by Cindy Sample
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.”
Bobby's cafe au lait skin darkened. “You haven't been taking lessons here very long, so you wouldn't be aware of this, but Dimitri wasn't the most popular guy in the place.” He paused and his fists clenched involuntarily. “At least not with the other male dance instructors. As far as the women...” Bobby shrugged. “He was in high demand with them.”
“Can you think of something specific Dimitri did that would make someone mad enough to kill him?”
“Hey, I'm easy. Chill is my middle name. As for the other teachers, instead of holding master dance classes once a month, Boris should implement anger management sessions.”
Wow. Multiple dancing suspects.
With my head bent, deep in thought analyzing Bobby's words, I barely noticed the freight train heading in our direction.
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* * *
FIFTEEN
* * * *
As Anya and Yuri barreled down on us, only Bobby's agile reflexes kept me from being trampled to death. Or squashed into a samba sandwich. I glared at the receding backs of the couple as they continued their hip swiveling promenade around the studio.
As far as I was concerned, I'd already spent far too much time in a horizontal position on the dance floor. If I wanted to be horizontal, there were far better choices of venue. And partner.
Thoughts of a handsome detective snapped my brain back into investigative mode. “Bobby, do you have any idea who might have killed Dimitri?”
His lips parted, and I waited breathlessly for my teacher to share the name of the murderer. Always the consummate professional, Bobby intoned, “Slow, slow, quick, quick.”
I sighed and wished we could adjust our tempo to medium, medium, medium, so I could concentrate on detecting instead of dancing. I rested my left hand on his bicep, arched my back, stretched my latissimus dorsi muscle and kept my eyes focused above the watch on my left wrist. Supposedly this little trick would help me maintain the proper form. Before I started dancing I'd never heard of lat muscles. Now I knew if you held the proper pose, a variety of body parts should hurt.
Some hobby.
We danced across the varnished floor. The wall mirrors reflected my image, which looked more like a spastic zombie than a ballroom dancer. Perfect for the “Thriller” video, but not so much for a wedding.
How had Ginger done it? Maybe if I wrapped a feather boa around my neck, I could create the illusion that I was a dancer. Would my dancing improve if I donned a gorgeous ball gown made of swirling chiffon skirts strewn with sparkling crystals?
Could the proper attire impact my ability to learn ballroom? Possibly, although some students went a little overboard, I thought, noticing a peculiar looking guy standing by the front desk chatting with Anya. His black ruffled shirt exposed most of his hairless chest and his tight black trousers were, well, tight.
The guy bore a strong resemblance to Stan except for a tiny pencil moustache perched above his lips. I squinted in his direction and our eyes met. Oh, geez. This was my assistant's concept of blending in?
Stan put his finger to his lips and I nodded back. There was no need to admit the strange looking dude was a friend of mine. Stan's presence distracted me and I forgot to pay attention to my dancing. Before I knew it, Bobby was not only leading me in the grapevine formation, I was following him. Of course the minute I realized we were dancing well together, my heel stabbed my instep.
“Owww!” I hopped on my good foot.
“What happened? You were doing great.”
I limped off the dance floor and collapsed in a chair. Bobby sat next to me as I pulled off my shoe and massaged my injured foot.
“Are you okay?” My young teacher's eyes showed his
concern. I nodded and he quickly looked in the direction of Boris’ office.
“Don't worry about him.” I patted his knee. “There's no way we'll let Boris fire you because of me.”
He slumped in his chair and shoved his hand through his spiky black hair. “It's not only that,” Bobby said, his lips set in a thin line. He laced his fingers together and propped them against his chin.
“Hey, what is it then?” I looked in Anya's direction. “Girl trouble?”
He shook his head. “Nah, it's...okay, here's the deal. Dimitri planned on opening his own studio. He already had the space rented. He tried to solicit some of the other guys but like I said before, most of them couldn't stand his guts, although Yuri was considering it. Dimitri offered me almost twice the hourly wage Boris pays me, so I was seriously thinking about making the change. Anya and Tatiana had already agreed to follow him over there and of course they would have taken their students with them.”
