Tiny Dancer

  TINY DANCER

  By

  Pandora Pine

  A cold case psychic spin off novella

  Tiny Dancer

  Copyright © Pandora Pine 2019

  All Rights Reserved

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Digital Edition: March 2019

  FOR STEPHEN

  Don’t forget to mention me in your Oscar acceptance speech.

  PROLOGUE

  Riordan

  “Alexa, play Tiny Dancer, by Elton John!” Stephen Walker-Quinn called out, grabbing his husband, Riordan Quinn, around the waist.

  “Playing Tiny Dancer, by Elton John on Amazon Music,” Alexa’s robotic voice replied, as the piano began.

  “Well, this is a nice surprise.” Riordan grinned up at his dark-eyed husband. “I can’t remember when the last time was we danced in the kitchen.” He carded a hand through Stephen’s dark, silky hair.

  “Life gets busy when you have a three-month-old baby girl and a three-year-old daughter.” Stephen pressed a kiss to his husband’s lips.

  “Ah, I knew I was forgetting something.” Riordan laughed. “Speaking of our babies,” he paused to look around the kitchen, “where are they?”

  “Aren’t you a candidate for father of the year?” Stephen dipped his husband. “Isla is in the living room watching Snow White and Macy is asleep in her pack and play. Knowing the attention span of the average three-year-old is about four minutes, I figured we had just enough time for a quick spin around the floor.”

  “You are such a clever man.” Riordan pressed up on tiptoes to kiss his husband. “I love you so much.” It was true. They’d met ten years ago in college. Riordan was a senior majoring in Art History, while Stephen was a jock, barely maintaining the lowest G.P.A. possible to stay on the Salem State University football team.

  Stephen had taken an art class focusing on Vincent van Gogh, figuring it would be an easy grade, but that was before he’d come up against the toughest TA in the Art History Department. Stephen was failing the class and in danger of being kept off the football field when he’d knocked on Riordan’s office door one Monday morning. It had been love at first sight for Riordan. The feeling hadn’t been mutual for Stephen. Not at first, anyway.

  That had come over time. There had been trips to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston to see Van Gogh’s work in person for Stephen, followed by Riordan sitting in the stands to watch Stephen sack Salem State’s opposing quarterbacks. Love had blossomed on Stephen’s part over time, and with his rising grade and maintained eligibility.

  “Daddy, Papa, you’re dancing!” Three-year-old Isla twirled into the kitchen. “Me too!”

  “Up you go, ladybug.” Stephen opened his left arm to lift the dark-haired cherub.

  She wrapped one arm around his neck and the other around Riordan. “Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home.” Isla pressed a messy kiss to Stephen’s cheek.

  Stephen had called Isla his little ladybug since the day she was born with a round birthmark on her left cheek. It was their special thing. He always bought her ladybug presents; stuffed animals, coloring books, and last year, a ladybug raincoat, boots, and umbrella set that the then two-year-old would have slept in had they let her.

  “Papa, do you know what would make me happy?” Isla’s dark eyes danced with mischief.

  “Oh, I don’t know…” Stephen wore a look like he was pretending to think about it. “A Happy Meal?”

  Isla nodded so hard it sent her hair flying around her head in a tornado of dark curls. “Chicken nuggets with honey mustard and apples. Peas and carrots.” She offered a bright smile.

  “Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe you should ask Daddy too?” Stephen winked at Riordan over their daughter’s head.

  “Peas and carrots, Daddy?” Isla offered Riordan the same sugary smile.

  Peas and carrots was another one of Stephen and Isla’s special father-daughter things. To be honest, Riordan didn’t even remember where that one had come from. It was her way of saying please when she wanted something really badly. “Well,” he paused dramatically, “can I get a Happy Meal too?”

  “Happy ending,” Stephen mouthed, with a saucy wink.

  “No, silly,” Isla laughed. “You’re a big boy.”

