by Cindy Sample
On the other hand, maybe letting your spouse indulge in their favorite hobby was the perfect prescription for creating a healthy, enduring relationship. If I ever had a spouse again, I'd keep that in mind.
Yuri's high cheekbones shimmered with perspiration as the couple performed some type of complicated step that left even me breathless. And I was merely watching.
The song ended and Yuri bent over, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than the frenetic music. They conferred briefly then started again, this time side by side, their legs kicking out with amazing speed and dexterity. Watching them jive was like watching Dancing with the Stars, but better, because I had a front row seat.
Dana splayed her hands on Yuri's rock hard abdomen and he thrust her up in the air. Her long legs, covered in black leggings, whirled around and around while remaining at Yuri's waist level. Their performance was mesmerizing.
Yuri suddenly bellowed a sound reminiscent of the roar of a wounded elephant. Dana flew out of his arms and slid across the varnished floor. She landed in a sprawl, her face dark with anger that quickly changed to horror.
Yuri clutched his chest, his face as white as a bridal gown. He staggered a few steps then crashed to the floor.
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* * *
TWENTY-THREE
* * * *
There was a brief lull when nothing and no one moved, including Yuri. Then everyone leaped into action. Dana scrambled to her feet and within seconds she was bent over Yuri's prone body. Boris and Bobby were right behind her and I arrived right behind them.
Dana's dark head rested on Yuri's chest. “He's still breathing. Thank God. I don't understand. What happened?'
Yuri's eyes were closed, his mouth twisted in a gargoylesque grimace. Spittle dribbled out of the corner of his lower lip.
“I called 9-1-1,” Nanette announced. “They should be here soon.”
Boris made an attempt to lift Yuri into a sitting position but Nanette stopped him. “Don't move him,” ordered the nurse. “See if you can find something to put under his head so he doesn't choke.”
Bobby ran to the lobby and removed a pillow from the sofa. He returned with Anya hot on his heels.
“Let me through!” Anya propelled herself past the group, falling to her knees before the prone body. She grabbed one of Yuri's hands and drilled Dana with a look so cold it could have turned the Amazon jungle into the Siberian tundra. “What have you done? Have you killed our Yuri, too?”
Dana's dark doe eyes were huge in her pale face. “I didn't do anything. Yuri and I were practicing for the competition. He collapsed right in the middle of our jive solo.”
Anya shook her finger at Dana “Why are you not in jail?”
Dana shrank back against her husband who had now joined the group gathered around the dancer.
“Anya, please stop.” Boris stood, towering over all of us. “We do not know what happened here. I'm sure Yuri, he will be okay.” He clasped his hands together and raised his eyes to the ceiling as if praying that his statement would become the truth.
“Yeah, you know Yuri downs those energy drinks like they're soda pop,” interjected Bobby, “maybe he has caffeine overload.”
Anya sniffed but she remained quiet, stroking Yuri's motionless hand.
“Where are rescue people?” Boris's voice thundered through the studio. No sooner had he uttered the words than the entry doors were flung open and once again El Dorado County rescue personnel hurried through. The two men in navy blue uniforms told us to clear away as they began ministering to Yuri, who despite the noise and verbal accusations, remained unconscious.
Within minutes, they had Yuri loaded on a gurney headed for Mercy Hospital, the closest hospital to the El Dorado Hills dance studio. He still hadn't regained consciousness and left with an oxygen mask over his nose and an IV hooked to his muscular forearm.
Once Yuri was taken away, Dana and Mr. Chandler slipped out the door. I didn't blame them. If this event had occurred one hundred fifty years earlier, the crowd would have tied Dana up and taken her to Placerville for an old fashioned lynching. That big old Hangin’ Tree might have claimed one more victim.
Fortunately this was the twenty-first century.
With Yuri out of commission that left only two male instructors besides Boris. Did someone have it in for the male dance instructors? And soon there'd be none?
