Dancing with Murder Page 4

"Hey now." Eddie patted my shoulder. "I've got your back, remember? We'll get through this together."

  "I can't deal with more polka, Eddie." I groaned and slumped in my seat. "It's killing me."

  "You better stop that kind of talk if you want to run with Polish Peg," said Eddie. "Anyway, I'm a polka musician, in case you hadn't noticed. You used to be one, too."

  Suddenly, I remembered one of the things I hated about being around people who knew me back in the day: they're more likely to bring up things I'd rather forget.

  Back in L.A., I could complain about polka as much I liked without feeling hypocritical. But good ol' Eddie had to bring up the fact that I'd once played the accordion in Dad's band, Polish Fly.

  And I'd been damned good at it.

  "I'd rather not discuss that." Flipping down the visor, I checked myself in the mirror. I was much improved since the shower and fresh makeup, but the circles under my eyes had yet to fade. The concealer I'd applied just wasn't doing its job. At least the white button-down blouse I'd put on looked fresh.

  "Why not discuss it?" said Eddie. "You kicked ass, Lot. You were so much better than me, I was jealous. No foolin'."

  "That was a long time ago." I tucked a few stray strands of black hair behind my ears. I was glad I'd taken the time to wash and braid it, restoring order to the meltdown of yesterday's once elegant coiled up-do.

  "I bet you've still got it." Eddie grinned and nodded. "Once a button-boxer, always a button-boxer."

  "Not me." I turned my head left, then right for a last check in the mirror. Satisfied, I snapped the visor back up against the ceiling. "I'm more a hip hop girl these days."

  "Oh yeah?" Eddie drummed a little rhythm on the top of the steering wheel. "Fifty bucks says you've still got it."

  I was reaching for the door handle, and I stopped and frowned at him. "How do you plan to tell one way or another?"

  "I'll put an accordion in your hands at Polkapourri," said Eddie. "All you have to do is get on stage and stand there with it."

  "Just stand there?" My frown deepened. "And not play?"

  "You got it, Lot." Eddie chuckled. "Just stand there on stage with the accordion. Play or don't play, it's all the same. You walk away with fifty bucks."

  "But how will that prove anything?"

  "Because after one week back in the polka life, I don't think you'll be able to resist playing." Eddie finished drumming with a roll and thumped his thumbs on the wheel. "And I think you'll play like a star again. It'll all come right back to you."

  I sighed. "It won't happen like you think. But I'll be glad to take your money anyway."

  "We'll see." Eddie pointed an index finger at me. "I think you'll surprise yourself. There's more to this polka nonsense than you might realize."

  "No way, no how." I tugged the door handle and pushed the door open. "Polka sucks."

  "That's what I used to say," Eddie said with a wink, and then he threw open his door and got out of the truck.

  Leaving me asking myself one question: When did Eddie Kubiak Jr., chosen successor to legendary polka maestro Eddie Kubiak Sr., ever think polka sucked?

  *****

  Chapter 9

  The music grew louder as Eddie and I drew closer to Polka Central. Just as we topped the four cement steps leading to the front doors, the crowd inside the hall let out a great whoop all at once.

  As we stepped in out of the sun, the volume of the music suddenly dropped, and a woman's voice cut in over the P.A. system. "Ladies and gents, look who just strolled in!" It was none other than Polish Peg. "Let's give a big Kocham Taniec welcome to my brand new partner, Lottie Kachowski! Daughter of the one and only Polish Lou!"

  Everybody whooped and spun to face me. A new song started playing, which I couldn't identify at first. But then, I figured it out.

  It was a mid-tempo polka version of "Hello, Dolly."

  People sang along as they passed, changing the lyrics to "Hello, Lottie." Most of them waved white handkerchiefs at me in a kind of salute.

  Even as I smiled and waved back at them, I elbowed Eddie in the ribs. "Polka still sucks, Eddie. Big time."

  "Let's get off on the right foot, Lot." Eddie was waving, too. "You know what would really win everyone over? If you and I danced our way across Polka Central."

  "Try it and I'll stomp you blind," I said without dropping my smile.

