Dying for a Dance
Authors: Cindy Sample
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Dying for a Dance
by Cindy Sample
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Mystery/Crime
www.lldreamspell.com
Copyright ©2011 by Cindy Sample
First published in London, Texas, 2011
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
CONTENTS
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Dying for a Dance
By Cindy Sample
Published by L&L Dreamspell
London, Texas
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
Copyright 2011 by Cindy Sample
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in a review.
This is a work of fiction, and is produced from the author's imagination. People, places and things mentioned in this novel are used in a fictional manner.
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ISBN- 978-1-60318-428-1
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Published by L & L Dreamspell
Produced in the United States of America
Visit us on the web at www.lldreamspell.com
It takes a village to write one of my books. Many thanks and hugs to my critique group for their astute observations and unfailing support: Kathy, Norma, Pat, Rae and Terri. Thanks to friends who were willing to read the early drafts and provide excellent suggestions: Bonnie, Jaci, Julie, Kelly, Liana, Liz, Matt, Nora and Peggy. Also thanks to those experts in homicide investigation who shared a few helpful tips: D.P. Lyle, M.D. and Wayne Farquhar. Thanks also to Sisters in Crime (Sacramento and Northern California) Sacramento Valley Rose, California Writer's Club and NCPA for their support. My editor, Cindy Davis, has to be the most patient editor in the world, as are publishers, Lisa Smith and Linda Houle.
Thanks also to Matthias Mengelkoch and Tom Novi for their generous donations to the Sacramento Opera and the El Dorado Women's Center. You both make great characters.
Special kudos to Tony Nguyen, Jim Clark, Tania Chegini and Ricardo Salazar, the instructors who have spent countless hours attempting to mold me into a graceful and competent ballroom dancer.
And last but certainly not least, thanks to those fans from around the world whose emails make this journey so much fun.
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This book is dedicated to my mother, Harriet Bergstrand, the best mother a daughter could ask for, and my children, Dawn and Jeff, who have turned into the most amazing adults.
ONE
I didn't think my night could get any worse. But when I stumbled on a dead man with my broken shoe heel stuffed in his mouth, I realized it definitely could.
I was valiantly attempting to learn the choreography for my best friend's New Year's Eve wedding. Although Liz envisioned a bridal party version of
Dancing with the Stars
, after tripping my instructor for the third time in ten minutes, I decided the routine looked more like
Dancing with the Dorks.
My twenty-one year old Vietnamese instructor, Bobby Nguyen, epitomized a ballroom dancer—tall and slender, graceful and flexible. Despite his attentive coaching, I remained cardboard stiff and clueless.
“C'mon, Laurel, remember what I told you,” he said. “Bend your knees and make your thighs do the work.”
I glanced down at my thighs. Obviously work wasn't included in their job description.
The mirror-lined walls of the Golden Hills Dance Studio reflected my image multiple times. Shoulder length reddish brown hair grazed my aqua V-neck sweater. Black tummy tuck jeans provided much needed slenderizing, and my brand new silver shoes almost made me look like a dancer. Presentation is everything, especially when you have no clue what you're doing.
Frank Sinatra's version of “It Had To Be You,” wafted from the speakers. Dimitri and Anya, a pair of instructors, glided by us, their synchronized movements mesmerizing to watch. I eyed them with envy. If I wanted to look as graceful as a gazelle, I had to stop charging around like a rhino on roller blades.
Bobby positioned himself with his head held high, shoulders down, right arm resting in the middle of my back. Per his instructions, I thrust out my chest, sucked in my stomach and tightened my butt.
“Let's do it,” I said.
Bobby's soft tenor intoned the fox trot count in my ear. “Slow, slow, quick, quick.”
I repeated it to myself...slow, slow, quick, quick... ACK!
The heel of my right shoe suddenly slipped out from under me and I slid across the waxed floor, crashing into Dimitri and Anya with all the grace of a defensive linebacker. Bobby rushed over to assist me as I attempted to extricate myself from the tangle of arms and legs.
“Sorry.” I shot an apologetic smile to the instructors.
As they rose to their feet, I overheard Dimitri refer to me as a “klutzsky.” I had a feeling the words Anya muttered in Russian didn't translate into “nice dancing.” The couple disappeared from the dance floor, probably in search of safer terrain.
My thirty-nine year old body hadn't done the splits in at least thirty-six years. With Bobby's assistance, I struggled to my feet.
“Are you okay?” My teacher's eyes had darkened with concern. Dance protocol recommends that you keep your partner upright, at least most of the time. I swayed to the right and discovered that my heel was no longer connected to my right shoe. My one hundred fifty dollar investment in dance footwear had just gone down the proverbial drain.
“I'm okay, but my shoe isn't.” I glared at the offensive heel lying a few inches away. “Bobby, this just confirms I'm not meant to dance the wedding routine.”
