Dying for a Dance by Cindy Sample

by the end of the week.”
    “Oh, Bobby, I'm sorry. I told Liz you've done everything possible to teach me the steps. My stubborn flat feet are the culprit.”
    Speaking of flat feet...
    “Were you interviewed by anyone from the sheriff's department?”
    He sighed and released his hold on my upper back. Good, I could relax as well. The proper foxtrot pose gave me a neck and back ache. I briefly pondered whether Liz would entertain a much looser hip hop version of “It Had to Be You,” but I snapped back to reality when Bobby answered my question.
    “The detectives talked to all of us pros.”
    “What kinds of questions did they ask?”
    Bobby stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds before responding. “I don't know what they asked everyone else, but they wanted to know if I knew of anyone with a grudge against Dimitri.”
    I could tell from the expression on his face that he knew something but couldn't decide if it he should share it with me. “C'mon, Bobby. You can tell me.”
    Bobby's cafe au lait skin darkened. “You haven't been taking lessons here very long, so you wouldn't be aware of this, but Dimitri wasn't the most popular guy in the place.” He paused and his fists clenched involuntarily. “At least not with the other male dance instructors. As far as the women...” Bobby shrugged. “He was in high demand with them.”
    “Can you think of something specific Dimitri did that would make someone mad enough to kill him?”
    “Hey, I'm easy. Chill is my middle name. As for the other teachers, instead of holding master dance classes once a month, Boris should implement anger management sessions.”
    Wow. Multiple dancing suspects.
    With my head bent, deep in thought analyzing Bobby's words, I barely noticed the freight train heading in our direction.
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    FIFTEEN
    * * * *
    As Anya and Yuri barreled down on us, only Bobby's agile reflexes kept me from being trampled to death. Or squashed into a samba sandwich. I glared at the receding backs of the couple as they continued their hip swiveling promenade around the studio.
    As far as I was concerned, I'd already spent far too much time in a horizontal position on the dance floor. If I wanted to be horizontal, there were far better choices of venue. And partner.
    Thoughts of a handsome detective snapped my brain back into investigative mode. “Bobby, do you have any idea who might have killed Dimitri?”
    His lips parted, and I waited breathlessly for my teacher to share the name of the murderer. Always the consummate professional, Bobby intoned, “Slow, slow, quick, quick.”
    I sighed and wished we could adjust our tempo to medium, medium, medium, so I could concentrate on detecting instead of dancing. I rested my left hand on his bicep, arched my back, stretched my latissimus dorsi muscle and kept my eyes focused above the watch on my left wrist. Supposedly this little trick would help me maintain the proper form. Before I started dancing I'd never heard of lat muscles. Now I knew if you held the proper pose, a variety of body parts should hurt.
    Some hobby.
    We danced across the varnished floor. The wall mirrors reflected my image, which looked more like a spastic zombie than a ballroom dancer. Perfect for the “Thriller” video, but not so much for a wedding.
    How had Ginger done it? Maybe if I wrapped a feather boa around my neck, I could create the illusion that I was a dancer. Would my dancing improve if I donned a gorgeous ball gown made of swirling chiffon skirts strewn with sparkling crystals?
    Could the proper attire impact my ability to learn ballroom? Possibly, although some students went a little overboard, I thought, noticing a peculiar looking guy standing by the front desk chatting with Anya. His black ruffled shirt exposed most of his hairless chest and his tight black trousers were, well, tight.
    The guy bore a strong resemblance to Stan except for a tiny pencil moustache perched above his lips. I squinted