  So the two of us just stood there, smiling and waving, as the polka people danced past, flapping their hankies. Most of them looked to be in their sixties, at least; the age range wasn't as broad as it had been at Dad's wake. These were the true believers, the core audience--silver-haired men in gold chains and golf clothes, white-haired women in pantsuits and sneakers. These were the fans who turned out at six in the morning on a Sunday to dance around a scuffed old gymnasium in a dilapidated former church activities hall.

  All because they loved to polka. They loved dancing the same circling three-step again and again, singing along with the same goofy lyrics, being part of a show that would never be seen, only heard on the radio.

  I didn't get it. It didn't seem possible that I ever had.

  And it didn't seem possible I could stand to be part of it again, not even for three lousy weeks.

  Polish Peg, on the other hand, was totally in her element. As the dancers swirled past, she glided between them with microphone in hand, at ease and in charge.

  "Well, hello Lottie!" Peg spoke into the microphone when she said it. "Welcome back to Kocham Taniec! You remember what the title means in Polish, don't you?"

  How could I forget? "'I love dancing.'" How many times had I heard Dad say it at the start of the show or at a Polish Fly performance?

  "That's right, Lottie!" Peg turned and pumped a fist in the air, calling out to the crowd of dancers. "And we sure do love dancing, don't we, gang?"

  The crowd waved hankies and roared in approval.

  When Peg turned back to me, she had a more somber expression on her face. "Now, this is our first show in forty-five years without the great Polish Lou. So this is a landmark for us. How do you feel about that, Lottie?" Peg pushed the microphone toward me.

  How do you feel about broadcasting a dance program the day after you buried the man who was supposedly the love of your life? That was what I wanted to say to her. Though, to be fair, she was wearing a black t-shirt with the Polish Fly logo on the back (a cartoon housefly playing an accordion shaped like a pierogi), so maybe she was still in mourning after all.

  But I didn't say any of that. "I feel sad that he's gone." That was what I told her. "He was a great man."

  "Amen to that." Peg nodded and stepped forward, pushing between Eddie and me. She put an arm around my shoulders and sighed. "But you and I will honor the Polka Prince's last wish, won't we? We'll keep the fire burning for Kocham Taniec and Polish Fly and Polkapourri. And we'll do it together, just like he wanted, won't we?"

  Suddenly, the dancers stopped triple-stepping and stared in our direction. It was then I realized Peg had backed me into the proverbial corner. She was trying to get me to sign on with Polish Lou Enterprises then and there, in front of dozens of witnesses in Polka Central and thousands of listeners over the airwaves.

  I glared at her. My hands curled into fists; punching her would feel so very, very good. So what if there were witnesses?

  "We'll work together to honor Lou's legacy, won't we?" Peg's frizzy, clownlike 'fro bobbed as she nodded. Her giant eyes fixed on me from behind the magnifying lenses of her trademark glasses--red framed with white polka dots.

  I didn't answer. I'd told Eddie I'd go along with my father's wishes, at least for the week until the payoff. I wanted to use the money to help my family and Luke and myself.

  But I didn't like being pushed, and I didn't like Peg. I didn't want anything to do with her. Standing there with a mic shoved in my face, I felt a change of heart coming over me.

  As I glared back at Peg the Clown, Eddie's face tipped into view. His eyes were wide, his eyebrows rai
sed, the corners of his mouth curled up in an expectant smile. As much as I wanted to help him, the added pressure boosted my stubbornness. Since when was I responsible for him?

  Then, to make matters worse, the dancers started chanting my name. "Lottie...Lottie...Lottie..." Like that was going to encourage me to stay.

  Enough. I took a deep breath and narrowed my eyes. I was ready to get out of there.

  But then she said it. "If your Dad was standing here right now, what would you say to him?" She pushed the mic a half-inch closer to my face. "What would you say as he handed us the reins?"

  I frowned. I hated her more than ever.

  Because the question had gotten to me. What would I say if Polish Lou were standing right there? What would I say if he was the one asking me to my face to do this?

  My father, who'd worked so hard to provide for me. Now that he was gone, I'd never have a chance to make things right with him.

  Or maybe this was my chance.

  I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. I stared the Clown right in the eyes, and then against my better judgment, I said what I said.

