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Dancing With Murder
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.