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  Advance Praise for Timestep to Murder

  “Kick up your heels with Abby Rollins and the toppettes as they reunite to perform on stage at Tahoe’s Cal Neva. But turn up the lights before you follow her into the hotel’s infamous tunnels looking for a killer. Norma Lehr’s Timestep is a toe-tapping good mystery with a chilling finale. I'm eager to read more.”

  —Kathleen L. Asay, editor, Capital Crimes: 15 Tales by Sacramento Area Authors

  “As a member of the dancing Toppettes, Abby Rollins makes her sleuthing debut in Timestep to Murder, veteran mystery author Norma Lehr’s fresh take on a classic reunion story. Vivid characters, a Lake Tahoe setting with ties to Sinatra’s Rat Pack, nonstop action and an engaging protagonist make this murder mystery hard to put down. Definitely a series to watch!”

  —Cindy Sample, Author of Dying for a Date

  Praise For Norma Lehr

  “Lehr has crafted characters that are authentic with all the quirks and issues we are all prone to on our daily journeys. The author explores love and passion on several levels.”

  —Roberta Austin, Romance Junkies

  “Lehr creates a wonderful sensation of watching a movie.”

  —Temple Library Reviews

  “Norma Lehr is a talented writer who somehow makes the story events as believable as her characters who behave in plausible manners.”

  —Book Crossing

  TIMESTEP

  TO

  MURDER

  Norma Lehr

  Seattle, WA

  Camel Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.camelpress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  Timestep to Murder

  Copyright © 2011 by Norma Lear

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-863-6 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-864-3 (eBook)

  Produced in the United States of America

  Acknowledgments

  A big thank you to ...

  Dawn Dowdle, my agent with a heart, who is always there when I need her.

  Catherine Treadgold, my editor, who knows how to add sparkle to a story.

  My longtime critique group and all the members of Sisters in Crime—Pat, Kathy, Cindy, Rae and Terri—for their sharp eyes.

  Finally to Pauline and her performing Timetappers, who really know how to strut their stuff.

  Author’s Note

  I’ve taken liberties with the cremation ashes and the fireworks over beautiful Lake Tahoe. Wishful thinking on my part for sometime in the future.

  For Mel, with love, for his everlasting patience

  Two Days Earlier …

  Above the scarred wooden desk hung a bulletin board, displaying a yellowed and crinkled newspaper obituary. There were no other, more recent, clippings to reveal the name of the person responsible for the untimely death; however, a wastebasket at the side of the desk overflowed with crumpled, typewritten pages bearing one repeated vow of vengeance: “The one responsible must pay.”

  The vow would be honored. Careful planning with assisting happenstance had provided the perfect opportunity. Only one day remained before the group would gather for five days in September. Five days was not long, but it was long enough to allow justice to be carried out.

  The tack was removed and the yellowed paper reverently carried across the room to where the travel bag lay on the bed. Before the latch clicked shut, the paper was placed carefully on a bed of clothes and covered by a treasured scarf belonging to the deceased.

  A satisfied chuckle filled the small room.

  Chapter 1

  Abby Rollins rolled down the window on the passenger side of the vintage ’41 Chevy to let the cool autumn air blow against her face. She glanced over at the driver, Blade Garret, and watched apprehensively as he geared down to mount the hill past Gold Run to Blue Canyon. “Are you sure this old car can make it over Donner Pass?”

  Blade tipped his classic fedora back on his forehead and squinted at her. “I wouldn’t be taking this baby to Reno if I thought it couldn’t make the grade.” His eyes held a glint of mischief. “I wouldn’t be carrying precious cargo, namely you, if I thought we’d get stranded.” He clicked his tongue and raised an eyebrow. “However, Miss Rollins,” he said in a Clark Gable voice, “that might not be too bad. Getting stranded, that is.”

  Abby shook her head and turned away to hide a smile as she took in the beauty of the Sierra Nevada. The cool September air came as welcome relief after the long hot summer in the Sacramento Valley. She knew from the many trips she’d made over Highway 80 that these mountain trees and bushes, vivid in myriad shades of green, would soon change to a profusion of flaming reds and golds. If she could find time in her busy schedule, she planned to make this drive alone in late October. Then she would have time to pause and survey nature’s colorful tapestry.

  This morning she did appreciate being able to hitch a ride with Blade. He was off to the Classic Car Show in Reno and had offered to take the freeway exit at Truckee, drive the extra twelve miles to the north shore of Lake Tahoe, and drop her off at the Cal Neva Resort Spa and Casino.

  The hill grew steeper, and Blade pressed the accelerator with the tip of his black and white spectator. The pant cuff of his pinstriped suit inched up his leg, and she wondered if he wore calf garters, too. “You really dress the part, you know,” she said. “Your office is like walking into a black–and-white film noir.”

  And, she thought, you remind me of a forties movie star.

  “And,” he urged her on, “how about the agency name?”

  “You know I think Gum Shoe Private Investigations is perfect. Quit looking for compliments.”

  “Oh, and you don’t?”

