Page 2 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
Near the stage's edge, a tall, slender man stood in urgent conversation with a woman. His posture was impeccable—shoulders back, spine straight—and his long fingers cut through the air with elegant precision as he gestured. His dark hair wasperfectly groomed, his moustache waxed to a fine point, though I caught the tight lines of tension around his mouth.
Monsieur LeClair, without question.
He turned as I approached, his gaze settling on me with cautious recognition.
"Mademoiselle Worthington? Thank you for coming so quickly." He strode over with controlled urgency, hands fluttering with agitation. "Madame Grimes spoke very highly of you. She said you were quite . . . efficient."
I nodded. Mrs. Grimes had been most grateful after I'd recovered her prized poodle from an opportunistic thief.
A faint flush crept up LeClair's neck. "Of course, I realize this is quite different. Not to equate a missing poodle with . . .” He spread his hands helplessly. "With this."
Despite his embarrassment, I heard the sharp urgency beneath his polished composure. It was the voice of a man running out of time.
"Monsieur LeClair, is there somewhere private we can speak? I'd prefer to understand the full situation before interviewing anyone else."
He nodded sharply. "Yes, of course. My office—this way."
He led me through narrow backstage corridors past costume racks and coiled ropes, his long strides forcing me to quicken my pace. We reached a door markedBallet Masterin small gold letters.
His office was organized chaos: music scores in precarious towers, rehearsal schedules tacked haphazardly to walls, ledgers crowding the desk alongside teacups and pencils. A metronome ticked quietly in the corner, and ballet shoes lay scattered near the window.
"She's been so nervous lately," he said without preamble, gesturing me toward a chair while sweeping programs from the seat. "Always looking over her shoulder, jumping at shadows.When I asked what troubled her, she'd only give me a sad little smile and say nothing was wrong."
I leaned forward, notebook ready. "Any idea what might have been worrying her?"
He shook his head, frustration flickering across his face. "Nothing specific. She never confided in anyone, as far as I know. Always polite, always gracious, but . . . distant."
“Did she have any friends in the company?"
"A few she was cordial with, but she kept to herself mostly." He paused. "There's been an admirer who often sends flowers, but beyond that . . .” He shrugged helplessly.
"Have you contacted the police?"
His eyes widened. "No! I haven't. Please understand. We open in five days. If word gets out, the scandal will destroy us before we even raise the curtain."
I made a note, understanding his dilemma, but knowing time was crucial in any disappearance.
A knock interrupted us. A harried-looking gentleman peered in. "Monsieur LeClair, the costume mistress wants to know about Anya's costumes. Should she start fitting the understudy?"
LeClair sighed wearily. "Excuse me, mademoiselle." He turned to the newcomer. "Miss Worthington, this is Mr. Cooper, our stage manager. Would you show her to Anya's dressing room and introduce her to the company?"
After Cooper nodded, I gathered my things, giving LeClair a reassuring smile. "I'll see what I can discover."
The stage manager led me down another corridor, stopping before a door marked Anya Petrova in the same elegant gold script. "Here we are. Find me when you're finished. I won't be far."
“Thank you. I will.” Once he walked away, I eased the door open and stepped inside.
The room was pristine—too pristine. The mirror gleamed without a fingerprint, costumes hung with military precision, and a faint trace of floral perfume lingered in the air like a ghost. Satin slippers sat neatly by the vanity, their ribbons coiled in perfect loops.
But it was the emptiness that struck me most—the vacant chair, the untouched slippers, the hollow silence. This wasn't a room left in casual haste but arranged by someone desperately maintaining control while her world crumbled.
I examined the vanity carefully. A delicate silver brush set gleamed alongside precisely arranged cosmetics. A pale pink envelope lay to one side with a half-finished letter tucked within, its last sentence trailing off in hurried script. I would need to read that carefully.
The faint scent of roses stirred in the air, the source a single rose that drooped in a slender vase. Beside it lay an ornate florist's card with no signature.
I exhaled softly. Whatever had happened to Anya Petrova, this was no simple disappearance. If I were to find her before it was too late, I needed to start unraveling her secrets quickly.
This was going to be more complicated than I thought.
