Dying for a Dance (17 page)

He listened, frowning. “I have to go.” He slapped his phone shut.

“Everything okay?”

“No. Definitely not okay.” A perplexed expression crossed his face. “Yuri's tox results came back.”

“Tox results?”

“We ran a toxicology screen on Yuri. The lab results indicate traces of something that would have been highly unusual for him to have imbibed normally.”

My eyes widened at the implication. I had assumed like everyone else that Yuri had overdone the caffeine with his multitude of energy drinks. Or that he had an undisclosed heart condition that caused his collapse.

“Do you think he was poisoned?”

He nodded. “Most likely at the dance studio. Interesting that Dana was there for the first time since Dimitri was killed. And her husband happened to accompany her that night as well. Too much of a coincidence for me. “

I slumped against the counter. Despite the fact that Mr. Chandler had withheld some damaging information from me and the detectives, I still couldn't believe he was involved with Dimitri's murder or Yuri's poisoning.

“Did Yuri wake up from his coma? Maybe he ate something that accidentally poisoned him. You can't assume the Chandlers had anything to do with it,” I protested.

“We aren't assuming anything, but unless Yuri normally added antifreeze to his energy drinks, there's a strong possibility your boss committed both murders.”

My eyes widened to the size of the dinner plates sitting in my sink. “Both murders,” I squeaked.

“There was another piece of bad news.” Tom drew me closer in preparation for his announcement. “Yuri died a few minutes ago.”

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TWENTY-NINE

* * * *

The next morning I was more determined than ever to visit Irina. I still couldn't believe that two male dance instructors from the same studio had been killed. There had to be some correlation despite the fact they were murdered using different methods.

Or were there two different killers?

A frisson of fear shot through my body. That was too horrible to contemplate. But equally tragic was the thought of our bank president imprisoned in a jail cell.

My children were now officially out of school and on winter break. Since I wouldn't be home until late, I told Jenna to warm up the previous night's leftover spaghetti for their dinner. I warned my son if there was any evidence of him hiding vegetables in the house or in the kitten's stomach, that he definitely would receive only a lump of coal for Christmas. Ben's face whitened but he could tell I was serious. I had no idea how I would discipline him after the holidays were over, but at least for the next three days, I held the upper hand.

The atmosphere at work was total doom and gloom as employees congregated throughout the office debating the future of the bank. Those reflections eventually led to the staff wondering about their own continued employment. Fortunately with only two days until Christmas Eve, most of the local shopkeepers were too busy minding their own stores to worry about closing their bank accounts.

At lunchtime, I ran out to get a sausage sandwich at Hot Dog Haven. The proprietor of the tiny bistro asked for my financial advice. “So what's the deal with Chandler?” Marty asked, slathering my bratwurst with half a bottle of mustard. “Do I need to find another bank?”

The guy standing in line behind me interjected, “The rumor is your president is up Hangtown Creek without a paddle.”

I rolled my eyes and turned around to address the guy. Based on the size of his gut, he must be a regular at the Haven. The woman standing behind him, the owner of a downtown nail salon, chimed in. “I heard the bank was shutting down and we need to get our money out fast.”

“The bank is fine. Your deposits are insured, so they are fine. And Mr. Chandler
will
be fine.” That last comment was spoken with my hopes high and my fingers crossed. My nerves were stretched so thin, the screech of Marty tearing paper made me jump. He wrapped my sandwich then tucked it into a carryout bag festooned with his “hot doggy” logo, a golden retriever licking his lips. I opened my wallet and handed him a five-dollar bill.

“Well, I don't cotton to murder,” said the guy behind me, “but if Chandler killed that dancer fella cause he was humping his wife, you can't honestly blame him.”

“Men,” muttered the salon owner.

“Mr. Chandler did not murder anyone,” I said with gritted teeth. “And Mrs. Chandler did not fool around with the two dead dancers.”

“She was screwing two of them dancers?” He shook his head in amazement. “Now don't that beat all?”

I grabbed my paper bag from Marty and headed back to work before I could wreak further damage to the Chandlers’ reputations. That conversation reinforced my desire to do whatever I could to help the president.

