Dying for a Dance (10 page)

She smiled at me and pointed at the chair next to her. “Are you still working on the wedding choreography?”

I slumped into the chair. “Bobby is attempting to teach me, and I am attempting to learn, but there's a fairly wide chasm between the two. I don't think I'll ever be able to follow him.”

“You'll get the hang of it eventually. At first, it seems impossible to follow the rhythm and feel the musicality. And women automatically want to lead. It's a natural instinct for us.”

I chuckled. “So it's not just me being a total control freak.”

She grinned back. “Nope, you're normal. Trust me. One day it will suddenly click and before you know it, following will be the easiest thing in the world. It's an amazing high when everything comes together.”

I gazed down at the enemy—my two left feet. “At the rate I'm going, Liz will be celebrating her tenth anniversary before anything clicks for me. She complained to Boris about my lack of progress and now he's hounding Bobby.”

“Don't worry. Boris is more bark than bite.”

“Or flirt than bark. He not only offered to teach me himself, he made some offhand comment about how he's attracted to
zaftig
women, whatever the heck that means.”

Paula placed her palm over her mouth, attempting but not succeeding in stifling a giggle. “Boris is an excellent teacher, although he can be intimidating. Yuri said he would consider taking me on, but his plate is full trying to squeeze in so many of Dimitri's former students. There are only four male dance instructors now: Marcus, Yuri, Boris, and Bobby.”

I glanced across the room at Yuri. He was laughing and chatting with Tatiana and Wendy, two of the female instructors.

I turned to Paula. “Were you going to follow Dimitri to his new studio?”

She looked surprised. “You heard about that?”

I nodded.

“Dimitri and I competed in dance competitions all over the country this past year. I did so well, we decided I should go ahead and advance to the gold scholarship level.” She stared at her feet encased in rhinestone-studded bronze satin dance shoes. “He was such a brilliant dancer and teacher I would have followed him wherever he went.”

“When was the studio supposed to open?”

“The official opening was scheduled for mid February. Dimitri was positive he'd pull in some big prizes at the New Year's Holiday Ball. He also hoped to entice a couple of the premier Bay Area instructors to join him at the new studio.”

“He thought he could get some big name professionals to move out here to the sticks?”

“With the lower cost of living and housing, the foothills are quite a draw. And there are fewer studios competing for students here than in the Bay Area. I think he had several good candidates who wanted to join him.”

“I'll bet that ticked Boris off,” I said. “Did you know he was aware of Dimitri's defection?”

“He probably threw a fit when he found out.” Paula's hazel eyes widened as she contemplated my announcement. “You don't think Boris would have been angry enough to kill Dimitri, do you?”

“That's what I wondered. Do you have any idea which students were following Dimitri to the new studio?”

“Samantha Fielding said she would go. And Dana Chandler, of course. She couldn't bear to be parted from her teacher.” The expression on her face signaled more to the story.

“Why do you say that?”

Paula blushed. “Hey, I'm not one to start rumors, especially about the dead, but the two of them were together a lot. And not only on the dance floor. My husband and I were at the Bistro Restaurant last Wednesday night. Dana and Dimitri were there, alone, looking very chummy.”

“Maybe he was explaining dance steps to her,” I said.

We exchanged glances. Discussing dance steps over dinner?

It was time to have a talk with the prime suspect.

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EIGHTEEN

* * * *

By Friday, I was more than ready for the weekend. Between work and an extra dance lesson Thursday night, I'd barely completed any of my Christmas shopping for my family. By 4:55 my last file was underwritten and approved—I tend to be more lenient on a Friday afternoon. Determined to be out of the bank no later than five o'clock, my purse was clasped in my hand when my phone rang. I looked to see if it was an interoffice call or anyone important.

Mr. Chandler's extension. There was no doubt which category the president would put himself.

I lifted the receiver. “Laurel speaking.”

“Tomorrow. My house. Ten a.m.”

At the end of a long week, my neurons aren't necessarily operating at peak capacity. “Huh? What? When?”

“Dana would like you to come to our house tomorrow morning.” I imagined the digits of my Christmas bonus dropping as his sigh resonated over the phone. “She's nervous about going out in public and would prefer if you came here tomorrow to discuss her situation. We would both appreciate it.”