“Did Boris suspect anything?”
“I don't know.” He shrugged. “Like I said, Boris called me into his office to discuss your progress. Then he made some comment about ungrateful dance instructors so I assumed he was talking about Dimitri and his efforts to solicit me and some of the other pros. I wouldn't be here today if Boris hadn't been willing to take a chance and train me. My background was strictly modern and ballet, but once I discovered ballroom, it's the only style of dance for me.”
His eyes veered to the right and I followed his gaze. Speak of the devil. Boris stood at the end of the enormous floor, arms crossed, looking as happy as a KGB officer at a Girl Scout wienie roast.
How upset would Boris have been about his star dancer starting his own studio? Luring some of the instructors and many of their students away? Would he have been angry enough to take desperate measures to eliminate the competition?
I cast a quick glance back at Boris. His beady black eyes bore into mine. Definitely not someone I wanted to get on the wrong side of. The man looked far more like a member of the Russian Mafia than a world famous ballroom dancer.
The strains of a sultry tango floated from the studio speakers as Anya led Stan out on the floor. I felt sorry for my pal. Tango was one of the trickier dances to perform with two slow steps followed by three quick ones.
My feet halted and my mouth dropped open as my buddy expertly maneuvered his professional partner into a corte pose. Who was this strange man dressed in black, sporting a fake moustache and adeptly steering the long limbed instructor across the floor?
Stan must have memorized some of the steps from the Dancing with the Stars shows he recorded each season. He actually looked like he knew what he was doing. All he needed was a black hat and mask and one would think Zorro had dropped by for a visit.
Or James Bond.
On second thought, after contemplating Stan's bizarre outfit—make that Austin Powers.
The sound of someone clearing his throat startled me. Boris towered over me, his expression as menacing as the villainous Goldfinger. What I wouldn't give to have Sean Connery or any of the former James Bonds standing next to me right now, a chilled martini glass in hand.
Or better yet, a glass in each hand.
“Good evening, Laurel,” Boris said, his Russian accent highly pronounced.
“Um, hi, Boris. Nice to see you.”
“Your dance...” His bushy black brows drew together. “She is progressing smoothly?”
That depended on your definition of smooth. If his definition meant galloping across the dance floor without a clue, well then, yes, she was progressing smoothly.
Bobby's eyes locked with mine as he visually pleaded for support.
“The dancing is going great. Bobby is a wonderful teacher and very patient with me. I just need to practice more often.”
“Da, I think maybe much practice would be good for you.” He wrapped a muscular right arm around my waist. “Come. I have idea.”
He half urged and half shoved me across the dance floor. As we drew closer to his dark office, his grip tightened, resembling the embrace of a boa constrictor. When he stopped in the doorway to turn on the light, I wondered if I should make a break for it.
Boris waved a meaty hand at me and pointed to a chair in front of his desk
“Please. Now. Before is too late.”
I reluctantly slid into the leather chair, my agile brain thinking way ahead of my clumsy feet.
Too late for what? Or for whom?
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* * *
SIXTEEN
* * * *
I perched on the edge of the chair, prepared to make a quick exit if the hulking bear of a dancer made any sudden moves.
The studio owner leaned back in his oversized chair with his bear-paw-sized hands crossed over his abdomen. Based on the photos plastered on his walls, he had let his formerly hard-as-a-rock six-pack of nicely muscled abs turn into a six-pack of slushies.
“Your friend, Liz, she is not so happy with your progress. She is worried that...” He paused as he tried to find the right expression.
I jumped in feet first. “Liz is worried about what?”
“She say you be da bomb.”
I beamed at my best friend's compliment. “She thinks I'm the bomb?”
He pursed his lips and shook his head. “No, I say it wrong. She worry you make dance bomb.” He grinned and banged his hand on the desk. “Yes, that is what she say.”
