Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (11 page)

The older man cradled Antonia in his arms. As he pivoted Antonia danced around him, stepping side, back, side, forward. Ya-YUM-pum-pum. A
molinete
.

As Antonia’s partner led her to the cross she traced one sweet and ethereal grace note with her toe. They seemed unaware of anyone but each other.

What would it be like to feel such a totally intimate connection, of giving oneself up entirely to the music and one’s partner? Not thinking, but feeling? Dancing “in the body,” as Antonia would say. She had once told him she could sense him counting the music in his head, and it was true. She’d advised him to practice without his glasses so he could focus on the music and feel what was happening with his partner. She assured him, if he dedicated himself, he would someday experience the dance the way he was meant to.

Meanwhile he had to be content to dance vicariously. He continued to observe the older man. One-two-three, one-two-three. One. One. One. Pause. Pause. Pause. What would it be like to dance like that and not have to concentrate on navigation, or leading, or stepping on the beat, or not stepping on his partner? Bobby sighed. Barbara stirred next to him.

The vals ended a few moments later and the unseen DJ put on an Elvis song for the cortina: “You Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog.” Antonia’s partner escorted her to her seat.

Barbara suddenly sat bolt upright.

Roland and Nathalie LeFebre had just claimed the “reserved” table a few feet away. Roland wore a suit. Nathalie matched him for elegance in a short silver, cobwebby frock. Bobby was beginning to feel outclassed by all the glamour.

Sanctuary had nearly reached capacity. A new tanda began. Primeval, pulsing, survival-of-the-fittest music.

“Pugliese,” Barbara hissed, straining forward in her chair.

Roland led Nathalie to the floor. It was the first time Bobby had seen them together outside of class. He watched Roland take Nathalie in his arms and start the dance unconventionally, with a voleo. Nathalie twisted in his arms, the torque of her body causing her to swing her foot in a semi-circle behind her. It was a dramatic and dangerous move on a crowded floor. The follower would be almost certain to kick someone. Fortunately, Roland had made sure no one was behind Nathalie. The music called for abrupt changes of direction and the couple executed their steps with insolent precision. Nothing like the sweet, intimate dance he’d just seen from Antonia and her partner. This was a raw power struggle.

The song ended and the second song in the tanda began, the violins acting like a defibrillator on his heart. Barbara nudged him, indicating she wanted to dance. Pugliese was way over his head but he didn’t want to miss his opportunity. He offered his hand to Barbara and led her to the floor.

The first part of the song passed successfully. He could hear the beat pushing him. Dah
-dah
daaaaah ... No, he’d lost it again. The violins smashed and crashed. No major collisions yet but as he circled the floor he knew the palm tree called to him as surely as the Sirens lured ancient sailing vessels to the treacherous rocks. He eyed the support post warily, determined to navigate safely around it. Christian was just ahead of him in the line of dance, leading a woman he didn’t recognize.

They arrived at a congested area on the floor and Bobby watched the couples ahead of him pile up in the queue, waiting for the people ahead of them to continue along the line of dance. Fortunately the song had reached a tender section and the piano had taken over so decelerating didn’t seem out of place. In his peripheral vision he saw Roland draw up beside him with Nathalie in his arms, evidently intending to overtake. Passing was considered rude but Bobby knew he was, metaphorically, driving with his blinkers on.

 “You are the lodestar I steer by, dear Nathalie,” Bobby overheard Roland intone in a mock serious voice as he deftly led Nathalie around the pileup. “How’s that for romance?”

Bobby felt Barbara turn to stone in his arms. Even more disconcertingly, Christian, immediately ahead of him, stopped dead. Bobby shifted his weight from side to side, waiting for Christian to move. Barbara squirmed. Was he holding her too tight? Barbara turned her head and Bobby got the sense she’d opened her eyes to see where they were going. She never trusted him to steer clear of obstacles.

Christian finally led his partner to the center of the dance floor, the median strip of the tango highway. All clear. Bobby pressed forward and fell in directly behind Roland and Nathalie.

