Dying for a Dance (15 page)

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.

He flung himself into the gray tweed chair reserved for hard working staff. “I can't believe I missed out on all of the excitement. I knew I should have booked my lesson for last night.”

“What lesson?”

Stan thrust his left shoulder forward and attempted to give me a smoldering look, which with Stan's gray eyes and weak chin, made him resemble a Dilbert character.

“T.A.N.G.O, kiddo,” he chanted. “Remember that lesson I took the other day when I was spying at the studio. Anya said I'm a natural.”

I cocked my head and reflected back on Stan's performance. He had been surprisingly good.

“It was so much fun I decided to take more lessons. Anya said we could compete some time.”

“Wow. That could mean a ton of money and time.”

“Yeah, but think how much fun it could be. Maybe you and I should compete together.”

Since the odds of me competing with Stan were as high as the cow not only jumping over the moon
but
supplying me with a glass of chocolate milk, I simply nodded.

Stan grabbed his file and headed down the hallway. In less than five seconds he was back, waving his hand and urging me to follow him.

Now what? I stood and followed him into the open area of the bank where the assembled staff watched aghast as our fearless leader was led out of the bank, metal cuffs restraining his hands behind his back.

Mr. Chandler's face was redder than Ben's fake Rudolph nose. At his side, Tom Hunter urged him along, but kindly, not with force. The young deputy followed both of them, one side of his face turning an interesting hue of purple and blue.

Stan nudged me with his elbow. “Do something.”

“Me? Do you think I have some kind of magical powers to remove handcuffs from our boss?” It was getting more and more difficult lately to determine what tasks were included in my job description. Did Mr. Chandler need a detective, a lawyer or a locksmith?

Belle raced into the room. The executive assistant normally exuded a practical and peaceful demeanor. Today the right collar of her tailored white blouse was tucked into her navy suit while the left stuck straight up, the starched pointed end aimed at the ceiling. Her black curls, which were usually restrained by a barrette, formed a fluffy black halo around her pale frightened face.

Her frantic eyes scanned the room and zeroed in on us. She zoomed over. “They arrested Mr. Chandler.”

“What happened?”

“I was sitting at my desk when the big guy, you know, the really good looking one?” She looked at me for confirmation.

Yeah, yeah, big good-looking detective.

“He asked if he could speak to the president, so I went into the boss's office and told him some men from the sheriff's department were here to see him. Mr. Chandler came out and they all shook hands then went inside and closed the door. I couldn't hear much other than muffled voices but then Mr. Chandler's voice grew louder. I pretended to be typing, but I could see through the glass window of his office that he was getting all worked up. His face was red and he was waving his arms around. I was really worried. He's on high blood pressure meds, you know.”

I shook my head. So far, I wasn't privy to the Chandler family's medical history, but at the rate we were bonding, I would probably soon know the president's cholesterol count
and
his prostate levels.

“I thought I should keep an eye on him just in case, and the next thing I knew, he tried to punch that young deputy in the eye.” She smacked her fist into her palm for emphasis. “Mr. Chandler missed, but the deputy jumped away so fast, he whacked his cheek against the door.”

Stan and I exchanged looks. The deputy must have said something that upset our fearless leader. Belle pushed me toward the front of the bank. “C'mon, Laurel, talk to the detectives. They can't truss Mr. Chandler up like a turkey.”

Stan chuckled. “Well, he is kind of a stuffed shirt.”

Belle skewered him with a look of disdain.

“What do you expect me to do?” I protested.

She threw her hands up in the air. “I don't know. You're the one who's supposed to be the brilliant detective. Mr. Chandler thinks you're amazing so go do something amazing.”

He does? Okay then. There was one thing I knew for certain and that was if Mr. Chandler ended up in jail, there definitely wouldn't be anyone signing our Christmas bonus checks.

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TWENTY-SIX

* * * *

I raced out of the office in such a hurry I forgot my coat. The brisk December wind blowing through my thin rose pink cotton sweater transformed me into a raspberry popsicle. I trotted down the sidewalk hoping to catch the officers and their presidential prisoner before they drove out of the parking lot.

Mr. Chandler stepped into the back of the patrol car, his lips curled in displeasure. As I recalled from my one and only backseat ride in a squad car, the interior of the cars were as aromatic as the Hangtown Bakery, but not in a good way.

“Tom!” I waved my hands to get his attention.

He leaned in, spoke with the deputy then walked over to meet me. “Laurel, we have to get going. And you're obviously freezing.” His gaze dropped momentarily from my face to my chest. My nipples were happily saluting my former boyfriend, either because they were too cold to know better or because they were hoping he would heat them up.

I crossed my arms over my disobedient breasts and tilted my head to meet his wary eyes. “Is Mr. Chandler under arrest?”

“I can't share that with you,” he said firmly.

“Are you kidding? How do you think the bank can function if the president is in jail? What about our customers?”

I was so annoyed I began poking him in the chest with my index finger. “We could have a run on the bank. That wouldn't be good for the bank, or this town.”

He pulled on his earlobe, a little habit that meant he wasn't absolutely certain what to do in this situation. It was nice to know I could read one of his tells. Maybe it wasn't so terrible to have a daughter addicted to Texas Hold ‘Em. Some of the poker playing skills she had shared with me could come in handy if I ever turned my amateur sleuthing into a full-time job.

“Look, your boss tried to punch a deputy. We can't ignore something like that in order to keep your bank customers happy.”

“Yeah, but Mr. Chandler missed so technically he didn't assault him.” Did a missed attempt count? “Your deputy must have provoked him.”

“Deputy Mengelkoch may have been a little out of line with one of his remarks.”

“What did he say to set Mr. Chandler off?”