I shook my head. Bobby probably had it right. There was nothing wrong with Yuri other than imbibing way too many energy drinks.
The diet cola I'd drunk earlier had reached its final destination, so a pit stop seemed like a good idea before I left the studio and drove home. I exited the ladies room and collided with Anya. Coal black streaks of mascara formed a wobbly trail from her red-rimmed eyes down her colorless cheeks.
And she still looked good!
“Anya, are you okay?”
“No, I am not.” She walked into the main ballroom, collapsing into one of the chairs. The lights had been dimmed and we were the only occupants of the vast room.
“You must be upset about Yuri.” I dropped into the chair next to hers. “But I'm sure he'll be all right.”
“It was so strange,” she said, her expression both sad and puzzled. “One minute he is fine then the next minute there he is, lying on the floor, so pale and still.”
She placed her palms over her face and started to cry. “What will I do if he is gone?”
“Are you and Yuri, um...” I pondered the best way to ask if she and Yuri were getting it on, “romantically involved?”
Her whole body shook and she continued to sob. “It's complicated.”
Yeah, well, what isn't, these days? Since this was my first opportunity to be alone with Anya, I decided to try another tack. “Do you have any idea who could have murdered Dimitri?”
She lifted her head and narrowed her eyes. “That woman, she killed him. I heard her threaten him.”
“Just because they argued that day doesn't mean she killed him. Did Dimitri ever say anything to you about receiving death threats from someone?”
With the lights dimmed, it was at first difficult to discern, but something flickered in her dark eyes. “Anya, did you write those letters?”
“I cannot talk.” Anya stood up, her posture perfect as always. “I must go to work now.”
“You have another job?” I looked at my watch. Almost ten. Not that many employment opportunities at this time of night. “Are you a waitress?”
Her eyes darted to the left and right before she responded. “Yes. Sure. Good bye.” She whirled out the front door before I could ask where she was employed.
I stood up and headed in the direction of the door before I realized I still wore my suede-soled dance shoes, the shoes Liz had lent me until I could buy another pair. The odds of my silver pair dancing out of the evidence room and back into my closet were zilch at this point.
The studio seemed cavernous in the dim light. And spooky. I expected Dimitri's ghostly apparition to waltz across the floor any second.
The sooner I exited this death trap the better. I picked up my pace noticing that the door to Boris's office was closed. Light shone from under the door so he was either working or talking to someone privately. I walked past his office into the cloakroom and flicked on the light switch. I sat on a bench and removed Liz's black canvas practice shoes. With their one-inch heels and soft expandable fabric, they felt as comfortable as dancing in my slippers.
I slipped on my boots, zipped them up and stood. Before I could stuff Liz's shoes in her tote bag, a loud crash startled me and both shoes dropped to the floor. I bent over to retrieve them and the door slammed shut.
The room went black.
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* * *
TWENTY-FOUR
* * * *
If the studio seemed scary earlier, it was downright terrifying now. With no windows to provide exterior light, the room was blacker than the inside of my masca
ra tube. Was I alone in a pitch-black room with a killer?
I listened for the sound of someone breathing, but my heart beat so loudly, I wouldn't hear a bass drum if it was playing right next to me. I moved my palms along the wall, feeling my way toward the entrance. Had Boris closed the studio, not realizing that someone was still inside? I couldn't be locked in here. I had two kids to go home to.
My left knee bumped into the bench and the sudden jolt made my stomach revolt from both pain and fear. My breaths were quick and shallow, making me feel lightheaded and woozy. I felt my way along the wall, finally locating the door. When I tried turning the knob, nothing happened.
A wave of panic threatened to take over as my claustrophobia kicked in.
Calm down, Laurel.
I wiped my damp palms on my slacks and took a couple of deep breaths. Presence of mind was needed if I was going to escape my prison. I grabbed hold of the knob again and gave it another try. It turned easily. Relief flooded through me. I took a calming breath and pushed. The door exploded open with a bang. A menacing presence loomed over me.
