Authors: Cindy Sample
Dying for a Dance (8 page)
He grimaced at me. Or maybe that was a smile. Having never seen Mr. Chandler smile before, it was difficult to discern the difference. “Thank you for coming,” he said.
Like I had a choice? Not that I was about to utter those words out loud.
He leaned toward me, his voice so low I had to scoot my chair closer to hear. “The police have discussed the possibility of arresting someone for the murder of that dance instructor.”
I nodded. After Tom's abrupt departure Saturday night, an arrest didn't surprise me.
Mr. Chandler's eyes burned a hole right through me. “The person they are considering is my wife.”
THIRTEEN
* * * *
Now that was a surprise. I couldn't believe I'd heard him correctly. “They want to arrest Dana? That wife?”
Despite the fact that his spouse risked going to jail, Mr. Chandler still managed to paste a supercilious look on his face. “Yes,
that
wife,” he snapped.
“I'm sorry. But I'm stunned. Why Dana?”
“I have no idea. The District Attorney isn't overly fond of me since I didn't support him in the last election.” He stared glumly at his manicured nails. “He probably wasn't too happy we rejected his loan application either.”
I frowned. “You think the DA wants to prosecute Dana because we rejected his loan? The sheriff's department wouldn't consider arresting her unless they had sufficient evidence that she killed—”
Mr. Chandler balled his hand into a fist and pounded the desk. “My wife did not kill that, that...gigolo.”
Hmmm. I never would have thought of combining the words “bank president's wife” and “gigolo” in the same sentence. Was he implying that Dimitri and Dana not only tangoed together—they also tangled together? And even if they
had
moved their samba hip rolls off the floor and under the sheets, what did any of this have to do with me?
Mr. Chandler's face had turned even redder than the dark cherry desk he continued to pound. If I didn't calm him down, Dana would become a widow as well as a murder suspect.
“Maybe they've misinterpreted some of the evidence. Detectives suspect the wrong people all the time.”
Now that was a subject I could discourse on at length.
“Exactly. I knew you would be able to relate to their incompetency at investigating. Obviously, they don't know what they are doing. Dana is incapable of harming anyone. She's so compassionate she never even spanked our children.”
“Do you have any idea what evidence they have against her?”
“Two detectives showed up yesterday morning and interviewed her at our house. I gather her fingerprints were on the murder weapon and they found other incriminating evidence they were unwilling to share with me.” His hands trembled as he looked at me in disbelief. “I was afraid they were taking her down to the jail but when they left all they said was that she better not leave town.
Geez. I couldn't imagine the stylish diamond-studded Dana Chandler wearing steel bracelets. But I was still mystified why Mr. Chandler requested my presence. He looked so miserable I reached out and rested my palm on top of his.
Evidently he hadn't asked me up here for a little tea and sympathy because he yanked his hand out from under mine. So Mr. Chandler didn't want my sympathy and no one had offered me any Darjeeling. Why
had
he called me to his office?
“I'm sorry about Dana's predicament but I'm sure it will be rectified in a few days.”
“Her name must be cleared immediately. My standing in this community is critical to the soundness of this bank.”
True. In a small town like ours, reputation was everything. I wondered how he planned to resolve this situation.
“I certainly can't expect those bumbling county detectives to look for any other suspects,” he said, “especially when the DA is pushing them. This is an election year and he's going to make the most of it.
“Someone needs to clear Dana's name. Someone with excellent analytical abilities. Someone who will give one hundred and ten percent to the bank.”
His gaze drilled through my retinas.
“Someone like you.”
FOURTEEN
* * * *
Me? The woman with the knack for discovering dead bodies and getting the bank's name mentioned in the local newspaper's crime report? I was his number one choice for Nancy Drew? The first thought that filtered through my brain was what the heck did he put in his morning coffee?
My response was not one of my most clever deductions. “Huh?”
“Laurel, I need your help.” He swiveled in his chair and stared out the window as if pondering what to say next. When he turned back, fear shown in his gray eyes.
