Dying for a Dance (23 page)

Right before I left, I refreshed Pumpkin's food and water and admonished her to behave for the pet sitter. I could swear she rolled her almond-shaped eyes at me before she stalked off, tail high, to plan some mischievous revenge in our absence.

I zipped up the hill and arrived at Stan's beautifully restored cream-colored Victorian in ten minutes. Stan was out of his front door the second I pulled into the driveway. His red and black ski jacket was at odds with his black dress shirt, tie and pants but he wouldn't have time to change before the competition. We shifted my suitcases around and squeezed in his, plus garment bag and shoe tote.

Stan deposited his water bottle in my cup holder then plopped into the passenger seat. I attempted to reverse out of the driveway, warily watching the cars zipping past on the busy street. I love the pastel clapboard Victorian houses in downtown Placerville, but most of them are located on busy thoroughfares. I waited several frustrating minutes for a break in the traffic.

Once we were on Highway 50 heading east, it was only a seventy-five mile drive to the west shore of Tahoe. Assuming we didn't hit any black ice or careless drivers, we should arrive at the resort by noon.

“Can you speed up a little?” Stan's fingernails drummed a belligerent solo on the armrest.

“No,” I snarled at him. Watching out for those ominous patches of black ice on the road always make me nervous and, admittedly, a tad crabby. Bridezilla would never forgive me if I had an accident. Her spreadsheet did not allow for delays.

“Admire the scenery.” I pointed to the churning rapids of the American river rushing past us on our right. “It will calm your nerves.”

“I'm not nervous,” Stan snapped, but he turned to gaze out the window at the redwoods and cedars towering over the highway, their branches still laden with snow from an earlier storm. I punched in the button for my CD player and soon we were listening to Faith and Tim—my favorite country couple—serenade us as we drove the windy highway.

Other than a white SUV that insisted on tail gating us for a short stretch before I finally pulled off the road and let him pass, the ride was uneventful. We pulled up in front of the massive rock and glass exterior of the Royal Tahoe Resort a few minutes before noon. Although the mini turrets at both ends of the grandiose building made the resort look less like Camelot and more like the Victorian folly in the
Rocky Horror Picture Show,
every aspect of the resort was meant to be impressive, and it was.

Stan jumped out of the passenger side of the car, grabbed his suitcase and garment bag, and was wheeling his way through the revolving door before anyone even noticed my tiny car surrounded by massive SUV's.

I hate to be a pill, but when the valets continued to ignore me, I climbed out of the driver's seat and stopped one of the guys unloading the canary yellow Hummer behind me. I tapped on the epaulet of his royal blue regalia. It wasn't your standard Tahoe mountain attire but it did have a certain sense of cache.

“Hi, Tim,” I said, assuming the name typed on his badge was his. “Did you miss me?” I pointed to my Prius, whose top half was periwinkle, but whose bottom half was now coated in gray slush from our drive.

He sniffed then extracted a numbered ticket from his pocket. “Sorry, I didn't notice you. Are you here for the competition?”

“No, I'm a member of the Kendall/Daley wedding party.”

He jumped back a few inches and practically saluted me. Either the DA's office or my gal pal had some royal pull around here. “Sorry, ma'am. Of course, I'll have your bags taken in immediately. It's too early for check-in, so we'll store everything until your room is ready.”

Tim directed me toward the lobby. I stopped at the ornate registration desk and confirmed my room would not be ready until four. I punched my mother's cell number but there was no answer. A call to Jenna's phone went directly into voicemail. It was almost twelve-thirty so they could be dining in one of the many restaurants in the resort. Or using other hotel facilities the desk clerk had spelled out for me, such as the underground grotto, waterfall and swimming pool with swim-up bar.

Darn, I should have packed a swimsuit instead of all that thermal underwear.

I dialed Liz's cell but again went directly to voicemail. There was no point roaming the massive hotel in search of my family or my friend. They would call when they received my messages. The lobby bustled with people attired in fur-trimmed parkas, tight black ski pants and pastel Ugg boots. Interspersed with the skiers were a few snowboarders dressed in loose-fitting jackets and cargo-style pants.

