Dying for a Dance

by Cindy Sample

  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.”

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  * * *

  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.

  He grimaced at me. Or may
be 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.”

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  * * *

  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.”

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  * * *

  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 th
e 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.”