  Abby looked surprised. “Me? When?”

  “That first day we met at the Galleria you asked what I thought of the name Starduds.”

  “Touché.” Abby hummed thoughtfully. “That was your first day working security and I guess I was feeling insecure.” They grinned at each other.

  She hesitated. “Now that you’ve built your clientele at the agency, are you planning to keep your job at the mall one day a week?”

  Blade shrugged. “Sure. Why not? They’ve asked me to teach a full-day seminar for prospective mystery shoppers. Your friend Renee signed up. She’d be good at spotting shoplifters. That is, if she’d stop yakking all the time.” He took his hands off the wheel and raised his arms in surrender. “Sorry. I know she’s your best friend.”

  Abby reached over and turned the dial on the radio. “You’ve got that right. I’ve known her forever.” She raised her eyebrows at him. “If a forties station comes on now and President Roosevelt gives a State of the Union speech, I swear I’ll faint dead away.”

  Blade grinned. “It won’t. You can try, but you won’t get any station at this altitude. He leaned and reached into the glove box. “Look here. I’ve got swing tapes.” He slid one in, and Glenn Miller’s trombone section began the slow beat and wha, wha of “Pennsylvania Station.” Blade tapped the rhythm on the steering wheel, and Abby found herself swaying with the music of the Big Band era. After a quick glance at Blade, she rolled down the window and pretended to concentrate on the scenery. Blade always looked fine in his security uniform at the mall, but this Bogey look behind the wheel of the old Chevy was a rea
l turn-on. She leaned back in her seat.

  She had to be careful with this guy. Not lead him on. They weren’t kids. She would turn fifty in January, and he was probably close, if not a few years older. But she had gambled before on a guy and lost badly. She studied his profile. Dark hair with specks of gray around the temples. Distinguished. This ex-cop from L.A. must have more than a few rough miles on him. She wondered about those miles.

  From their first encounter at the Galleria Mall, where she owned and managed Starduds, Dance Supplies and All That Jazz, she had been aware of their mutual attraction. He had strolled past her place twice that day before leaning against the open door frame. She immediately guessed he wasn’t shopping for dance togs and related supplies, but she had been delighted when he held out a steaming Styrofoam cup of something that smelled dreamy. After accepting the offering with a smile, she had been hooked on Chai tea blended and frothed with soy milk. He had seen her earlier at the food carousel upstairs during a break, and this was his way of introducing himself.

  A coincidence, really, that he had spotted her, because breaks weren’t usually part of her routine. She made coffee or tea in the shop. Time away from her retail business, the costume shop in back, her self-defense group, and her performing tap class with Renee didn’t count somehow. He looked kind of exciting. But then, she figured, he only worked there on Saturdays. She finally gave in a month later when he asked her to lunch at a nice restaurant, Max’s, outside the mall on the promenade.

  They had discussed the weather and sports. Since they were both planning to go to Reno the following weekend—she to the Toppette reunion and he to the Classic Car Show—he offered to drive her. She had planned to take Amtrak up and ride back with Renee, who’d been visiting her mother in Reno. She hesitated but when he pointed out that she wouldn’t have to leave Sacramento so early if she drove with him, she accepted.

  “That would be great. It would give me time to open the store and get everything together for my assistant before we leave. Where shall we meet?”

  That had been last weekend. This morning she’d driven to the foothills, fifteen miles east of Roseville, to meet him at his office in Auburn.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Blade reached in his breast pocket for a pen and pad. “Jot down your show times. I’m planning on making at least one of them.”

  Abby was touched. “You want to come to the Celebrity Room?” She hesitated. “Of course, you do.” She nodded knowingly. “Fits right in, doesn’t it? Frank Sinatra room. But he built that room in the sixties, not the forties—two decades after your play time.”

  “Abby, my girl, Sinatra was the forties. When my mom was a teenage bobby-soxer, she swooned over Frankie. She even traveled from Buffalo to New York City to see him on stage at the Paramount. He might be the sixties to some, but he’ll always be the forties to me.”

  Abby scribbled down times and dates of the Revue. “I’m not sure how many numbers we’ll do—three, I think—but it’s nice you want to be there.”

  Blade shot her a sidelong look. “My, my. A row of Toppettes and their famous high kicks can’t be missed. I’ll even cut short the Classic Car Show if I have to.”

  “My, my.” She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t count too much on how high those kicks will go. We’re former Toppettes, remember.” She grinned. “I’ll have you know, they were known as ‘head-high kicks.’”

  For a moment, Manhattan of the late seventies flashed across her mind. She could visualize the others, the six who would soon be together again: Melanie, Dana, Gail, Blythe, Renee, and herself, lined up with thirty other dancers according to height, concentrating as they held a straight line, wearing signature pale-blue beaded costumes and fancy wigs. Two months ago, after she’d received the invitation to the Cal Neva, Abby had watched three tapes from those early days and was amazed at how they all managed to hook up in that line without touching. Precision dancers with bright smiles, making their famous “head-high kicks” and bringing down the house with thunderous applause.