With my mission to save my boss and therefore the bank on my agenda for tonight, I left the office at five sharp and drove over to our local big box store. Based on the number of cars circling the lot in search of a parking space, the local Budget Mart was not struggling for business. I hovered for a full five minutes as one family packed up their two double strollers and buckled four children and a load of parcels into the back seats of their van. If I thought my life as a single mom was hectic, what would it be like to have four toddlers at home, plus a husband?

After snaring their parking spot, which I almost lost to an overzealous SUV driver who attempted to sneak in while the family slowly backed out, I entered the over-decorated, over-stocked and overly noisy store.

Wild-eyed parents pushed shopping carts filled with boxes of all shapes and sizes as well as screaming children of all shapes and sizes. I dashed over to the children's apparel, which in this superstore was located at least a half-mile from the entrance. The infant-sized sleeper in red and white stripes with a matching stocking cap should put Irina in a festive mood. The two-pound box of deluxe chocolates definitely would do the trick.

The toy section seemed a football field away from the baby department. I selected two of the Nintendo games on Ben's list. That meant two gifts down and forty to go, if he had his way. Which of course, wasn't going to happen. As his elder sister said, we were on a budget this year.

My own budget could dwindle to the size of Ben's allowance if Mr. Chandler's arrest had a huge impact on the bank. Our customers had plenty of banking options to choose from at local branches of nationwide banks. If we lost deposits, it would diminish our ability to make new loans, leading to reductions in staff.

My shoulders slumped as I stood in line waiting to make my purchases. It felt like not only my family's welfare, but the wellbeing of the entire bank rested on my ability to solve the murders. My spirits flagged as my line moved forward a mere two inches while the cashier installed a new roll of paper tape into her register. At the rate we were going, it would be Christmas by the time I reached Irina's house.

The store manager must have been equally anxious to ring up more purchases and get the customers out of the store, because three more registers opened up. I zipped over to the express cashier, grabbed a foil-wrapped marshmallow Santa Claus for energy, and was back in my car a few minutes after six. I tucked the baby outfit and candy into a holiday gift bag and stuffed in a few sheets of red tissue. I consider gift bags to be one of the greatest inventions of the century, almost on a par with my DVR recorder.

It seemed rude to show up at Irina's doorstep without any warning, so I stuck my Bluetooth on my ear and dialed her number. The squalling of an infant confirmed that I'd reached her home phone.

“Allo?”

“Irina, this is Laurel McKay from the dance studio. Liz Kendall and I bought a baby gift for you and I wondered if I could drop it off tonight. I'm not too far away from your house.”

The baby's cries diminished to a distant murmur, which made it easier to hear Irina's response.

“Da, I suppose you can come by to the house although I have company here. Hold on.” The sound of the phone clattering on a hard surface assaulted my ear. “Yes, is okay, my company is leaving. You know where we live?”

“I found directions on the computer. You're a few miles down Black Horse Road, right?”

“Da, number 1571. On the left side. The driveway she goes way up to the house.”

The dial tone buzzed in my ear before I could say good-bye, but at least Irina was amenable to me stopping by. I'd hoped to converse with her in private, but as a new mother and recent widow, she probably had frequent visitors.

Black Horse Road was only five or six miles from the Budget Mart but in the opposite direction from my house. Still, if I only stayed at Irina's for a half hour or so, I could be home by half past seven.

I drove down North Shingle Road looking for the sign for Black Horse Road. Headlights blasting from oncoming cars made the search far more difficult. According to Mapquest, I should be almost... There it was.

The narrow two lane road was paved but rutted and not in the best shape. I worried about driving into potholes bigger than the Prius. Headlights shone from the top of the hill as a vehicle slowly wound down the steep, twisty road in my direction. I drove into a pullout on the side of the road and waited for the SUV to pass.

I was surprised Dimitri and Irina lived in such a remote area. So far I'd only passed two other houses. Maybe the tall pines and solitude reminded them of the Russian countryside.