I shrieked and landed a kick worthy of David Beckham. The impact of my round-toed boot against something solid sent a streak of pain up my right calf. The man bent over and swore something unintelligible. I darted past him and bolted out of my jail. I raced into the main room heading for the exit. Moments later, I realized my car keys were in my purse. And my purse was back in the room I had just escaped.
Lights suddenly blazed throughout the studio. I was prepared to run out the door but since the studio was located in a commercial park in El Dorado Hills, there would be miles to go before I found a safe haven. After a ninety-minute dance lesson and pain radiating from my shin, I could barely outrun a snail, much less a murderer.
“Who's out there?” boomed a familiar voice. Boris? I hoped I hadn't injured him, although it served him right for scaring me like that.
“It's me, Laurel.”
Boris limped into the studio, followed by Marcus. They looked puzzled to see me.
“Why are you still here?” Marcus frowned at me. “The studio is closed.”
“I forgot my shoes in the back room and then the door slammed shut and I couldn't get out.” I smiled apologetically at Boris. “Sorry about kicking you. You scared me.”
The two men exchanged glances.
“You better to go now,” Boris said. “Is late for mother of small children to be out at night.”
“Stay here. I'll get your things.” Marcus disappeared into the back, quickly returning with my purse and my tote bag. I grabbed both items from him.
“You guys sure work late,” I said, wondering what was going on.
They stood, arms folded, impassive expression on both their faces. Okay, got it. Time to go. I walked to the entrance door with Boris following close behind me. The minute I stepped outside, the lock clicked.
Weird behavior, but this whole night had been strange from start to finish.
I unlocked my car, buckled my seatbelt, popped in my Bluetooth and hit a familiar name on my contact list.
“Hi, luv, what's up?” Liz giggled. “Did Boris try to play footsie with you after we left?”
Considering how hard I walloped Boris, it was more like I had played footsie with his shin, but that wasn't the big news of the night.
“Yuri collapsed right in the middle of practicing the jive with Dana.”
“Omigod. Is he okay?”
“I hope so. He was alive but unconscious when the paramedics drove him to the hospital.”
“What do you think happened?”
“I don't know. Bobby thinks Yuri drank too many energy drinks. Anya accused Dana of trying to murder him. The Chandlers slipped out right after the ambulance took off for the hospital.”
“If Yuri dies they'll close the studio again,” she said. “Balls. I can't believe this is happening to me.”
Bridezilla had returned.
She sighed. “Sorry. I don't know what I'm saying these days. What happened to Yuri is terrible. You don't think Dana could possibly have anything to do with it, do you? Wait a second. Brian needs to know about this.”
Liz put me on hold. I began to think the call was lost when she returned.
“So what did Brian say?”
“He called the DA at home. I pretended to load the dishwasher but I overheard part of the conversation.”
“Anything worth sharing?”
“Let's just say that by New Year's Eve, Dana is more likely to be dancing in an orange jumpsuit than a rhinestone covered ball gown.”
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* * *
TWENTY-FIVE
* * * *
After a restless night spent dreaming of Dana waltzing in an orange jumpsuit, my sleep-deprived face resembled the toaster waffles in our freezer. I pawed through the clutter in my bathroom vanity in search of the no-name super-secret moisturizer Liz had given me a few weeks before. She never explained why it was super secret or why it remained unnamed so I was a tad concerned sprouts might start growing out of my face. When my pillowcase wrinkles disappeared in less than a minute, I was hooked. It was definitely preferable to be tired than look tired.
Jenna flounced into the kitchen slamming cabinet doors and muttering under her breath. I contemplated dumping some of the miracle cream into her blueberry smoothie to see if her crabbiness would disappear as fast as my wrinkles. I managed to deposit both kids at their respective schools and arrive at the bank parking lot a few minutes early.