  She wondered how well the six invited dancers—who hadn’t been together on stage for more years than she wanted to count—would perform now. The invitation had stated their coach’s name as simply Jan and explained that she had been hired by the resort to stage this event. A Toppette fitness tape had been enclosed along with a printout outlining the rehearsal schedule. Abby took a deep breath. The schedule sounded grueling.

  She adjusted her designer jeans and lifted one knee and then the other. She continued her stretching by rotating her ankles outward and inward. She needed to keep her joints flexible. The next few days should prove to be interesting and exhausting. No time to stiffen up now.

  After passing through Truckee Meadows, Blade’s old car climbed another steep overpass with surprising ease. When they reached the summit, Abby caught her breath at the first glimpse of the lake shimmering below. No matter how many times she made this trip, she was always impressed. The sparkle on the surface of the deep blue water of Lake Tahoe surpassed that of any priceless jewel.

  Blade pulled over to the side of the road and reached for the hand brake. “You’re in for one colorful bash. Five days up here with all this grandeur. By next Monday, you won’t want to go back to work.”

  Abby nodded thoughtfully. “But this gig won’t be all fun and games. There’ll be long hours of rehearsals.” She folded her arms across her yellow V-neck T-shirt. “Dancers work hard.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure they do. When I return, I hope you won’t be too tired to join me for an evening of gambling. Blackjack’s my game.”

  Abby made a face. “We’ll see. I’m not much of a gambler.” Not much of a gambler. Understatement of the year. Most of her adult life had been one gamble after another. She’d left college to be a dancer. She’d left the Toppettes to get married and have a family. Fifteen years later she’d left a womanizing husband, taken her teenage twins, and sailed out on her own. She’d worked a variety of jobs until she could scrape together enough cash and credit to open her most recent gamble—Starduds. Fortunately, after two years of long hours and no social life, the business was finally starting to pay off.

  No, Blackjack wasn’t her game. She’d worked too hard for her money to gamble it away at a table.

  Blade released the brake, and they began the slow descent toward Crystal Bay. Ten minutes later, they turned left on Highway 24 and arrived at Kings Beach—a rustic lakeside community of artsy shops, beach motels, the old Brockway film theater, and signs with red arrows beckoning toward the beach for parasol flights and waterskiing.

  Another five miles and they entered the vicinity of Crystal Bay, which boasted a thirty-foot, brightly-lit Cal Neva sign at Stateline on Highway 50. The resort spanned the California Nevada state lines—hence Cal Neva. A giant bronze statue of Native American Chief Joseph, flanked by a rock planter filled with massive blooms of red and white geraniums, ceremoniously ushered them down a block-long driveway that curved and ended at the resort’s front entrance. The older lodge with its sharp gables and cedar shake roof could have been lifted right out of a Black Forest fairy tale and dropped above the sandy shore of the lake. Behind the lodge, in sharp contrast, jutted a nine-story tower with hundreds of windows reflecting the midday sun.

  Blade pulled up in front, and Abby slipped from her seat before he could get out. She opened the rear door and reached for two pieces of red luggage—a duffle work-out bag and a wheeled garment bag. “Please stay put, Blade, I can manage. You’ve helped enough.” She shoved her arms in her green cardigan and leaned her head through the open window. “Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate that you went out of your way, but before you go, I’ve got one question.”

  Blade leaned back in his seat and unbuttoned his double-breasted jacket. “Ask me anything.”

  She tilted her head. “Is Blade your real name or an alias for the detective agency? I’m curious. Did you pick Blade to create a sharp image?”

  He adjusted his shades and looked
pointedly over the black rims. “I’ll have you know that Blade is my given name. My mother was an accomplished figure skater.” He gave her a thumbs-up sign. “You’re right. It means sharp. And I am!”

  “That’s so great. Original.” She tapped her finger on the car sill. “I love imaginative people like your mom.”

  He shot her one of his roguish grins. “Then you’re going to love me, ’cuz you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  Abby could feel heat suffuse her face, and she quickly pulled her head back from the open window. “Blade Garret,” she gave a twitch of her nose, “you’re full of it.” She smiled and waved. “Adios, detective. Drive carefully and have fun at the car show. See you when you get back.”

  He waited until she was up the ramp that led to the entrance before he pulled away. She swore she wouldn’t turn her head and watch him leave, but she did. For her, that was a first sign of real interest in a guy. Lordy, gal, she told herself. Cool it! He might not even show up for a performance. She had no clue if this guy kept his word.

  The automatic doors shielded by a green canopy hummed open, and she felt a woosh of warm air. She stepped into the foyer, greeted by bright-colored lights and the cha ching of slot machines. Bells rang and jackpot coins clanged as they hit the metal trays. Roulette wheels spun dizzily, and dice flew across crap tables. Piped in music of an old Sinatra tune, “A Summer Breeze,” swung out over the gamblers’ noisy chatter. The glare of flashing red, white, and blue machine lights caught her off guard, and she steadied herself a moment before she spotted the check-in desk to her right.