Phantom Dancer: A Novel

By Rose Armentano

Gabriella Martin is a beautiful and talented ballerina who only lives to dance . . . until she meets Dane Harrington. In him, she finds a soul mate who shares her intense passion for dancing.

Dane is a choreographer and the premier danseur for a world-renowned dance company in New York City. Together, they are spending their summer at Cliff House, preparing for the fall International Dance Competition in Paris. Meredith Winters, a colleague of Gabriella and Danes, is an ambitious rival of Gabriellas. She desperately wants to dance the role of the female lead in the pas de deux that Dane has created for its Paris debut. She also wants Dane.

Initially, the summer promises to be idyllic for Gabriella. Then a series of strange and sinister mishaps begin to stalk her. Trivial at first, they become dangerously more malicious. Gabriellas world starts to unravel. Feeling increasingly threatened and confused, she begins to doubt her sanity. Must she sacrifice Danes love, her career, and even her life in order to unmask the dark secrets of Cliff House?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479760589

Rose Armentano

Rose Armentano is a former dancer, English teacher, and sometime painter. She currently teaches fitness and yoga in Vero Beach, Florida. She and her husband spend their leisure time together reading, writing, swimming, and working out in the gym. They consider it paradise living within walking distance of the Atlantic Ocean. This is Rose’s first novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Madam Laskaya sat slumped in a chair beside an open window in her private sitting room at Cliff House. Her once proud stature made a sad silhouette against the gray light of early evening. She stared down at the grim flagstones below. Her grief-etched eyes looked blankly at the chalked outline of a body drawn upon the stones’ weathered surface. A wine-colored stain marred the chalked outline’s already grotesque pattern. She continued to focus her attention upon that ugly stain, bearing her millstone of grief like a great crucible.

Gabriella Martin stood quietly in the doorway of the sitting room, watching Madam Laskaya, the woman she had grown to love like a second mother. But Madam Laskaya was unaware of the younger woman’s presence. She was only conscious of the stained flagstones and the sea’s soft tide as it met the beach and swept along the water’s edge. Even the gentle breeze, which stirred the delicate lace curtains next to her, went unnoticed.

The room where the older woman sat alone was now quite dark except for the diminishing light from the open window. The warm September breeze from the large window continued to blow gently through her hair. But she stared ahead not really noticing. The wine-colored stones below still burned in her mind as her only reality.

For a brief moment, both women were mesmerized by the sea’s low murmuring. Repeatedly it seemed to whisper the same sorrowful lament: She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead. To Madam Laskaya, its melancholy message was an accusation. To Gabriella, it was an unrelenting reminder of her own recent close encounter with death.

Gabriella’s eyes stung with unshed tears as she witnessed the personal anguish of her beloved mentor. She longed to rush into the darkening sanctuary and comfort the older woman, but she knew that such a gesture would only rob her friend and teacher of any remaining dignity. Reluctantly Gabriella turned away from the open doorway and left Madam Laskaya to her own soundless tears and silent memories.

Gabriella walked swiftly down the steps of the gloom-filled mansion and out into the open air. She called softly for her constant companion of late, Onyx, leashed him, and headed for the cliffside path, which snaked its way down to the beachfront below. If she could be of no comfort to Madam Laskaya, she could at least try to shake some of the increasing melancholia from herself. Often when she was troubled, a brisk walk along the beach with the devoted black Labrador seemed to help her see things more clearly. Her own life needed sorting out.

Hey, little lady, wait a minute. Didn’t I just see you come down from that big house up there? Hey, stop for a minute! How about helping a guy out, OK?

Gabriella turned sharply, holding Onyx tightly by his collar. She stared incredulously at the portly man in green polyester who was puffing along toward her. He wore a too-small knit shirt under a shapeless jacket, dirty sneakers, and a straw fedora on his balding head. As he ran, a small pad and pencil bobbed up and down in his breast pocket. If she were not so annoyed, Gabriella thought, this absurd-looking man might have made her smile.

When he reached her, he removed his fedora and mopped his brow with an overlarge handkerchief. Now look, lady, he whined, all I need is a few minutes of your time, and then I’ll leave you alone.

Gabriella cut him off sharply. You look, she said quite annoyed, you are rattling the wrong cage. You press people have harassed Madam Laskaya and everyone else at Cliff House since the accident. Can’t you just leave us alone? Get your facts from the police blotter. I have nothing more to say to you.