  “In that case, I’ll get some nuggets and fries, but not until after our song ends.” Riordan pressed a kiss to the birthmark on Isla’s cheek before he started to sing, “Hold me closer, Tony Danza.”

  “Those are the wrong words.” Stephen started to laugh.

  “They’re not when I’m singing it.” Riordan laughed. He had no idea who’d first misheard those song lyrics, but they always made him laugh.

  As the song wrapped up, Stephen hugged everyone tight. “Okay, so that’s one Happy Meal for my ladybug. One nugget meal for my nugget, and a Big Mac for Macy. Got it!”

  “Noooooo!” Isla started to giggle. “Macy’s only three months old. She doesn’t have any teeth.”

  “Oh, so then who’s the Big Mac for?” Stephen looked around like he was confused.

  “For you, Papa!” Isla was giggling so hard she held a hand to her tummy.

  “Oh, that’s right. For me.” Stephen bent down to kiss Isla. “I love you, ladybug. Love you too, Rear.” He bussed a messy kiss against Riordan’s right cheek and then one on his left. “That’s for Macy. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  Riordan snorted. All these years later and his husband was still calling him “Rear.” It was a play on the pronunciation of his name. On the first day of class, he’d had his name written on the syllabus and someone had called him Ree-or-dan. He’d been quick to correct the student and had stupidly said that it was pronounced Rear-dan, like rear end. Stephen had never let him live that down.

  “Drive safe.” Riordan scooped Isla up as Stephen headed out the door.

  “Why don’t we set the table and get Macy’s bottle ready while Papa is gone?” Riordan knew the minute they sat down to eat, the baby would wake up and want to be fed.

  Isla had been such an organized baby. It sounded so odd to think that, but she’d followed the schedule he and Stephen set up to the letter. Macy, on the other hand, was their rebel child. She ate when she demanded to eat and slept when she wanted to sleep, which was rarely and, much to his chagrin, lightly. He remembered when Isla was an infant they could vacuum under her crib and it wouldn’t wake her up. With Macy, sometimes breathing too hard would startle the baby awake.

  It never ceased to amaze him how very different their girls were. Both of them had the same biological mother, but Stephen was Isla’s father, while he was Macy’s. They were happy as a family of four, with an even ratio of parents to kids, but Riordan knew that Stephen wanted to try one more time for a boy. In his heart of hearts, he knew he’d say yes to that. A little boy with Stephen’s dark hair and eyes would be just the thing to round their family out perfectly.

  As he was measuring out Macy’s formula, Riordan watched Isla setting paper plates out for each of them. She didn’t walk from seat to seat, the three-year-old danced. They’d enrolled her in classes this year and she’d taken to it like a duck to water.

  Isla had always been such a graceful child. Even when she first learned to crawl it looked like her movements were choreographed and synchronized. When she was learning to stand, she’d hold on to the coffee table and jam to whatever music he and Stephen would play on their phones. Putting her in an organized dance class seemed like the next logical step. She’d loved the jazz le
ssons, but ballet had been her favorite.

  Those were the steps she was doing now as she moved from spot to spot at the kitchen table, first setting down paper plates, then napkins. Isla danced to the fridge to grab the ketchup for her and Stephen’s fries, before dancing back again to grab the mayonnaise for Riordan.

  “All done, Daddy!” she sang out, with perfect pitch.

  Knowing Isla, she was going to be the first Grammy-winning prima ballerina in history. “It’s perfect, honey.” He was about to ask her to turn on the electric candles when his phone rang with Stephen’s ring tone. “Hey, babe.”

  “What was it Joe Pesci said about the drive-thru?” Stephen sounded annoyed.

  “Oh, jeez. What happened?” Riordan knew exactly what Joe Pesci said. He wasn’t about to repeat that in front of their three-year-old. Why was it that he and Stephen could stress the importance of saying, “please,” and “thank you,” but slip once and call someone a “butt munch” and that was the phrase that Isla took to preschool with her?

