Free Dying for a Dance by Cindy Sample Page B

blonde goddess. Confused looked good on her. “Who was arrested? Anyone important?”
    Stan and I exchanged looks.
    He shrugged. “I can't remember. Did you see the big box of Annabelle's chocolates that one of the title companies dropped off in the break room? The truffles are disappearing fast.”
    “Nice one,” I said, as Mary Lou's footsteps receded down the hall.
    “So what's the deal with Madame El Presidente? Did she bop the dancer? Or merely boff the dancer?”
    “Don't be crude.” I frowned at my friend. “Dana Chandler is a classy lady. Just because she took lessons from Dimitri doesn't mean anything sordid was going on.”
    Stan wrinkled his nose. “Sure, there's no reason why the sophisticated Mrs. Chandler would be wooed away by a handsome, muscular dancer when she has Mr. Chubby Cheeks to go home to every night.”
    Oh, well, when you put it that way.
    “It gets worse.” I sighed with so much gusto some loan conditions blew off my desk. “For some reason Mr. Chandler decided my deductive abilities should be used to find the murderer.”
    Stan's eyes lit up. “Awesome. Another case for us.”
    “Us?”
    “Sure, remember how much I helped last time?”
    Not really. But at this point I would take whatever assistance I could get. Stan was officially on my payroll for his usual fee. Nada . We'd better come up with a plan because by tomorrow night I needed to be not only a dancing diva but a detecting diva.
    I walked through the parking lot of the Golden Hills Dance Studio on Tuesday night, my thoughts far far away. Over a half century away. The previous evening, I'd sat through a Hollywood dance movie marathon. With Christmas in less than two weeks, the networks featured a few familiar classics like Holiday Inn and White Christmas . The vision of Vera Ellen clad in red velvet and white ermine fur, singing and tapping to the music of Cole Porter, enthralled me. Equally amazing was her nineteen inch waist. If learning the fox trot produced that kind of a result, I was hopping on the ballroom bandwagon.
    My chest constricted as I drew close to the spot where I'd discovered Dimitri's body. I tried to avert my eyes but failed. Dark splotches splattered the cracked asphalt.
    Oil stains or bloodstains?
    Once inside, I released a sigh of relief, hoping everything would be back to normal. Ten minutes later I found myself wondering what the definition of normal was for a dance studio whose premier instructor had been murdered.
    The haunting strains of a plaintive rhumba echoed throughout the building. Rhumba is frequently described as vertical sex. Anya, now coupled with Yuri, slowly slid down her partner's leg, her taut bronzed arms caressing his muscular thigh.
    As the last notes of the song ended, Anya arched her back in a full back bend, her mane of ebony curls grazing the floor. I wondered if all that blood rushing to her head was good for her. Appraising her muscular yet lithe frame, I decided it must be good for something.
    Yuri stared at Anya with admiration in his dark eyes. And possibly a tinge of lust.
    Shoot. Even I was ogling her. How many years of practice would it take to achieve that level of sexuality and flexibility? At the rate I was going, the only men lusting after me would be retired ballroom dancers, their remaining strands of white hair flying as they chased after me in their walkers.
    A loud snap of my partner's fingers woke me from my reverie. “Laurel, concentrate. We need to practice.” Bobby shook his index finger in my face to emphasize that he meant business. “We have to get the grapevine footwork down.”
    If it were up to me, I'd be enjoying the fruit of the grape instead of the convoluted dance steps named after the vines. “Sorry, too many things swirling in my mind,” I muttered.
    Bobby's face was somber. “We need to start swirling together. Liz called Boris this morning and berated him for your lack of progress. He threatened to fire me if you don't learn the routine