She turned to walk away when, suddenly, the funny little reporter from the World Tattler reached out to grab her arm. Hey, lady, all I want is a story— He never finished the thought, as Onyx bared his teeth and attempted to snap at the pudgy hand that dared approach his mistress. The reporter fell back sheepishly.

All right, all right, little lady, I’m going. Just keep that dog under control, will you. No hard feelings, OK? I’m just a working slob trying to earn a living.

You are a slob, Gabriella thought to herself, and a vulture too for attempting to pick the last bits of flesh from a dead carcass. It was difficult enough these last few days, having to tolerate queries from the police and the legitimate press. But these checkout counter, scandal-sheet vermin were another matter entirely. Shaking her head in disbelief at the nerve of some people, she knelt down to give Onyx a pat for a job well done; then they continued their solitary walk along the shore. After all the recent events, Gabriella desperately needed some time and a private place to think things through. Meanwhile, behind her, Cliff House protectively wrapped itself and its few remaining inhabitants in a somber shroud of silence.

CHAPTER TWO

As Gabriella walked along the shoreline and looked back at the large white mansion looming above her, she thought to herself that the chapters of Madam Laskaya’s life read like a work of romantic fiction. Madam Tatiana Laskaya and Cliff House’s existence were both filled with the excitement of history, the perils of danger, and the wonders of love.

Tatiana Laskaya’s parents had been very young members of the corps de ballet with the Imperial Ballet of Russia. Like many other artists and intellectuals around the turn of the century, they had been concerned about the winds of change that were blowing through Czarist Russia. In 1915, they made a firm decision; they would leave their homeland while they still could and begin a new life together in a world free of purges and political revolution. By November 1917, when the Winter Palace fell and the Bolshevik Revolution blew triumphant, they had already firmly established themselves with a renowned British ballet company. And when Czar Nicholas and his family were murdered, they dismissed all thought of ever returning to Russia again.

After Tatiana’s birth in 1920, her parents left their present ballet company and became the founders and artistic directors of the London Conservatory of Dance. To many exiled artists, the conservatory soon became affectionately known as Little Russia. It was more than a fine school of ballet. It was a refuge where the vagabonds of a lost culture could still keep in touch with their heritage. The Laskaya home and the conservatory became an important haven for painters, writers, and dancers from all over the world.

As a very small child, Tatiana’s first recollections of life were purely sensual. Satin ribbons dangling from pink toe shoes were often brushed against her cheek to coax her to smile, tinkling laughter teased her ears, and the pungent odor of sweat-soaked bodies crinkled her nose. She was often lulled to sleep by the classical strains of Chopin and Tchaikovsky. Hour after hour, she focused her attention upon the spinning and leaping dancers, who pirouetted past her little corner of the practice hall.

Provocative textures, sights, and sounds were the natural elements of her childhood world. They stimulated her senses and nurtured her ambition to one day also become a famous dancer. For Tatiana, the conservatory was a wonderful world of strict discipline and artistic indulgence. Her training in ballet was exacting, and her few hours in the schoolroom were often boring; but her time away from the bar and academics was filled with laughter, love, and a kaleidoscope of colorful people and exciting ideas.

By the time she reached fifteen years of age, Tatiana had developed into a classical dancer with strong technique and Pavlovian sensitivity. She was soon accepted into the ballet company of Marie Lambert, who had sought to discover and develop young English dancers. At eighteen, she was already being favorably compared to the famed Alicia Markova and the then emerging Margot Fonteyn. Tatiana’s dancing future looked bright.

The future of the world, on the other hand, was beginning to look very grim. The rumblings of the German war machine had started to shake Europe. The ballet community, like much of the rest of the world, soon found itself listening to the sick rhythm of Hitler’s goose step. In 1939, some ballet tours between the continents were canceled, and most of Tatiana’s performances were limited to the English provinces and occasionally to London. When the Battle of Britain began, the conservatory itself was turned into a makeshift hospital.

By the summer of 1940, most Londoners were becoming increasingly acclimated to the continuous German bombardment of their city. Undaunted, they were determined, in the true English spirit, to carry on as usual. In August of 1940, Tatiana was understudying Alicia Markova in Sleeping Beauty at the New Theater in London when the German Air Force made a devastating bombing run on the city. While seeking refuge in an underground shelter, Tatiana literally fell into the arms of her future American husband who had joined the RAF, Titus Singleton III. When the war ended in 1945, Tatiana and her handsome and wealthy husband left for America and for Cliff House. It clearly was a time for a new beginning.