  “I forgot to check the food bags when the girl handed them to me, but I hit the red light at CVS, so I looked then. All of the food is right, but they forgot the toy in Isla’s Happy Meal. I’m on my way back there now to get it. I’ll be home in a few…”

  The awful screech of tires was followed by the sound of a horrific crash.

  “Stephen?” Riordan called out. There was no answer. “Stephen!” Riordan was shouting now. He knew he should try to stay calm with Isla in the kitchen with him and Macy in the other room, but he has this feeling, this God-awful feeling, like half of him was missing.

  The phone in his hand beeped three times. Stephen was gone.

  1

  Riordan

  March, one year later…

  It was recital day. Isla was prancing around the kitchen practicing her ballet routine while Riordan looked for her pink tights. He could have sworn they were right here.

  Welcome to his new normal. Riordan used the word new, but the truth of the matter was that this disorganized, discombobulated way of life was how they lived since that day when his world stopped spinning.

  When the call from Stephen had cut out, Riordan had immediately dialed 911. The even-tempered dispatcher he spoke with said they already had paramedics en route to the scene. He’d been grateful for that, but had already known it was too late. Stephen had died instantly.

  Riordan supposed doctors used terms like that to make grieving family members feel better. Instant death had to be better than a long, drawn out death filled with endless suffering. What the Salem police and then the coroner hadn’t understood was that dead was dead. Fast, slow, painless, agonizing, Stephen was still gone forever.

  His husband would never again call Isla his little ladybug. He’d never see Macy take her first wobbling step. Stephen would never kiss him goodnight or grow old with him. Of course, it was a small measure of comfort that Stephen hadn’t suffered, it just hadn’t made any real difference in how the last year had gone without him.

  Maggie Quinn, Riordan’s mother, had come to stay with them. She’d been his rock when they found out Stephen had been T-boned by a driver running a red light.

  His mother had been the one to help make funeral plans and she picked out Stephen’s suit. Later, she’d been the one to make dinners and supervise bath and story time for the girls when all Riordan was capable of doing was crying endless tears.

  Maggie held his hand when Stephen’s killer took a plea bargain and got seven years for vehicular manslaughter, rather than the more serious charge of criminally negligent homicide.

  Finally, three months in, it had been Maggie who singlehandedly staged the Come-to-Jesus meeting, insisting Riordan come back from beyond the grave and rejoin the land of the living with his young daughters who needed him more than ever.

  It had been a long process to get from that moment to this one. Maggie lived with them for six months. These last six without her had been a challenge, but he was getting through them one day at a time.

  “Daddy!” Four-year-old Isla called out. “I’m ready.” She danced into his bedroom in her pink tutu.

  “Okay, honey. I just have to find your pink tights.” Riordan was digging through a pile of laundry he hadn’t found time to put away yet. He’d actually slept on the bed with the laundry stacked up on Stephen’s side last night. It made him feel guilty, like he was a hoarder on that TV show. Stephen would be so disappointed in him.

  “But, Daddy!” Isla sang out.

  “One minute, please.” Riordan could feel the razor tight hold on his temper starting to slide away.

  “Da! Da! Da!” Fifteen-month-old Macy toddled into the room.

  “Oh, Macy!” Isla gasped dramatically.

  Spinning around, Riordan saw his youngest daughter covered in red. Blood? Racing to her side, he caught a distinct whiff of alcohol. It wasn’t blood, but red wine. He must have left his glass in the living room last night. Macy must have picked it up and drenched herself with what was left in the glass.

  “Isla, please keep your sister here.” Riordan ran out of the room. Macy was wearing toddler shoes with hard bottoms, but shards from wine glasses could be wickedly sharp. He hadn’t heard glass breaking, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. His head had been in the clouds as he searched for those damned pink tights.

  Running into the living room, Riordan found his wine glass intact on the area rug, which was also soaked in wine. He didn’t care so long as Macy was safe. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, he started to cry.