Tom stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth as he pondered how much to share. “That's none of your concern. I have to get out of here, but we need to talk. Are you home tonight?”

Four days until Christmas Eve. Ten days until Liz and Brian's New Year's Eve wedding. Home was the last place I should be tonight, but it was time the detective and I had a tete-a-tete, whether it was about the murder or about the two of us.

“Call me, I'll be around.”

He put his hand on the small of my back and gave me a little push in the direction of Main Street. “Go warm up. I don't want to see you shivering when I show up tonight.”

Like that was going to happen. My internal temperature gauge always went awry when he was in the vicinity. As I headed back to the bank, the patrol car pulled up next to me. Tom rolled down his window and I heard our boss bellowing from the back.

“Laurel, tell Belle to call my lawyer.”

I gave Mr. Chandler a thumbs-up and threw him an encouraging smile, letting him know I was on it. I raced down the street, threw open the lobby door and stomped down the hallway to my cubicle, hoping my activity would eventually generate some heat to my frosty tootsies.

It was after nine and the bank was officially open. Several Main Street store owners were already on the scene, milling around the bank lobby and conversing with one another. The branch manager and tellers assured the customers it was business as usual. Based on the worried looks on some of the merchants’ faces, not many of them were buying it.

I scurried down to my cubicle before any of the staff could quiz me. Stan perched on the corner of my desk, contemplating his manicured nails, his polished Cordovan loafer swinging back and forth.

“So, what's the scoop?” His eyes gleamed bright behind his wire rims.

It wasn't up to me to confide the information Tom had shared about the altercation between Mr. Chandler and the deputy.

“I think it was all a misunderstanding,” I said.

“Did they let the Prez go?”

“Nope.”

“Did they take him to the jail?”

I shrugged.

“I wonder if the jail has his and her cells,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“With Yuri collapsing last night, don't you think Dana will be arrested?”

Nuts. It seemed like everywhere I turned, there was a member of the Chandler family in trouble with the law.

Poor Robbie. Knowing what my daughter suffered when I was a murder suspect, I could sympathize with the young man. What a way to spend his Christmas break.

“Go back to your cube. I need to talk to Belle.” I shooed Stan away and he actually took my not so subtle hint and disappeared. I dialed her extension and relayed Mr. Chandler's request. The executive assistant sounded much calmer, especially now that she had a directive from her boss. Belle was as competent as they come, so Mr. Chandler's attorney might arrive at the jail before he did.

After all the morning commotion, it was impossible to concentrate on my loan files. If Mr. Chandler wasn't released soon, local bank customers might close out their checking and savings accounts. Hangtown Bank's business model was based on trust and reputation. Once word spread that the president had been arrested, who knew what would transpire?

I yanked out a yellow legal pad, drew a large circle in the middle of the page and filled in Dimitri's name. I added spokes for the different parties involved with the victim. So far there were Boris, the studio owner, Anya, Tatiana, and Wendy, the female instructors, and Yuri, Marcus, and Bobby, the male teachers. Since Yuri was in a coma it was yet to be seen if his current condition was tied to Dimitri's murder. He could suffer from some type of physical ailment that had been exacerbated by his frenetic lifestyle.

Then there were Dimitri's students, some of whom I still had not met.

Plus Irina, his wife.

Hmmm. I rubbed my Bic against my lower lip. There had been no sightings of the widow since she'd gone into labor in the studio. It had been almost two weeks since Dimitri's death. It couldn't be easy taking care of a newborn by herself. Perhaps she'd welcome a visit and a baby gift for her little girl.

Aww, a little girl. It brought back memories of the night my eldest was born. That night had been hell. Twenty-two hours of labor and three hours of pushing. Irina had no idea how easy she'd had it with her forty-five minute delivery.

Now who would have her address?

Stan plopped into the chair again. “Perfect timing, Watson,” I said.

“I figured by now you'd have a plan of attack. The lobby is a circus. We need to do something. Soon.”

I shoved my chart toward him. “This is a list of everyone I can think of who is associated with Dimitri. But there are students I haven't met and folks we may not even know exist. The sensible thing is to start at home base.”

Stan looked confused, which wasn't surprising.

“Dimitri's widow. As far as I know, Irina hasn't been to the studio since their little girl was born. Surely she has some idea who might have wanted her husband dead.”

“How do you know she isn't the murderer?”

I screwed up my face as I mulled it over. “I guess it's possible. But she's really short so it would have been difficult for her to whack him on the head. Unless he was bent over.”

“Or sitting,” Stan suggested.

Hmmm. Not bad, Watson.

“So how do you propose talking to her? Does she even know who you are?”

“We met in the studio a couple of times. The poor thing is probably overwhelmed with the baby, and devastated by her husband's death. I thought a baby gift might cheer her up.” I smiled at Stan. “And maybe something chocolate for the new mama to nibble on.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“Nope. That's where you come in. Didn't you say you scheduled a lesson with Anya tonight?”

“Ah, yes, the lovely Anya. That woman doesn't even have to swivel to sizzle.”

I threw him a quizzical look. “Forgetting something, Stanley?”

He looked puzzled.

“Um, like you're gay?”

He snorted. “I may be gay but I'm not dead.”

“Whatever. But be careful. Do you think Anya will give you the address if you ask?”

He blew on his fingertips. “Are you kidding? Women love to share stuff with me. I'm like everyone's GBFF. I'll charm her address book right off of her.”

“Yeah, fine, but please be discreet. And if she doesn't have it, maybe you can get it from Boris.”

Stan shuddered. “Now that guy makes me quake in my Cuban-heeled dance shoes. If you want my opinion, he's your murderer.”

“Just because he's big, scary looking and named Boris doesn't make him a killer. He's probably a teddy bear trapped in a grizzly bear's body.”