
Ben and Kristy played tic-tac-toe on a blackboard while Mother and Bradford chatted with Kristy's grandparents. I informed them that they would be babysitting their granddaughter tonight due to Tom's unexpected phone call.
Tom's announcement that he might end up arresting someone was a huge relief to me, although obviously not to whomever he was investigating. While I was curious to know the outcome, with my life no longer cluttered with allegations of murder or second grade holiday programs, all I had left on my plate was my best friend's wedding. And bridal shower. And Christmas shopping.
A piece of cake. Wedding cake, that is.
* * * *
When I arrived at the bank Monday morning, the lobby exuded holiday cheer. Blue and burgundy ornaments decorated the fourteen-foot noble fir, cut from one of the local Apple Hill Christmas tree farms, while boughs of aromatic pine branches hung from the oak teller stations. Even the wooden bear looked less forbidding than usual. Sporting a red and green plaid scarf around his neck and a red velvet fur-trimmed Santa hat on his head, the bear looked ready to serenade our bank customers with Christmas carols.
With visions of sugarplums and dollar signs, in the form of my annual holiday bonus dancing through my head, I hummed my way down the hallway. I was practically rocking around the Christmas tree when I suddenly came to a halt. A plain sheet of white paper rested on my keyboard.
LAUREL, GO TO MR. CHANDLER'S OFFICE AS SOON AS YOU ARRIVE. DO NOT STOP FOR COFFEE.
Do not stop for coffee? Do not pass Go? I looked around to see if Stan or Mary Lou, my cubicle neighbor, were trying to be funny but neither of them was at their desk. Mary Lou's desktop was clear of any paperwork, so she probably hadn't arrived yet.
The red message light on my phone flickered. It seemed prudent to check voicemails first. At seven fifteen, Mr. Chandler's secretary had left an urgent message for me to come upstairs the minute I arrived in the office.
Fine. No coffee. No dawdling, although I wasn't sure how I would carry on a rational conversation with the bank president without an infusion of caffeine.
A strong wave of deja vu swept over me as I climbed the stairs to the executive office. My sensation of being sent to the principal's office increased as I mounted each stair tread.
Belle sat at her desk, typing. As I approached, she looked up and a smile of relief crossed her angular face.
“Thank goodness. He's been pacing his office.” As usual Belle was immaculately dressed in a creaseless black pinstripe suit. One of these days I would have to find out her secret although I had a feeling we didn't buy our clothes at the same shops since my wardrobe came from stores whose names ended in “mart.”
“What's the problem? Am I in trouble?”
Belle shrugged, her face as puzzled as mine. “I have no idea. He didn't say why he wanted you. He just said to get you up here ASAP.”
She pointed in the direction of the president's office. “Go.”
I thrust back my shoulders and headed down the hallway to beard the dragon, or in this case, the president. Actually I'd rather face a fire-eating dragon than Mr. Chandler. My career could be at stake. Again.
The door to Mr. Chandler's office was closed. I peered through the glass window fronting his office. He sat behind his desk, the phone cradled to his ear.
I tapped on the glass. He looked up and waved me in. The president's face was eggplant purple; he looked ready to explode. I opened the door and sat down immediately. He slammed the receiver down and glared at me.
“Umm, good morning?” I didn't know what else to say because it didn't look like a good morning for our fearless leader. Mr. Chandler blew his breath out and unclenched the fists that had been resting on his glossy, uncluttered desk.