It had to be difficult going from Queen Bee of the local society pages to Queen Suspect.

“If my daughter can babysit, I should be able to make it there by ten.”

The conversation ended with the dial tone buzzing in my ear. Evidently the meeting at the boss's house wasn't optional. I buttoned my black leather coat and slung my purse over my shoulder. The phone rang once again.

I slumped back in my chair and grabbed the receiver. “Yes?” I said with all the enthusiasm of someone still at the office at 5:10 on a Friday afternoon.

“Laurel, what are you doing tomorrow?”

“Hi, Mother. Running errands, Christmas shopping, interviewing murder suspects.”

“What?”

“Nothing. What's going on?”

“I want your opinion on something. Can you meet me for breakfast at ten?”

“I'm busy at ten. How about lunch instead? Old Town Grill?”

“What are you doing at ten in the morning?”

Trying to keep my job
. “I'll tell you about it tomorrow at lunch.”

That seemed to satisfy my mother. Now if I could only satisfy my boss.

???

Jenna agreed to babysit her brother on Saturday, astutely guessing that one of my errands included chasing down the items on her Christmas wish list which consisted of gadgets starting with the letter I, as in iphone and ipad. I definitely needed that bonus if my children were going to remain technologically compatible with their peers.

The temperature had dropped the night before and it wasn't uncommon to find patches of black ice hidden in the shadowy recesses of Green Valley Road, especially near the one-lane bridge over Weber Creek. I drove carefully, deciding that I'd rather be late for the meeting than have my car perform wheelies on the slick ice.

The Chandlers resided in a Victorian mansion built by one of the gold rush magnates. The men who supplied the Forty-niners with food and equipment had become wealthy merchants while the poor prospectors drank and gambled away the bags of gold dust they labored so hard to discover.

The Prius and I arrived at the Chandlers’ house only one minute late. The pale yellow mansion with dark green trim sparkled in the bright sunlight
.
Frost, icing the expansive front lawn, shimmered like tiny diamonds in the emerald green grass. I drove up the long paved driveway and parked off to the side next to a sporty navy blue BMW convertible.

High-heeled boots and black ice are not a good combination so I stepped carefully, watching out for slick patches of ice on the long brick walkway. No doorbell was immediately evident so I finally banged on the leonine brass knocker, which adorned the oversized oak-paneled doors. The door was flung open in the middle of my pounding.

Bristling black brows and narrowed green eyes couldn't disguise the fact that this kid was handsome, in an ominous
Twilight
fashion. My first thought was that Jenna would
so
love to be introduced to him. My second thought was that was
so
not going to happen. I knew teenage trouble when I saw it.

I introduced myself but the surly young man ignored my proffered hand. He stepped to the side of the entry motioning for me to enter. I hesitantly walked into the large foyer, worried my heeled boots would mar the mahogany planks polished to a glossy shine.

“The folks are waiting for you in the sunroom.” All six feet of his tense body vibrated with anger. “Maybe you'll be able to talk some sense into my old man.”

This must be Rob Chandler, their youngest son. As I recalled, he was a junior at Stanford, probably home on winter break, and most likely the owner of the Beemer parked outside. He was supposedly smart and had inherited Dana's dark good looks. It was obvious he was not happy with his parents.

I followed Rob down a long hallway, peeking into the beautifully furnished rooms on both sides. When he turned to see why I lagged behind, I sped up my pace. Maybe Dana would give me a tour later. From what I could tell, someone had spent a fortune decorating and this might be my only opportunity to ogle.

The murmur of angry voices greeted us as we approached the sunroom, but they abruptly stopped when we appeared in the doorway.

Rob flung himself into a white wicker chair, the nineteenth century rose-patterned cushions at odds with the twenty-first century young adult dressed in designer jeans and flip flops, standard attire for California teens in every social strata.

The air simmered with undercurrents. Dana sat in a wicker settee, her fingers destroying the tissue she held into tiny shreds. Mr. Chandler paced in front of the windows that overlooked the back garden, his complexion matching the color of the roses decorating the cushions.