  There were still days when Stephen’s loss was too much to bear. Now, with Macy’s close call, it was obvious his glass or two of wine at night was a bigger issue than he thought. The father he’d been when Stephen was still alive never would have left a glass where Macy could have reached or broken it.

  Two tiny bodies startled him by climbing into his lap. Both of his children held Riordan tight. He didn’t know how he would survive without them.

  “It’s okay, Daddy.” Isla rubbed his back. “It’s just a spill.”

  Riordan snorted at the way his daughter was comforting him. It was exactly the way he would have comforted her, had their roles been reversed and she’d spilled a glass of juice.

  “Wet!” Macy announced.

  “Yes, you are,” Riordan agreed, wiping the last of the tears from his eyes. Looking at Isla, he noticed she was wearing her pink tights. “Where did you get those?”

  “Papa told me where to find them.” Isla smiled brilliantly.

  Riordan blinked at her. Maybe he’d misheard her. “Papa told you?”

  Isla nodded. “I’m still his little ladybug even though he lives in heaven now.”

  Riordan was flabbergasted. He’d never heard anything like that in his entire life. He opened his mouth to ask what she was talking about when the front door burst open.

  “Noni!” Isla shouted. Grabbing Macy off the couch, both girls ran toward the door and Maggie Quinn who’d just arrived.

  So much for questioning Isla. That would have to wait until after the recital.

  Riordan knew he needed to get up and find Macy a new outfit, but he needed another minute with what Isla had told him. Had Stephen spoken to their daughter? Was that somehow possible or was this just a case of a child with an overactive imagination missing her dead father? Riordan sighed.

  “I see you’ve tried out that new kids’ wine scrub that’s all the rage.” Maggie laughed. She was carrying Macy, who was freshly changed into a new outfit.

  “Mom, you’ve been here for like ninety seconds. How did you do that so fast?” Riordan felt his mouth hanging open.

  “I’ve got fifty-five years of life experience with three kids and two little yummies.” She pressed a kiss against Macy’s head. “I could do this and bake cookies in my sleep.” Maggie grinned at him.

  That sounded about right. Maggie had been Super-mom when he was growing up. She’d been a fifth-grade math teacher and single mom, of sorts, to him
and his twin sisters since their father worked sixty plus hours a week at a downtown Boston law firm. He spent so many hours in the office, no one had noticed that Brian Quinn had died there. It had been a massive heart attack. He wasn’t discovered until the next morning when his secretary noticed he hadn’t been out to get a cup of coffee. Riordan was twenty-five and his sisters were seniors at Boston College, both majoring in communications.

  “Is it time to go now?” Isla was bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I can’t wait for you to see me dance, Noni, and for you to meet my friend, Laurel.”

  “I’ve heard so much about her.” Maggie smiled. “Are you going to change before we go, Riordan?” she asked gently.

  “Change?” Riordan asked.

  “Honey, you’re wearing sweatpants and a grunge band tee shirt from the 1990s.” She grimaced, presumably at his fashion choices.

  “Huh.” Now that Stephen was gone, he never paid any attention to what he was wearing when he wasn’t at work. “Okay, I’ll go change.” He should look presentable for Isla’s sake.

  Twenty minutes later, they were loaded into Riordan’s SUV and on their way to Witch City Dance Studios. Isla was chatting with Maggie while Macy zoned out to Frozen.

  Riordan still couldn’t get his mind off what his four-year-old said to him about Stephen. Was this something he should let go? Or was it something he should ask about? Shit, who would he even ask? A child psychologist? Her pediatrician? He was at a complete loss here.

  Pulling into the parking lot, he put all thoughts of Stephen away and focused on Isla and the recital. This was a special day for his daughter. After Stephen passed, Isla had stopped dancing. So much of the sparkle that made her who she was had nearly gone out completely. It went on like that for nearly three months without her dancing. All of a sudden one day, he’d heard her giggling in her bedroom. She was all alone, but there was a ladybug on the outside of her bedroom window. Isla had laughed and dragged him into the room to see it. From that day forward, she’d been back to her old self.