My confidence burst faster than an overinflated balloon. Admittedly Liz is an anal obsessive perfectionist, but it was her wedding, after all. I didn't need to be included in her overly long list of concerns.
“So I come up with idea.” He smiled widely and pointed at his broad chest. “I, Boris will teach you. Is good, no?”
Is good? No, no, no. Is not good. If I could barely keep up with the slender and highly patient Bobby, how on earth could I follow this dancing giant?
I tried to think of a polite way to turn down his offer.
“Gee, Boris, I would hate for you to waste your valuable time teaching me to dance. It could take hours and hours to train me.”
“It would please me so much to dance with you. Liz, she tell me you are single woman.” He winked. “I too am single. Very eligible bachelor.”
Be still my heart. Which thudded at the rate of a super fast cha cha. Although the pounding was due to anxiety, not a romantic interest in the “very eligible bachelor” sitting across from me.
“That's so sweet of you,” I floundered, trying to direct the conversation away from our mutual singleness and his proposition to tutor me.
“Running this studio must keep you very busy, especially now that Dimitri is gone,” I said.
At the mention of the dancer's name, Boris's face darkened like a thundercloud about to burst over the Sierras. He sneered and smacked the top of the scratched oak desk with his palm. “That Bolshevik SOB.”
I jumped. My comment must have touched a nerve. “There's a rumor that Dimitri wanted to open his own studio and some of the teachers and their students were going with him. Is that true?”
Boris glowered at me. “Who tell you this? Bobby?”
I shook my head. The last thing I wanted to do was get my teacher in trouble. “No, I'm not sure who I heard it from.”
“Dimitri was ungrateful traitor,” Boris roared. “I help him come to this country, set him up in beautiful studio, spend much money advertising to bring in students so he have good living. And still have opportunities to compete. Then what happen? He get big fat head and think he too good to work for me.”
“I can understand that. Everyone wants to be their own boss.”
“But I was his friend. A very good friend. And what he do for me?” Boris looked at me questioningly.
I shrugged.
“Nothing. I bring in the students and he want to take them away.”
“Did you try to stop him?”
“I try to talk but he does not listen. I flatter him. I threaten
him, then I...” His voice faltered as our gazes met. “I...”
“Killed him?”
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* * *
SEVENTEEN
* * * *
Sometimes my brain and lips lack a noticeable degree of coordination. Occasionally when a thought is randomly passing through my head, I say it aloud without even realizing it. An example of which had occurred seconds earlier.
“Killed him?” Boris rose from behind the desk, towering over me. “You think I kill Dimitri?”
I shook my head as the not so gentle giant fumed above me. “No, that's not what I meant. But you admit you threatened him.”
Boris glared at me, a fleck of spittle resting on his fleshy upper lip. “It was not like that. I did not threaten to kill him. The threat, it was about something else.”
I leaned forward, anxious to learn about the “something else.”
“Is not your concern. It was private, between Dimitri and me. Has nothing to do with his being killed.”
“How can you be sure? Maybe your private business led to Dimitri's murder. Did you tell the detectives about any of this?”
“Why you ask so many questions? This is not your business. Your business is to learn wedding dance.” He glanced at his watch. “Is time for my advanced technique class. If you do not learn choreography by end of week, I will make time to squeeze you in.”
His thick lips turned up into one of his ferocious smiles. “We will look good together. I like zaftig women.”
Zaftig? That was a new one. I would have to look it up, but I had a feeling the definition wasn't tall and slender.
Boris picked up his phone, indicating an end to our conversation. I slid my chair back and exited the office. I would have liked to eavesdrop but in the words of the studio owner, ‘I had much practice to do.'
And as far as I was concerned, much detecting to do.
The main ballroom hummed with activity. Students of every age warmed up, either by dancing with a partner, performing knee bends or executing stretches against a wall. Now there was a concept. Perhaps I should try one of those options rather than my normal method of warming up by exercising my lips.