The violins were back, slow and clear. Good. He could risk something besides a simple walk. A backward ocho. He changed from parallel to cross feet and led Barbara into the step. She was supposed to reach back and to her left with her right foot to trace the beginnings of a figure eight on the ground. But the music suddenly turned insistent again and Barbara, misinterpreting his lead as a voleo, promptly snapped her foot in the air and Nathalie emitted a shrill cry.

Bobby peered over Barbara’s shoulder to see Nathalie inspecting the back of her right leg. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “Nathalie, entirely my fault. Are you hurt?” He didn’t know what he’d done, exactly. He thought he’d left plenty of space but any mishaps were, by definition, the leader’s fault.

“Look at this.” Nathalie pointed to her calf but Bobby couldn’t see anything wrong with it. “You just spiked my leg.”

Barbara twisted in his arms and, seeing Nathalie, said, “Oh, did I, I didn’t realize you were there,” in an unnaturally high voice.

“Well, you shouldn’t wear Comme Il Faut shoes if you don’t know how to dance in them.”

“I’m so-oo-oo sorry.” Barbara turned back and Bobby saw the corners of her mouth twitch. “Let’s sit the rest of this out.” She started for their table.

Bobby felt torn between escorting Barbara off the floor, as convention demanded, or staying to attend to the injured party. Roland was on the scene so Bobby decided Nathalie didn’t require further assistance so he followed Barbara back to their table. As he held out her chair he surveyed the room to see if anyone had noticed the collision. Apparently no one had. He watched Roland deposit Nathalie at their table and head back to where he and Barbara were seated. Bobby prepared to apologize.

“Darlin’, don’t you know better than to do a high voleo on a crowded floor?” Roland admonished Barbara as soon as he got within earshot.

Barbara gazed at Roland with what Bobby privately thought of as her “little rascal” look. “Roland, honestly, I didn’t know she was so close. My eyes were closed the entire time. I thought you were farther away or I would never have taken such a long step. You know you taught me to always be aware of who is nearby.”

It was the first Bobby had heard Barbara was practicing with Roland. He didn’t like the idea at all.

When Nathalie arrived at the table, carrying her purse, he tried a second time to apologize but Barbara interrupted him. “Oh, Nathalie, I’ll pay for the pantyhose.”

“They’re Fogals, from Brussels, and I doubt you could afford them. Roland, I’ll be in the lobby when you’re ready.” Nathalie flipped her hair back, pivoted with as much grace as she could muster, and limped off.

Roland looked at his watch. “I’m going to find Nathalie a taxi,” he addressed Barbara in a stern voice, “and when I return I’m going to show you how to do a proper voleo.” He strode away.

Bobby turned back to Barbara and was astonished to see her shoulders heaving with stifled mirth. Had she engineered the whole accident? He knew women could be manipulative but somehow he’d not expected it of her. “What exactly are you up to?”

Barbara clamped her palm over her mouth. Tears of merriment filled her eyes.

***

Bobby calculated his progress. He’d managed to get dances with Antonia, Barbara, two other women from class, and one visiting gal from Macon. Five acceptances. Of the two rejections—Barbara not wanting to dance earlier counted as a postponement—one had previously engaged to dance with someone else and the other turned out to prefer open style, so that was no great loss. All in all an acceptable success rate. He’d sat out the Piazzola and alternative sets as the music was too advanced. He’d hoped to dance the traditional last song, “La Cumparsita”, with Barbara, but Roland preempted him, so he decided to step outside.

It had rained. The air smelt fresh rather than crisp. October could be a tricky month for weather in Atlanta. That night, it felt closer to sixty. Pleasant.

Eventually the dancers began to trickle out. Antonia tried to persuade him to join her and Christian at the diner for scrambled eggs but the hour was late and he had a twenty-minute drive to Druid Hills which would put him home at one thirty. While his first class wasn’t until the afternoon he had papers to grade. He watched Antonia drive off in her battered Audi and went to find his car.

His Volvo was stationed at the end of the row closest to the exit. He had a little trouble locating it because he’d not paid attention to where he’d parked, and the streetlamp had burned out, leaving his section of the lot in darkness. He remembered Barbara had come to Sanctuary alone. It wasn’t safe for her to be in a dark parking lot, unescorted. He walked back and finally sighted her Toyota a few feet from the entrance. He recognized it from the “Archaeology: no, we don’t dig up dinosaurs” and “What happens in the field, stays in the field” bumper stickers. He couldn’t read them in that light but he had seen them often enough. She must still be inside the nightclub. He tramped back to his car.