My little car complained about the uphill climb but eventually I spotted a driveway on the left with Irina's address scrawled on a piece of wood. Not the most ornate entrance but at least it was legible. The driveway was even narrower than the road, half gravel and half dirt ruts. Obviously Dimitri had not poured any of the money he borrowed from Dana into any outside improvements.

The long winding driveway finally ended in a flat patch of gravel in front of a rustic log house. The porch was stocked to the roof with several piles of firewood. Irina would have an entire winter's supply to keep her and the baby warm.

I parked next to a dirty white Chevy Silverado. The truck seemed too big for the petite woman to drive, so her company must still be visiting. I stepped out of my car into the frigid night air. The scent of wood smoke combined with the sweet smell of cedar pines made the air smell like Christmas. I grabbed my purse and the gifts from the front seat.

The front steps creaked as I climbed up to the porch. The drapes to the front window were open, exposing a fire burning in a massive stone fireplace in the living room, but the room appeared to be empty.

Before I could grab the bronze doorknocker, the door flew open.

Irina stood in the doorway next to the most massive person I had ever seen outside of the World Wide Wrestling Champion-ships. He was at least six foot nine, and could probably knock down the Incredible Hulk with one swat of his huge hairy paw.

He frowned at me and muttered something under his breath. When he stuck his right hand into the pocket of his Big and Tall black leather coat, I sensed danger. I backed down the porch steps, mentally berating myself for getting involved in a situation that involved the Russian mafia.

Why hadn't I heeded my mother's advice?

I had almost reached the safety of my car when my heel slipped on a piece of gravel. My purse went flying in one direction. The baby gift flew over my head landing in an evergreen shrub. The sound of two pounds of candy bouncing on the hood of my car made me cringe.

I was too big to bounce, so I merely landed flat on my back doing an ungainly version of a snow angel. Unfortunately the pebbles I landed on were far less comfortable than the soft cushy snow I used to play in.

The beak-nosed bald-headed giant loomed over me. He took his hand out of his pocket and aimed a long slender object in my direction.

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THIRTY

* * * *

The threatening object in his right hand rattled as he lowered his left hand to lift me off the ground. My overactive imagination had visualized the big man toting a gun. Not a soft pink rattle.

Someone needed a lesson in diversity training

“You okay?” the man squeaked in a high-pitched voice. This was definitely a day for eliminating stereotypical assumptions. The combination of the Minnie Mouse voice with the Mr. Clean physique caused me to lose it. I sat up, giggling uncontrollably.

“Vladimir, you are scaring her,” Irina scolded the gentle giant as she approached us. The widow had thrown an embroidered ivory shawl over her shoulders. The baby was nestled against her chest and wrapped so snugly she resembled a baby burrito.

I latched on to Vladimir's gargantuan hand and he lifted me off the ground with ease and an unexpected gentleness.

“Thanks, um,
spasiba?
” I used the only Russian word I knew besides
vodka.

“No problemo,” he responded with a thick accent. He murmured something to Irina. She nodded and replied in her native tongue. They exchanged kisses on both cheeks and he plodded to his truck and climbed in. The engine roared and the truck barreled down the drive, sending a farewell plume of dust in our direction.

Irina waved at me to follow her into the house. I retrieved my purse, the baby gift and the box of candy that had landed on the hood of my car unscathed. I was relieved to see we hadn't lost a single piece of chocolate. I bustled after my hostess, anxious to get inside to the warmth of her cheery cabin.

Irina led me down a dark narrow hallway into the living room. The walls were paneled in knotty pine and decorated with several Russian icons. The color and detail work of Russian art has always fascinated me. I walked over to examine one of the more ornate pieces but Irina nudged me toward her sofa. I plumped down on the slightly soiled olive green cushions, resting against the green, black and cream striped afghan that covered the back.

Irina sat in a sturdy maple rocking chair decorated with pastel flowers stenciled on the back and arms. The baby remained asleep as Irina rocked back and forth in silence. I placed the baby gift and the box of candy next to a sewing basket resting on the solid maple coffee table. The temperature shift from the frigid winter air to the torpid heat in the living room caused perspiration to drip down my face so I unbuttoned my leather coat and shrugged it off.