“I'm terrified for my wife. And I admit I'm concerned how the bank will be impacted by this negative publicity. I realize I never gave you proper credit but you showed amazing tenacity when you solved our fraud problem.”
“Thanks.” I was stunned and surprised by the compliment.
“Dana mentioned you're friends with that detective. I think his name is Hunter?”
I nodded warily.
“Maybe you could put in a good word for her. She said you're also taking dance lessons. I would be grateful for anything you can find out when you're at the studio. I—” His extension rang interrupting our conversation. He grabbed it and answered, “Chandler.” He motioned for me to exit his office and I was out before his hand had stopped shooing me out the door.
I trod down the stairs in a daze. That the president thought I was competent enough to keep his wife out of jail should have been a big ego boost, but what if I failed? I glanced around at my co-workers in their cubicles. If Dana was arrested would that impact the bank's reputation? Could it eventually lead to bank employees losing their jobs?
Employees like me?
With visions of unpaid bills piling up in my head, I slumped in my chair and stared at the stack of loan files awaiting my decision. No matter whether the economy was in a recession or an inflationary period, people still wanted to close on their home purchases before the end of the tax year.
Decisions, decisions. Underwriting or detecting?
Despite my concerns, an excuse to interfere in a murder investigation won hands down over examining employment verifications and bank statements. Not to mention that the image of Dana Chandler clad in a baggy orange jumpsuit just seemed wrong.
I wondered how long it would be before they removed the crime scene tape from the dance studio. I didn't have long to ponder. My cell phone blasted out the tune to “Here Comes the Bride.”
“Sweetie, they're re-opening the studio tomorrow,” Liz said. “Isn't that fabulous?”
Fabulous for detecting. As for dancing—not so much.
Between my friend's British accent, which seemed to intensify whenever she grew excited, and the poor reception on my cell, I could only catch occasional phrases of what she said.
One comment jumped out at me, however. “Practice our choreography?”
“Yes, it's time for everyone in the bridal party to try the routine together. You must know your part by now.”
“Liz, I can barely figure out when to move forward or back, much less quick, quick and slow. No, I don't have the choreography or the footwork down yet.”
“If Bobby's not a good teacher then let's dump him and get another instructor. Maybe Yuri. He's almost as hot as Dimitri, may he rest in peace.”
“I doubt the hotness of the teacher has anything to do with my ability to learn the foxtrot. When I dance, I look more like Lucille Ball than Ginger Rogers.”
“I'll schedule another lesson for you and Bobby for tomorrow night. Meanwhile, rent some old Fred and Ginger videos. That should do the trick.”
My best friend was dreaming if she thought a few hours of watching that famous Hollywood duo would turn me into an overnight dance sensation but Liz hung up mid-protest. A tuneless whistle outside my cubicle announced the impending visit of Stan, arms loaded with manila file folders.
“Those better not be new loans to underwrite,” I said.
“Nope, I'm on my way to the doc department to drop them off. I heard you were upstairs hangin’ with the bigwigs again.” He waggled his eyebrows at me, Groucho style. “What's going on? Are you getting a promotion?”
“It depends on how you define promotion.” I hesitated, unsure if I should share the information about Dana with my assistant.
“C'mon, spill. You know you want to. I promise not to tell.”
I motioned for him to sit. He dropped the files on the floor then plopped into my guest chair.
I leaned across my desk and spoke quietly. “Dana Chandler could be arrested.”
“Arrested?” Stan yelled.
“Arrested?” shouted Mary Lou, my cubicle neighbor who was also a senior underwriter. Her chair squealed as she jumped up, joining us in less than two seconds. “Laurel, were you arrested again?”
My reputation desperately needed a makeover. “I wish people would stop staying that,” I said. “I was never
formally
arrested. Merely a person of interest.”
Mary Lou appeared confused, but she was a blonde goddess. Confused looked good on her. “Who was arrested? Anyone important?”
Stan and I exchanged looks.
He shrugged. “I can't remember. Did you see the big box of Annabelle's chocolates that one of the title companies dropped off in the break room? The truffles are disappearing fast.”
“Nice one,” I said, as Mary Lou's footsteps receded down the hall.
