Page 4 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
The dancers exchanged glances. Finally, the male dancer spoke up. "She'd been receiving gifts. Expensive ones. Jewelry, perfume, even a fur stole last week."
"From an admirer?"
"That's what we assumed," Margaret said. "Though she never seemed pleased about them. If anything, they seemed to frighten her."
"The flowers were the most frequent," added another dancer, a blonde with kind eyes. "Beautiful arrangements, always roses. But never any cards with names."
"Did she mention anyone specific? A suitor, perhaps, or someone from her past?"
Silence fell over the group. Then Vivienne cleared her throat. "She asked me something strange last week. She wanted to know if I'd ever traveled to Paris, and how one might book passage quickly . . . without drawing attention."
“Was she planning to leave?"
"It seemed that way. She also asked about different steamship lines, which routes were fastest, which ports were busiest." Vivienne twisted her hands together. "I should have pressed her for details, but she seemed so frightened. I didn't want to make it worse."
I studied the assembled dancers, noting their genuine concern beneath the professional rivalry. Whatever had happened to Anya, these people cared about her—even if they coveted her role.
"Is there anything else? Any detail, however small, that seemed unusual?"
The dancers looked at one another uncertainly. Then Margaret spoke up. "There was a man who came to several performances last month. He never went to the stage door with the other admirers, but I saw him watching from the box seats. Same seat every time."
"Can you describe him?"
"Well-dressed, probably in his forties. Distinguished looking, with silver at his temples. Foreign—Russian, I'd guess from his features. And . . .” she hesitated.
"Yes?"
"He wore gloves even in the warm theatre. Both hands, always. I remember thinking it odd."
I made careful notes, my mind already working. A mysterious Russian admirer who concealed his hands, expensive gifts that frightened rather than pleased, and letters that looked like threats. The picture was becoming clearer, and more disturbing.
"Thank you all. You've been very helpful." I closed my notebook and stood. "If you remember anything else, please contact me through Monsieur LeClair."
As the dancers began to disperse, Vivienne lingered behind.
"Miss Worthington," she said quietly, "there's something else. Something I didn't want to say in front of the others."
I waited.
"Two nights ago, after evening rehearsal, I was leaving through the stage door when I saw Anya talking to a man in the alley. It was dark, but I could see she was upset. Her hands were shaking. The man was older, well-dressed, and he was holding her wrist. Not gently."
"Did you hear what they were saying?"
"Not clearly, but it was in Russian. His voice was . . . cold. Threatening. When he saw me watching, he released her and walked away. Anya ran back inside, white as her rehearsal costume."
"Did you ask her about it?"
Vivienne shook her head. "She pretended nothing had happened. But the next morning, she came in with a bruise on her wrist that she tried to hide with powder and long sleeves."
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty theatre. "Can you describe this man?"
"Tall, silver-haired, expensive coat. And Miss Worthington . . .” She hesitated. "He was wearing gloves."
After Vivienne left, I remained in the empty rehearsal room, staring at my reflection in the mirrored walls. The pieces were beginning to form a picture, and it was far darker than a simple case of pre-performance nerves.
Anya Petrova was running from someone. Unfortunately, he had found her. And he was willing to use intimidation and possibly violence to get what he wanted.
The question was: what did he want? And was Anya still alive to give it to him?