Dana pointed to the seat next to her. I reluctantly walked over, feeling like an unwilling guest in the third act of a Tennessee Williams play. I sat on the loveseat next to Dana, not sure what to do to comfort her. She grabbed my right hand in hers, squeezing so hard my knuckles whimpered.

“Thank you for coming,” she murmured in a voice barely louder than a whisper. Her brown eyes were huge and imploring; her face, devoid of make-up, was all angles in the harsh light of the morning sun.

Mr. Chandler stopped his pacing and nodded at me. “Yes, thank you, Ms. McKay, for agreeing to help us with this um, situation.”

“Situation?” Rob practically screamed the word at his parents. “My mother could be arrested any minute now for murdering her lover and you think we have a situation.”

Mr. Chandler froze mid-pace. “Go to your room. Now. This does not concern you.”

Rob jumped out of his chair. “You bet your ass it does.” His emerald eyes glittered as he pointed at his mother, who shrank back into the cushions. “Some mother you are.”

He delivered one last parting shot before he stomped out of the room. “At least your boyfriend was finally taken care of.”

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NINETEEN

* * * *

Dana burst into tears. Mr. Chandler threw his arms in the air then slumped into the chair vacated by his angry son. I patted Dana's hand, musing that the lives of wealthy bank presidents aren't necessarily better than those of their lowly mortgage staff.

Dana rubbed her eyes, which only served to make them redder than before. “I'm so embarrassed. Robbie arrived home last night for winter break. His finals were held last week. We couldn't bear to disrupt his studies, so we kept Dimitri's murder and my involvement a secret. Needless to say, he became a little distraught at the news.”

Evidently her definition of distraught and mine were miles apart.

Dana straightened her back and addressed her husband. “Gordon, I'd like to talk to Laurel by myself. Would you mind leaving us alone?”

His son's outburst had aged the bank president at least ten years. As he pulled himself out of his chair, he refused to meet his wife's gaze. His steps were slow and uncertain as he closed the glass door to the sunroom behind him.

With her husband out of the room, Dana recovered some of her natural grace and hospitality. “I apologize for my family, and especially Robbie. Would you like some tea or coffee?” The perfect homemaker was once again in charge.

I shook my head, uncomfortable participating in the Chandler family soap opera. “I'm not certain how I can help.”

Dana twisted the wet and mangled tissue in her hand. “I thought since you were accused of murder barely a few months ago that you could relate and maybe give me some advice. Despite Gordon's somewhat gruff demeanor, he has frequently referred to you as Hangtown Bank's own version of Nancy Drew.”

Me? Nancy Drew? Cool.

Dana managed a weak smile. “I imagine there are rumors circulating around the dance studio, but I want to make something perfectly clear. Despite Robbie's remarks and what Gordon may or may not think, Dimitri and I never slept together. I have never been nor would I ever be unfaithful to my husband. You must believe me.”

No reason not to believe her, except...

“Not that I didn't think of it, or daydream about Dimitri. I mean, who wouldn't?”

She was right. Probably every woman in the studio fleetingly thought of spending time with that primal hunk of man.

Even Stan had desired him from afar.

“Dimitri was an outrageous flirt, and if I'd shown any interest, he would have had no compunction about bedding me. But I would never cheat on Gordon. I love my husband, all two hundred plus pounds of him.”

Okay, got it. She didn't make whoopee with Dimitri.

“But I did do something terrible.” Her chin rested on her folded palms as she stared downcast at the floor. “And far worse.”

What was worse than stepping out on your husband?

Uh-oh. Was she talking about murder?

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TWENTY

* * * *

My expression must have revealed my thoughts.

“Not murder.” She gave her head a hard shake. After a second, she added, “But I stole money.”

My mouth opened so wide you could fit one of her gold-rimmed teacups into it. “You stole money? From the bank?”

“Of course not. Well, technically I didn't steal it.” She traced her finger around the rim of her Spode cup. “Gordon insisted we have an equity line on this house. Back when you could get huge lines of credit with a minimal loan application. You never know when you'll need cash for an emergency. This house is worth a lot and we were approved for a $300,000 line of credit.”