Polkacide
Authors: Samantha Shepherd
Dancing With Murder
A Cozy Mystery Novel
By
Samantha Shepherd
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright © 2011 by Samantha
Shepherd
Published by Tsetse Press
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*****
Dancing With Murder
Chapter 1
My father had been in the ground only
two hours, and people were already dancing.
As I stood outside the door of the New
Krakow Fire Department banquet hall, I could hear the polka music
flowing from within. No music was better loved in this Western
Pennsylvania town where Polish heritage came before all
others.
Not that I could claim to be one of
the polka faithful. Not after fifteen years in Los
Angeles.
I certainly didn't look like a polka
chick. Sizing up my reflection in the glass door, I straightened my
simple knee-length black dress and adjusted the stylish coil of
black hair wound on top of my head. If the coil came undone, my
hair would fall below the small of my back...which is quite a ways,
as I'm over six feet tall.
Satisfied that I was halfway
presentable, I reached for the door handle. When I pulled the door
open, a wave of polka music washed over me, punctuated by whooping
and yipping. As I stepped inside and took off my sunglasses, I
could see the hall was packed from corner to corner. Everyone was
dancing, singing, drinking, laughing, or some combination of all
the above.
The clothes were about the only
giveaway that most everyone had been at my dad's funeral two hours
before. Lots of folks were wearing black; some of the women still
wore black hats and veils. But some of the dancers spinning around
the middle of the hall had actually changed into full polka regalia
since the funeral. I counted six middle-aged women in brightly
colored skirts that lifted as they twirled across the concrete
floor.
I stood at the edge of the mayhem for
a while, feeling lost. I knew this was exactly what Dad had wanted,
what he'd asked for in his will. They didn't call him "Polish Lou"
Kachowski, Prince of Pennsylvania Polka, for nothing.
So why did the whole scene make me
feel sick? Like it was disrespectful to be dancing instead of
crying? Like none of those partiers deserved to be
there?
Or was it
me
who didn't deserve to
be there?
"Lottie?" The sound of a familiar male
voice made me turn. I found myself staring at Stush Dudek, a gentle
giant with a flyaway gray comb-over and the saddest brown eyes I've
ever seen. "I'm so sorry about your father, hon."
As family friends go, Stush was one of
the oldest and best. Just his being there made me feel instantly
better. "Me, too, Uncle Stush." That's what I called him, though we
weren't related. "I still can't believe he's gone."
Stush wagged his big head
slowly. He always reminded me of a big Saint Bernard. "It's a
terrible thing, Lottie.
None
of us can believe it."
Suddenly, I felt tears burning my
eyes, and I looked away. Focused on the polka band on the stage at
the opposite end of the fire hall. It so happened an old boyfriend
of mine was playing an accordion solo just then.
His name was Eddie Kubiak, Jr. I
hadn't seen him in at least fifteen years. Not since I'd moved to
Los Angeles.
He still looked about the same except
for the fine-lined sideburns, mustache, and goatee tracing the
narrow face below his spiky black crewcut. He still played a hell
of a solo on the button box, too.
"At least he went peacefully." Stush
gave my shoulder a squeeze with his enormous hand. His dark brown
eyes gazed intently into my own. "God bless ya, hon. You know you
can lean on me, don't ya?"
I nodded. "Yes, Uncle
Stush."
Just as he let go of my shoulder, the
band finished its song. A deep, gravelly voice boomed over the P.A.
system.
It was a voice I remembered
well. "Everyone! Everyone!" It belonged to the band's leader, Eddie
Kubiak, Senior. He was Polish Lou's biggest rival...and Eddie Jr.'s
dad, of course. "Time for a toast! Another toast in honor of the
great
Polish Lou
!"
All around the fire hall, red plastic
cups and clear plastic shot glasses were raised overhead. Everyone
in the band found a drink and raised it, too.
"To a true friend of all New Krakow!"
Eddie Sr. lifted a vodka bottle over his glittering red accordion.
His pudgy face was almost as red underneath his slicked-back mane
of silver hair. "To a true Polish falcon! A true angel of the polka
way of life!"
Everyone cheered and downed their
drinks.
Eddie Sr. took a long swig
from the vodka bottle and shook it like a spear. "He will be
missed!
Będzie można
ominąć!
"
How many people were in the fire hall
that afternoon? Three hundred? Five hundred? And every last one of
them cheered as loud as they could. Cheered so loud it hurt my
ears.