“So what's the deal with Madame El Presidente? Did she bop the dancer? Or merely boff the dancer?”
“Don't be crude.” I frowned at my friend. “Dana Chandler is a classy lady. Just because she took lessons from Dimitri doesn't mean anything sordid was going on.”
Stan wrinkled his nose. “Sure, there's no reason why the sophisticated Mrs. Chandler would be wooed away by a handsome, muscular dancer when she has Mr. Chubby Cheeks to go home to every night.”
Oh, well, when you put it that way.
“It gets worse.” I sighed with so much gusto some loan conditions blew off my desk. “For some reason Mr. Chandler decided my deductive abilities should be used to find the murderer.”
Stan's eyes lit up. “Awesome. Another case for us.”
“Us?”
“Sure, remember how much I helped last time?”
Not really. But at this point I would take whatever assistance I could get. Stan was officially on my payroll for his usual fee.
Nada
. We'd better come up with a plan because by tomorrow night I needed to be not only a dancing diva but a detecting diva.
I walked through the parking lot of the Golden Hills Dance Studio on Tuesday night, my thoughts far far away. Over a half century away. The previous evening, I'd sat through a Hollywood dance movie marathon. With Christmas in less than two weeks, the networks featured a few familiar classics like
Holiday Inn
and
White Christmas
. The vision of Vera Ellen clad in red velvet and white ermine fur, singing and tapping to the music of Cole Porter, enthralled me. Equally amazing was her nineteen inch waist. If learning the fox trot produced that kind of a result, I was hopping on the ballroom bandwagon.
My chest constricted as I drew close to the spot where I'd discovered Dimitri's body. I tried to avert my eyes but failed. Dark splotches splattered the cracked asphalt.
Oil stains or bloodstains?
Once inside, I released a sigh of relief, hoping everything would be back to normal. Ten minutes later I found myself wondering what the definition of normal was for a dance studio whose premier instructor had been murdered.
The haunting strains of a plaintive rhumba echoed throughout the building. Rhumba is frequently described as vertical sex. Anya, now coupled with Yuri, slowly slid down her partner's leg, her taut bronzed arms caressing his muscular thigh.
As the last notes of the song ended, Anya arched her back in a full back bend, her mane of ebony curls grazing the floor. I wondered if all that blood rushing to her head was good for her. Appraising her muscular yet lithe frame, I decided it must be good for something.
Yuri stared at Anya with admiration in his dark eyes. And possibly a tinge of lust.
Shoot. Even I was ogling her. How many years of practice would it take to achieve that level of sexuality and flexibility? At the rate I was going, the only men lusting after
me
would be retired ballroom dancers, their remaining strands of white hair flying as they chased after me in their walkers.
A loud snap of my partner's fingers woke me from my reverie. “Laurel, concentrate. We need to practice.” Bobby shook his index finger in my face to emphasize that he meant business. “We have to get the grapevine footwork down.”
If it were up to me, I'd be enjoying the fruit of the grape instead of the convoluted dance steps named after the vines. “Sorry, too many things swirling in my mind,” I muttered.
Bobby's face was somber. “We need to start swirling together. Liz called Boris this morning and berated him for your lack of progress. He threatened to fire me if you don't learn the routine by the end of the week.”
“Oh, Bobby, I'm sorry. I told Liz you've done everything possible to teach me the steps. My stubborn flat feet are the culprit.”
Speaking of flat feet...
“Were you interviewed by anyone from the sheriff's department?”
He sighed and released his hold on my upper back. Good, I could relax as well. The proper foxtrot pose gave me a neck and back ache. I briefly pondered whether Liz would entertain a much looser hip hop version of “It Had to Be You,” but I snapped back to reality when Bobby answered my question.
“The detectives talked to all of us pros.”
“What kinds of questions did they ask?”
Bobby stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds before responding. “I don't know what they asked everyone else, but they wanted to know if I knew of anyone with a grudge against Dimitri.”
I could tell from the expression on his face that he knew something but couldn't decide if it he should share it with me. “C'mon, Bobby. You can tell me.”