Barbara finally emerged from the club with Roland, teetering on her high heels, her purse swinging back and forth on its chain from her narrow shoulder. Roland placed his hand on the small of her back to steady her.

She’d drunk quite a bit of champagne. Perhaps he ought to stay around to make sure she was sober enough to drive and, he had to be intellectually honest, to make sure Roland didn’t try to take advantage of her. Lotharios made passes at attractive young women. Roland was a Lothario; ergo, Roland might make a pass at Barbara.

Bobby knew he had no official standing. He wasn’t a father or a brother or a—he considered whether to go up to them, to casually let Roland know Barbara was not without … without … connections? Protectors?

Before Bobby could advertise his presence Roland drew Barbara into his arms and placed his lips on hers in a lecherous kiss. She didn’t pull away. On the contrary.

Bobby watched, transfixed, as Roland’s hand traveled down Barbara’s spine, passing over her posterior. Roland’s fingers caressed the back of her thigh and then reversed direction, creeping under her dress. Barbara squirmed.

Bobby looked down and found his hands had clenched into fists.

Discovery

NATHALIE FUMED.
Roland had a lot of nerve putting her into a taxi instead of escorting her home to his place.

She knew exactly why he stayed at Sanctuary. He wanted to get even with her for not sleeping with him earlier. Well, if he expected to touch her tonight he’d better have a damn good apology. Struggling a little with the lock, she let herself into Roland’s house.

She tossed the key and her evening clutch onto the hall table. She unbuckled her dance shoes, kicked them off, stripped off her stockings, balled them up, and pitched them into the corner. She unhooked her garter belt and cast it off, not caring where it landed. She inspected the back of her leg for the second time. The hallway was dimly lit with torchieres but even in the half-light she could see the gouge in her calf.

The bitch, Barbara Wolfe, had done it deliberately.

Nathalie hobbled into the kitchen where after a short, frustrated search for an ice pack, she eventually made do by filling a plastic bag with ice cubes. She then retired to the library couch to elevate her leg and plan what to say when Roland came crawling back.

He’d make excuses. She’d force him to apologize. He’d beg to make it up to her. She’d extract her concessions and, eventually, allow herself to give in to his caresses. It was just another dance. It would be worth it. Roland was her ticket. And not a moment too soon. Everyone knew it was downhill after thirty-five and she didn’t have the nerve to go under the knife.

Everything about the library confirmed Roland’s social and financial status. The antiques had been carefully chosen. The Victorian reverse breakfront bookcase in burl walnut and the nineteenth-century hunting prints were in pristine condition. The green and burgundy color palette was a little masculine, but she’d see to that, after. The only false note in the room was the Regency mahogany and ebony drum table. The escutcheons were wrong. Definitely reproduction.

She imagined the different ways the making up might play out until the ice in her pack had almost completely melted and the sequins from her gown began to prick her skin.

If she was going to seduce Roland she’d better shower. She went to the master bathroom, stepped out of her dress and turned on the taps, adjusting the settings to spray both from above and from the sides. When the spa had completely steamed up she wrapped a towel around her hair and slipped in. She let the hot water massage the soreness from her body, all the time keeping her ears tuned to the front door. She didn’t want Roland to walk in on her before she was ready.

After toweling off she smoothed lotion on her skin and brushed her hair. Restored and ready for battle, she wrapped herself in her dressing gown and resumed her position on the couch.

She didn’t like the changes she’d seen in Roland since he’d asked her to move to Atlanta. He seemed less eager. She’d tried to make him jealous once by reading him one of Christian’s pathetic attempts at poetry – not telling Roland who’d written it, naturally:

Locked inside,
My passions are declared to no one
You hold the key to my heart
If only you knew how I see you.
Remote and beautiful,
You are the lodestar I steer by
But I am a fearful navigator
If I follow
Where will you take me?
Be there dragons?