Tires squealed as a white car with gold letters on the side and that ominous row of lights on the roof zoomed into the lot and parked next to my slot. Two men stepped out of the sedan. One of the men was a deputy I recognized from a previous encounter. The man accompanying him was also no stranger.
What were Tom Hunter and the young deputy up to? The bank didn't officially open until nine. Based on Tom's dour expression, he wasn't here to make a deposit. Fortunately I didn't have anything to worry about. At least I didn't think I did.
I quickly slid out of my car and caught up to them. “Are you here on official bank business?” I asked, trying to keep up with the long strides of the two men.
“More like bad business,” he muttered as we walked through the parking lot. He abruptly halted in front of a spotless navy four-door sedan. The personalized license plate on the rear bumper read, #1 BANK.
He pointed at the vehicle. “Is that Chandler's car?”
I nodded. Everyone who worked for the bank recognized Mr. Chandler's car. It was the big, expensive Mercedes parked in the space marked “Bank President” that bore the not so subtle license plate.
“Kind of obvious, isn't it?” Tom remarked.
His question threw me. “Mr. Chandler's the President! Modesty isn't one of the adjectives I'd use to describe him. He has no reason to cover up his success.”
He yanked on my elbow and motioned for the deputy to go ahead. “I wonder what else your boss covered up. You were at Golden Hills Studio last night, right?”
“Uh-huh. Did you hear about Yuri? Do you know how he's doing?”
“He's still at Mercy Hospital. In a coma.”
I sucked in my breath. This was worse than I had imagined. “Do they know what happened?”
“We're investigating. From all accounts, the studio was packed last night.”
“They held a group salsa class, plus the members from Liz and Brian's wedding party were all there. Even my mother and Bradford. It was a real zoo.”
Tom looked at me in disbelief. “Bradford is taking ballroom lessons? That man must be head over heels in love with your mother.”
What kind of remark was that?
I glared at him. “Of course he is. He adores her. And like any sensible man, he wants to please her.” This detective had no idea how to be sensitive to a woman's needs. Maybe it was a good thing Tom had broken up with me before I discovered what an insensitive clod he truly was.
A pained expre
ssion crossed his face. “Laurel, I know you're upset about what happened between us.”
“Don't flatter yourself, Detective.” As I brushed past him, he grabbed my hand and my entire body ignited. I hated that every time he touched me, my insides turned to molten mush.
“Look, I need to talk to you about what happened at the studio last night,” he said. “I understand both the Chandlers were there.”
I nodded. “Dana wanted to practice with Yuri and Mr. Chandler came with her because—” I stopped because I wasn't totally clear why my boss chose to escort his wife to the studio the previous evening.
“Dana and Yuri were dancing together when he suddenly screamed and collapsed on the floor.” I shuddered as I recalled Yuri's pale face and still form. “Everyone went nuts. Anya accused Dana of killing him. Bobby insisted Yuri must have overdosed on caffeine.”
Tom stopped for a minute and pulled his notepad out of his jacket pocket. I stood there, shivering from the brisk morning air, while he scribbled some notes, punctuating them with multiple question marks.
The detective finally looked up from his notepad. “You're freezing. Let's get inside. Since you were at the studio, I'd like to know what you observed. Can we talk about that later?”
His fingertips grazed my chin as his eyes met mine. “And once this case is solved, can we talk about us?”
I brushed his hand away. “There is no us, but feel free to make an appointment if you want to discuss the recent events at the dance studio.”
Tom opened the door for me then followed me into the bank lobby. He stopped at the front desk to speak with Vivian. One smile from the hunky detective was enough to turn the normally cranky receptionist into a drooling ditz. I meandered through the maze that led to my cubicle wondering about the early morning visit. If Tom didn't come to the bank to interrogate me, why was he there?
Stan hovered at my desk, a legal-sized manila file in his hand. Ostensibly it looked like he wanted to discuss a loan, but I knew better. Despite his attempt to disguise himself as a harried underwriter, he was hunting for dance dirt.
