The Case of the Missing Dancer (The Kitty Worthington Cozy Capers #4)

Chapter 1

THE DISTRESS CALL

"We'll need to tread carefully with the Windmere case," Emma said, tapping her pen against her leather notebook. "It's always awkward when the suspect is a relative."

I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup, savoring the warmth as I sat across from her mahogany desk. Lady Emma Carlyle, my partner at the Ladies of Distinction Detective Agency, preferred Earl Grey, while I preferred the much stronger brew.

"You mean Roger, the grasping cousin?" I smiled. "I'm certain he's behind the missing pearls."

Emma lifted a brow. "You sound confident."

"I'm engaged to a Scotland Yard chief detective inspector. It rubs off."

Her laughter rang out just as Betsy, our agency receptionist, appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed with urgency.

"Miss Worthington," she said breathlessly, "there's a Monsieur LeClair on the telephone. He says it's urgent and asked for you specifically."

My pulse quickened. Monsieur LeClair was the ballet master at the King’s Theatre. What could he possibly want with me?

"Thank you, Betsy. I'll take it in my office." After I arrived there, I set my coffee aside and lifted the receiver. "This is Kitty Worthington speaking."

A torrent of French-accented English poured into my ear.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Worthington! Thank heavens! This is Monsieur LeClair. I am in desperate need of your help! Our star dancer, Anya Petrova, has vanished! Gone without a trace!"

I reached for my notepad. "When did you last see her?"

"Last night, after rehearsal! She was to be here this morning for costume fittings, but she never arrived! No word, no note, nothing! We open Firebird on Saturday—only three days away! If the press learns of this—"

"Have you checked her lodgings?"

"Yes! Her rooms are empty! Her landlady hasn't seen her since yesterday when she left for the theatre. You must come quickly, mademoiselle, before everything collapses!"

I tapped the pencil against my lips. Anya Petrova, the ethereal Russian dancer who had London society captivated. Had she fled? Been taken? Or was something more sinister at play behind those velvet curtains?

"I'll be there within the hour," I promised.

After gathering my handbag and gloves, I stopped at Emma's office. "I'm off to the King’s Theatre. It seems they've misplaced their prima ballerina."

Emma's brows shot up. "Anya Petrova? The Swan Lake star?"

"The very one."

"Don't forget to collect a retainer, Kitty. Theatre people aren't always reliable when it comes to paying bills."

I smiled, fastening my gloves. That was Emma—practical as always, with one eye on our agency's finances. Meanwhile, my pulse was already quickening with the thrill of a fresh mystery.

I could never resist a puzzle—especially one wrapped in satin slippers and stage lights.

The April air was crisp as I hailed a cab, the scent of damp stone and budding flowers mixing with London's familiar odors.

As the motorcar rattled through the streets, I leaned back, mind already racing.

Something in LeClair's voice—that tremor of genuine fear—told me this wasn't simply stage nerves or cold feet.

Whatever had happened to Anya Petrova, I intended to discover the truth.

The King’s Theatre's grand facade glowed softly under the morning light as my cab pulled up. I adjusted my hat and took a steadying breath before pushing through the tall double doors.

Inside, the usual pre-performance energy was replaced by tense whispers and worried glances.

Stagehands, dancers, and costumers moved about with the same tight expression of barely controlled panic.

The air carried the familiar scents of rosin, sawdust, and fresh paint, but underneath lay an undercurrent of anxiety that made my skin prickle.

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 was perfectly 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 marked Ballet Master in 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.