“No, all it confirms is that we need to practice more. Remember, you've only been dancing for a couple of weeks. Do you have other shoes you can wear to finish our lesson?”
I nodded. “I came right from work so I'll change into my black heels.”
Bobby gave me a sympathetic hug and I waltzed—okay, I still didn't know how to waltz—so I clumped through the enormous dance studio toward the back of the building where the cloakroom and the studio owner's offices were located. As I walked past the office, I heard raised voices from behind the closed door.
Crack
! The sound of a slap reverberated from the room.
Dimitri, the dance teacher I'd crashed into earlier, stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him. His elegant hand didn't quite cover the scarlet mark on his high Slavic cheekbone. He scowled at me then rushed away.
This studio was proving to be more drama-filled than the daytime soaps.
I entered the cloakroom, dropped my broken overpriced shoes into one of the small cubicles assigned to footwear, slipped into my black faux leather pumps and headed back to the main dance floor for more foxtrot torture.
Forty uncomfortable minutes later, my private lesson with Bobby was over. My bunions ached and my toes hurt from being stomped on multiple times—by me.
I entered the cloakroom and exchanged smiles with an attractive dark-skinned student named Samantha. She zipped up her jacket, picked up her shoe tote, and exited the room. I buttoned my black leather jacket and grabbed my purse. That's when I discovered my dismembered shoes had disappeared. I looked inside every one of the tiny cubicles and pawed through the oversized gray wastebasket outside the door, in case someone had accidentally thrown them away.
Nada
.
My silver shoes had danced off without me.
I couldn't believe someone had taken them. Liz's wedding was only three weeks away and now I would have to buy a new pair instead of merely repairing one shoe. At this rate, I would need a second job to pay for the honor of serving as matron of honor.
As I left the studio and walked through the parking lot, my mind rapidly calculated my additional wedding expenses.
I barely noticed the pink and lavender cotton candy clouds stretched across the twilight sky.
I did notice the man lying on the ground, a pool of blood under his head.
My silver heel jammed into his mouth.
I definitely noticed him.
TWO
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Screams erupted and I swiveled around to find Samantha and her friend Nanette standing behind me. Samantha's screams subsided to a whimper although her dark eyes remained huge and frightened.
“What happened?” asked Nanette, an elderly woman who also took private dance lessons with Bobby.
“I don't know. It's Dimitri. He's um, I think he's d-dead,” I stammered.
“Are you sure? I'm a nurse. Let me check.” The short, fireplug of a woman marched over to Dimitri, placed her fingers on his carotid artery, waited a few seconds then shook her head. “You're right. He must have hit his head. Hey, what the heck is this thing in his mouth?”
I reluctantly joined her for a better look. Although I had hoped to find my missing shoes, the last place I expected my broken heel to turn up was stuffed in a dead dancer's mouth.
“Do you think we should remove, um...it?” asked Samantha. She leaned forward but before she could touch anything I placed a hand on her arm to hold her back.
“Leave everything alone until the rescue people get here,” I said.
“I'll go inside and get help.” Samantha ran back into the studio. I rummaged through my purse, grabbed my cell and dialed the emergency operator.
The dispatcher and I were still in conversation when a horde of dancers erupted from the studio. Within seconds, they surrounded the body. A tall slender woman I recognized as Anya pushed through the crowd. Her turquoise satin halter-top bared sculpted muscles. When she crouched next to the body, her short black skirt bared almost everything else.
“Dimitri, darling,” Anya shrieked. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she lifted her arms to the darkening skies. The dancer extended the palms of her hands as gracefully as if she were performing in front of an audience.
In reality she was. At least fifteen people were now gathered around the body listening to Anya's lamentations as she rested her head on her dance partner's chest. The crowd pushed closer and I worried about getting trampled by the spectators. Suddenly the onlookers moved aside, making way for a short fair-haired woman whose T-shirt covered a bowling-ball sized belly, indicating she was at least ten months pregnant.
“Let me through,” shouted Irina, Dimitri's wife and former dance partner.
Anya impaled the recent widow with a gaze so hostile the hairs on my arms stood up like rows of dominoes. The tall svelte dancer rose and slid gracefully to her feet. Pivoting on one very long bronzed leg, she glided back in the direction of the studio.
Irina knelt next to her husband and placed her right palm on the victim's pale cheek. As she leaned in, my heart skipped a beat. How tragic. She was about to kiss her husband for the last time.
Or maybe not.
“You son of a...” she screamed. She plucked the silver heel from his mouth and threw it across the parking lot with the force and speed of a professional shortstop. It arced through the air, ricocheted off the lid of the dumpster and landed in front of Nanette, who scooped it up and stuck it in the pocket of her jacket. Irina continued to berate her dead spouse in unintelligible Russian phrases, punctuated by an occasional American expletive.