What made this mountain resort even more entertaining were the glamorous high-heeled peacocks stalking through the lobby headed in the direction of the ballroom. I followed a woman attired in violet satin, the slit of her skirt rising almost to her belly button. Her decolletage, on the other hand, plummeted to her waist. She was a wardrobe malfunction just waiting to happen.

Between the elegantly curled, moussed, and sprayed coiffures of the dancers, both men and women, the intensity of their makeup, including false eyelashes and bright red lipstick, and the rainbow-hued costumes, I felt like I'd been transported to a circus. I was grateful to be a bystander and not performing myself. The pressure of competing against other dancers in appearance as well as technique would be overwhelming.

With little else to do until my room was ready for check-in, I followed the stream of dancers to an enormous ballroom. An attendant at the door stopped me and asked for my ticket. Five minutes and twenty dollars later, I entered the room. Rectangular tables with chairs for eight were placed along the perimeter of the glossy wooden floor. Men dressed in tuxedos or shirts, vests and black trousers, wore numbered signs on their back. They whirled and twirled their colorful partners around the floor. How would I locate Stan in this crowd?

“Yoo-hoo. Laurel, over here,” yelled a familiar voice. One of the things I like best about Stan is that he never suffers from shyness. A couple of the bystanders frowned, but I was thrilled he'd found me among the crowd.

I squeezed past a couple of female dancers whose waists were as big as mine—when I was ten. The expression of relief on Stan's face reinforced my decision to stop in and support him. “What time are you competing?”

“We're on in four more dances.” He looked at his watch. “Which will be in approximately six minutes.”

“That's not very long.” I was surprised the dances lasted slightly over a minute each. How could the judges ascertain the winners in that short amount of time? It gave them less than ten seconds per couple to mark their scores in at least five different categories.

“Trust me, it's enough time to screw up and not place. But performing poorly is the least of my worries.”

I directed a questioning look at my pal. That was when I realized one significant part of his dance equation was missing.

“Where's Anya?”

Stan shrugged, his facial expression bleak. He was obviously upset about his missing partner. Was there a reason to be even more concerned about her absence?

Someone tapped me on my shoulder. I jumped high enough to make a rim shot if a basketball hoop had graced the gigantic ballroom.

“Sorry, Laurel, I didn't mean to startle you,” said a beautiful woman attired in a hot pink rhinestone-covered satin gown.

I examined the unfamiliar face with its thick makeup, inch-long eyelashes and elegant French twist and discovered Paula Mason. “Wow, I almost didn't recognize you,” I said, before realizing she might not take my comment as a compliment. “I mean...”

Paula laughed. “It's okay. I can barely see out of this fringe of false lashes but if this is what it takes to come in first then I'll do it. I'm glad you found time to watch the competition.”

“Stan's supposed to dance with Anya in a few minutes so I stopped by to support him but she hasn't shown up.”

Stan pointed at his watch. “Two minutes now.” His thin shoulders drooped and I sensed his exhilaration evaporate as his dream of winning a competition also evaporated.

Suddenly a slender bronze arm reached out and grabbed Stan's right hand. He disappeared into the throng of dancers.

Seconds later, Stan and Anya strolled onto the floor as he presented her to the audience. The strains of a familiar tango emanated over the sound system. As the couple swept past us, I was impressed that Stan had mastered the look of a tango dancer, in ability and appearance. With his hair slicked back, he resembled the professional male dancers. By my estimate, there had to be at least two gallons of hair gel spinning around the dance floor.

Despite my supportive remarks to Stan, never in a million years had I anticipated that he would actually be a contender in his newcomer tango competition. I watched in shock as my pal maneuvered his way around the wooden floor.

“Your friend is really good,” Paula said. “At this level, the women pros usually back lead their amateur partners, but he's leading Anya all by himself. He really has this nailed.”

“I'm stunned. Stan's been dancing for less than three weeks.”

Paula smiled. “He's either a natural or Anya is an even better teacher than I thought she was. I can't believe she waited until the last moment to appear. That's so unprofessional.”

The sight of my buddy sternly and seamlessly executing the tango made my eyes well up with tears. The elation on his face was a memory I would never forget.