I guess I should've grabbed a drink
and joined the toast, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Because
the whole party atmosphere left me cold.
And maybe because I couldn't bear to
admit my dad was really gone.
Instead of throwing back a shot or a
swallow of beer, I turned and headed for the door. I rushed outside
into the late June heat, tears streaming down my cheeks.
While behind me, the band started
playing "The Beer Barrel Polka."
Chapter 2
The New Krakow Fire Department managed
two buildings--the banquet hall out back and the fire house in
front. I was so agitated when I got outside that I walked clear
around both of them. Didn't stop till I got to the front of the
garage, which was empty. The firemen had pulled out the gleaming
red fire truck and two rescue vehicles and parked them along the
driveway in honor of the late Polish Lou.
I stopped around the corner of the
garage and slumped against the brick wall there. Took some big deep
breaths and tried to stop shaking. I needed to pull myself
together, if that was even possible on a day like today.
Unsnapping my black clutch purse, I
rifled the contents, without thinking, for my cigarettes. It took a
full minute to remember I didn't have any, because I'd quit. Not a
puff for the past six weeks.
Though if I'd known beforehand that my
dad was going to die in his sleep two weeks in, I sure as hell
would've picked another time to kick the habit.
Suddenly, everything boiled up in me,
and I'd just had enough. With an angry grunt, I chucked the purse
through the air; it landed in the middle of a bunch of geraniums in
a big cement planter along the driveway.
But that was just the beginning.
Throwing the purse seemed to bring everything to the
surface.
Overwhelmed with emotion, I plunged my
face into my hands and started to cry. I'd been holding it back all
day, and enough was enough.
I'd been holding it back longer than
that, actually. My life had been on the skids for quite a while.
Los Angeles had not been kind.
There was a reason my fiancé hadn't
come with me for my dad's funeral. And another reason for my being
in New Krakow, to boot. I hadn't come home just to say goodbye to
Polish Lou. I had an ulterior motive.
And I hated myself because of it. I
was just as bad as all those people whooping it up in the banquet
hall at Dad's expense.
Maybe worse. At the moment, I couldn't
think of too many people I liked less than myself.
"Lottie?" And here came one of them.
"Are you all right, sweetie?"
I kept my face in my hands for an
extra minute. As if she might go away if I waited long enough.
Though I knew there was no chance of that.
She was like a fly that keeps buzzing
around you no matter how many times you swat it. The harder you
tried to drive her away, the closer she stuck to you.
Her friendly, mid-range voice was
deceptive. It concealed the heart of a stalker, the mind of a
lunatic. The polka monster from the black lagoon.
My de facto stepmother.
Otherwise known as Polish Peg. "Do you
need me to get you something, sweetie? A cup of tea might
help."
Looking up from my tear-soaked hands,
I saw the sun streaming through her frizzy, light-brown hair,
almost an afro. Her bright green eyes were enormous behind the
powerful lenses of her glasses; I thought the
red-with-white-polka-dots frames looked like something a clown
might wear.
"No thanks." I sniffed as I rubbed tears from my
cheeks with my thumbs. I hated letting Peg see me this way...or any
way, for that matter. Ever since she'd buzzed into the picture
fifteen years ago, I'd made a point of keeping my
distance.
"I think you dropped this." Peg smiled
as she held out my black clutch purse. "I found it in the planter
over there."
"Thanks." I managed the smallest smile
as I took the purse from her grip. "I wondered where that got
to."
Peg looked at me hard from behind
those magnifying glasses of hers. She started to say something,
then looked away.
I felt intensely uncomfortable, as I
always did around Peg, though she'd never really done anything
evil. Other than stealing my father away from my mother, that
is.
Something about her made me want to
run. Maybe she was just too eager to please. Maybe it was her
weirdness or her tacky polka style. Maybe something I couldn't put
my finger on.
But she made me want to run. Snapping
open my clutch, I fished out the keys to my rent-a-car. "I'd better
get going." I snapped the purse shut and moved to walk past her.
"I'm exhausted."
Just then, Peg the Clown did the
unexpected. She caught me by the shoulder as I tried to get past.
"Hold on, Lottie."
I couldn't believe it. Polish Peg
never, ever touched me. "What?" I turned an ice cold glare on her,
brimming with contempt.
If it hurt her, she didn't show it.
"Can't you stay a little, Lottie?"