  "'Thanks, Dad.' That's what I'd say. 'I hope I'll make you proud of me.'"

  Polish Peg beamed. She tipped the mic back toward her. "Hear that, folks?" Her giant eyes held mine a moment more, and then she looked at the crowd. "Lou's girls are taking the wheel! How do you like those apples?"

  The dancers roared and shook their hankies. Some couples started three-stepping, though the music was no longer playing.

  "We're gonna make this the best Polkapourri of all time!" Peg squeezed my shoulders hard, then let go and bolted across the room. Seconds later, a surge of polka music blasted from the speakers, overlaid with Peg's voice. "Now let's get this polka party back into high gear, people! Strona twarde!"

  The crowd leaped back into action, prancing and spinning with abandon. Two old ladies in matching pink sweatshirts and white pants trotted over and swept Eddie into the excitement, each grabbing one of his arms. As I watched him go, I backed toward the door, hoping to avoid his fate.

  A deeply tanned senior citizen in a bright green golf shirt, yellow trousers, and a dozen gold chains ambled toward me, and I waved him off. Another old guy in a red velour sweater and pink and white checked Bermuda shorts with black socks made a move, too, and I just kept backing away. A few others looked my way, but I pretended I didn't notice.

  When I reached the door, I turned my back on the dance floor, which turned out to be a huge mistake. I was almost out, just about to plant my foot on the top step, when someone grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

  My captor spun me around, which was when I got a look at her. It figured Polish Peg wouldn't let me get away that easy.

  "Better get used to it, sweetie," said Peg as she hopped along in a polka three-step. "We'll be dancing together all the time from now on."

  I considered planting my feet and refusing to budge...but then I figured why not play along? Consider it a peace offering.

  So I let Peg guide me in a shuffling one-two-three rhythm, close enough to a polka without putting any bounce in my step. And I kept a fake half-smile on my face so no one would know what a miserable time I was having.

  Except Eddie Kubiak Jr. I could see it in his smirk when he spun past on the arm of an old lady in a hot pink jumper. Eddie knew I was having a lousy time, and he was getting a kick out of my discomfort.

  Let him laugh, I thought. I'd teach him a lesson later. After all, I was in a position of authority now.

  Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing being one of the bosses of Polish Lou Enterprises after all.

  *****

  Chapter 10

  Twice around the dance floor was plenty for me. The second time Peg whisked me toward the stage, I pulled away and walked over to check it out.

  Five long tables were set up on the stage, overflowing with equipment. Looking up from where I stood, I saw a control board on the middle table, studded with plugs and wires. A digital clock with red numbers on a black display sat atop the rear edge of the board, facing outward. The display showed the hour, minutes, and even the seconds as they raced past.

  An old-fashioned turntable and reel-to-reel tape machine occupied the table to the left. (Lou's music library still included plenty of vinyl, and he recorded all his shows on reels of tape.) The table on the right was cluttered with CDs and record albums. Blocky speakers were stacked on the remaining tables at either end of the row.

  The setup hadn't changed much since the last time I'd seen it, which must have been ten years ago. For that matter, it hadn't changed much from the early days of Kocham Taniec. Dad had broadcast the show from his basement, not a church hall, but much of the equipment looked the same.

  When the tattered gray curtain at the back of the stage parted, I half-expected to see Lou himself storm out with a huge smile on his face. Just another day in the life of the Polka Prince, just another broadcast. For a moment, I thought I'd give anything for that to happen.

  But no. Instead of Lou, a heavyset young woman with shoulder-length wavy red hair bustled out from behind the curtain. Like Peg, she wore jeans and a black Polish Fly t-shirt. She had a pair of silver headsets wrapped around her neck, the cord swinging free behind her.

  The red-haired girl marched up to the control board and started making adjustments I couldn't see from the floor. She looked down once, and I caught her eye, but her flat expression revealed no trace of recognition or interest. Then she turned back to watching the readouts and controls on the board.

  Suddenly, I heard Eddie's voice in my left ear. "Haven't you met Peg's niece yet? Show engineer Glynne Corcoran?"