The music ended and applause filled the room. Paula and I clapped heartily and awaited the return of the tango king and his partner. As the couple worked their way through the crowd, Stan looked ecstatic, but Anya appeared worried. She glanced in our direction and I waved at both of them assuming they would join us. Anya said something to Stan then disappeared out the door. He headed in our direction, but his expression was far from elated.

“Stan, way to go,” I said, clapping him on his numbered back.

“Thanks. I was so relieved when Anya finally showed up, I didn't even have time to be nervous.”

“Why did she wait until the last minute?”

Stan looked to the right and left as if afraid someone would eavesdrop on our conversation. He muttered something, but the raucous sound of samba music drowned his words and I couldn't catch what he was saying.

“Stan, speak up. I can barely hear you.”

“She's afraid someone is trying to kill her.”

Paula gasped and so did I.

“Why does she think that,” I asked. “Is it those government agents she was telling you about?”

“Government agents?” Paula looked even more confused than I did. “You mean Immigration officials?”

He shook his head. “I don't think it's immigration she's worried about. She's a nervous wreck, but she promised she'd be back for tomorrow's competition.”

“You're dancing again? But the wedding is tomorrow.”

Stan looked as guilty as if he'd robbed my cookie jar. “Okay, I might be a little late for the wedding. But I'll definitely make it to the reception. Liz won't even notice I'm not there.”

I glared at him.

“She won't realize I'm missing unless someone brings it to her attention. You know how Liz is. She'll be completely focused on Brian. And her dress. And her shoes. But I'll never have another opportunity to win first place with the lovely Anya.”

I dug the toe of my boot into the ground. Queen Elizabeth would be royally unhappy if she discovered Stan chose the ballroom competition over her highness.

“You know, Stan, there will be other competitions.”

“Yes, but I'll never be paired up with Anya again. The woman is so amazing. And after this weekend, she's disappearing. She said it's not safe for her to stick around. Not only that,” he looked at me, his eyes pop-eyed behind his wire-rimmed designer glasses, “she said it's dangerous for someone else.”

“Who?” I leaned forward with anticipation then fell backward into my chair when Stan poked his finger in my chest. The temperature in the room felt like it dropped forty degrees when he answered my question.

“She said it's dangerous for you.”

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FORTY

* * * *

The fantasy world of satin and sequins disappeared as a reality check set in.

“Me? Why would Anya think it's dangerous for me?” My mind raced as I counted the reasons why I could be in peril. I didn't have to count beyond one. “Because I'm investigating the studio murders?”

Stan looked fearful. “I barely talked to her. After she grabbed my hand, she lectured me on what steps to lead. We danced and then she said she had to go. When I asked her what was wrong, she said it was too risky for her here. I told her we would protect her and that's when she said you were in danger, too.”

“But I barely know Anya. She must be involved with the Russian Mafia. Or the Murderati.”

“Murderati?” Paula asked.

Okay, so I got my favorite mystery blog mixed up with my mobs.

I grabbed Stan by his skinny black-shirted shoulders and shook him. “Did Anya specifically mention my name?”

He pursed his lips and I released my hold. “Well, she said my friend. I assumed she meant you.”

I tapped my foot while I thought over his comment. “Could she be referring to Paula? She was sitting next to me.”

Paula's face turned paler than the wedding gown Liz would be wearing the next day. “You think I'm in danger?”

“I don't know and obviously, neither does Stan. I'll try to get in touch with Tom, I mean Detective Hunter.”

Paula nudged me and pointed toward Boris who waved his meaty hand from across the room. “Maybe Boris knows what Anya is talking about. I need to practice with him before we go on so I'll see what I can find out. If you two are still around at four, come watch me compete.”

“I'm not sure if I'll make it today,” I said. “Will you also be dancing tomorrow?”

She crossed the fingers on both hands. “If we make it into the finals today, we'll be competing late in the day tomorrow.”

I wished Paula luck then looked down at my cell. Oops. Messages from everyone: Jenna, my mother, and the bride. Stan and I left the ballroom and I listened to my voicemail as we maneuvered our way among the multitude of dancers milling around the long hallway. One of the females bumped into me leaving a tan imprint on the arm of my bulky white cable knit sweater.