*     *     *

All that was many years ago and a different time, Gabriella thought to herself. She never tired of hearing about Madam Laskaya’s love affair and marriage to Titus. Now, at age sixty-five, Madam Laskaya was still very much a lovely woman. Her hair was the color of fine burnished pewter. She had dark snapping eyes and alabaster skin, which she religiously protected from the damaging summer sun. Though very petite, she normally carried herself with a fine dancer’s grace and always moved with the vitality of a much younger woman. Her body appeared as toned and trimmed as that of a young girl’s.

Years of dancing had done much to preserve her flexibility and remarkable appearance. There was an almost porcelain quality about her. She reminded one of lustrous pearls and exquisite cameos. At the same time, there was no mistaking her ramrod strength of character. Those who loved her and knew her well prayed that this same strength of character would once again sustain her in her present misfortune.

Though widowed for many years, Tatiana Laskaya had managed to live a very fulfilled life. She enjoyed New York theater in season and formal dinners with her many friends on Newport’s Mansion Row. Occasionally she traveled to Paris and London. Most important to her happiness, however, was her ballet academy, her husband, and her beautiful daughter, Alexandra.

Even though Madam Laskaya had married into one of the wealthiest families in New England, she never gave up her love for or interest in ballet. Before the unexpected death of her husband, Madam Laskaya had been the financial angel of a fledgling ballet company. After his death, she boldly decided to open her own school. Her fond memories of her parents’ conservatory in London, her need to be useful, and her enduring love for the ballet encouraged her. Some might have found it strange that a woman of her wealth and social position would endeavor to turn her home into an academy for promising young dancers. But Madam Laskaya did not care much for public opinion one way or another. She had the capital and the connections, and she went ahead.

Cliff House in those years became a private boarding school for only the most promising and dedicated of dancers. Madam Laskaya herself handpicked students between the ages of thirteen and eighteen from around the world to study at her home. Talent and total dedication were what mattered most. Generous scholarships were provided for those of modest means. Her standards were equally as high when she chose faculty. Because they often served as proxy parents as well as educators, the teachers at Cliff House were chosen for their compassion and integrity as well as for their level of competence.

Madam Laskaya had many friends in the professional world of dance, and they were always welcome to visit and refresh themselves at her home. It wasn’t unusual to see George Balanchine or Jerome Robbins lounging about Cliff House or sunbathing on its beachfront during the summer. Some of the most renowned celebrities of the dance dropped in to take class or perform as guest artists. Needless to say, Madam Laskaya’s students found Cliff House an exciting and inspiring place to live and study.

Through the years, many of her students had gone on to fill the ranks of the finest corps de ballet throughout the world. Some went on to found ballet schools of their own or teach at universities and colleges. One of her most promising young male students had gone on to become a famous Broadway choreographer. She remembered him fondly as a young street urchin with excess energy, enormous raw talent, and no discipline.

Although the purpose of the school was to develop exceptional dancers, Madam Laskaya emphasized the value of a well-rounded liberal arts education. From September to May, her young students spent equal time in the practice halls and in pondering over books in the classroom. Many of them frowned on the time spent reading The Odyssey or struggling with basic algebra. But Madam Laskaya was adamant. She knew that there were no guarantees in life and that many of her students would have to leave the dance world for one reason or another. She wanted her charges prepared for whatever life might hold in store for them. Because of this strongly held philosophy, both Madam Laskaya and her graduates were held in high esteem throughout the professional world of dance.

During the summer months, only a handful of students stayed on at Cliff House. The time was spent on perfecting technique and preparing for the various dance competitions and professional auditions, which take place in the late summer and early fall.

CHAPTER THREE

Madam Laskaya’s husband, Titus Singleton III, had been a very wealthy man. Much of his family’s early wealth had come from importing and from raising tobacco. Solid investments in other areas later contributed to the family’s growing finances. When he had been alive, Madam Laskaya and her husband always spent a part of the year in Virginia, where he lovingly raised and rode thoroughbred horses. A suite of rooms at the Waldorf Astoria was always ready at a moment’s notice during New York’s theater season. To Madam Laskaya, however, home would always be Cliff House.

The happiest moments of her life, especially those shared with her husband, were woven into the elegant fabric of the white majestic mansion. The ever-changing sea below the indomitable structure constantly soothed and stimulated her artistic soul, and although its outward character changed with the seasons, Cliff House was the solid foundation of her life, as well as her refuge.

Although bombs were devastating London, the luckiest day of my life was the day I tripped down those basement stairs and fell into your arms, Madam Laskaya often reminded her indulgent husband.

Titus would smile as he’d give her