  I watched as Glynne pulled the headsets over her ears and plugged the cord into the control board. "My father hired her?"

  "More like Peg hired her. Trying to keep her out of trouble. Glynne's fresh out of rehab."

  Up on stage, Glynne pulled a record out of its sleeve and loaded in on the turntable. "Alcohol?"

  "Meth." Eddie shrugged. "So needless to say, she's got a few issues. Addiction can be a bear."

  As a recovering smoker, I could identify.

  Suddenly, Peg's voice burst in over the music on the PA. "Okay, everybody! It's time for our closing theme, recorded by none other than Polish Fly, starring the one and only Polish Lou! Let's step it up for 'The Polka Prince Polka!' One, two, three!"

  With that, a familiar song filled the former activities hall, starting off with a royal fanfare on trumpet followed by the sound of exploding fireworks. Then, a wild accordion riff took over, hurtling into a traditional fast polka arrangement with clarinet accents.

  It had been Dad's theme song since the Sixties, when he'd written and first recorded it. He'd closed every performance and radio show with it for the rest of his career. I was glad Peg was keeping up the tradition.

  As the dancers twirled ecstatically through Polka Central, whooping and waving their hankies, Peg darted out of the crowd and dashed straight for us. Before we could get away, she grabbed Eddie and spun him around three times, then let him go and headed for me. I tried to duck but ended up spinning three times with her before she let me go, too.

  Peg whooped and danced a few steps by herself, then raised the mic. "That's it for another edition of Kocham Taniec, folks! Join us next Saturday and Sunday for more fabulous polka music and fun the way Polka Lou intended! The Polish Princess Lottie Kachowski and I wish you a beautiful day! Piêkny dzieñ!

  "And remember, Kocham Taniec!" She held the mic out to the crowd, and everyone said the same thing in unison.

  "I love dancing!"

  As the crowd erupted in hooting and applause, Eddie socked my upper arm playfully. "'Polish Princess,' huh? I like it."

  Peg winked in my direction, then lifted her gaze to Glynne onstage. Nodding, Peg raised a hand with all five fingers extended; with a flourish, she flicked one finger down at a time, counting to zero. Glynne manipulated controls on the board, and the music faded to silence by the time Pe
g had curled all five fingers into a fist.

  With that, the show was over. It had ended exactly on time; the digital counter atop the control board read "09:00:00."

  I was impressed. As much as Peg grated on my nerves, she clearly knew what she was doing when it came to hosting Kocham Taniec. She hadn't done half bad. Dad had trained her well.

  Which, I hated to admit, made an unexpected feeling rise up within me: jealousy. I couldn't believe it, but I was actually a little jealous of Polish Peg for mastering the radio show. Not that I'd ever had any interest whatsoever in being involved with it in any way...but still. It was part of Dad's life, and Peg was an expert at running it.

  Which brought up another unexpected emotion, actually. This one was even harder for me to believe. Never in a million years would I have expected to feel this way.

  I never would have thought I'd feel the slightest bit intimidated by obnoxious Polish Peg with the Clown wig afro and the owl-eye magnifying glasses with the polka dot red frames.

  But lo and behold, I did.

  *****

  Chapter 11

  After the radio show ended, Peg looped her arm around mine and led me up the few steps to the stage. Eddie followed.

  "Of course you've been to the nerve center of Polish Lou Enterprises, Lottie." Peg patted my arm and smiled.

  "Of course." It was a lie, but I said it anyway. I was feeling intimidated, remember?

  "I'll give you the grand tour anyway." Peg guided me across the stage past the tables of equipment. Glynne was working with the reel-to-reel tape recorder, playing something back, and didn't look up as we passed.

  Peg walked us to the gray curtain behind the tables and parted a section for us to pass through. I entered first and took a quick look at my new surroundings.

  The backstage area was set up like an office...an incredibly cluttered office. There were four big desks arranged in a row, all facing stage right; the desks all had old-fashioned black rotary telephones and were overflowing with piles of paperwork, mail, ledger books, CDs, and discarded fast food containers. Only one of the desks was equipped with a computer. A desktop model with a monster of a tower and a giant monitor in a dirty white shell, it looked at least ten years out of date.