Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

“Does he crave attention?”

“No, just the opposite.”

“Is he sexually promiscuous?”

“Only virtually, that’s what I’m concerned about. He never gets out. The only thing he knows about women he learns from websites and fantasy role-playing games.”

“Has he joined a gang?”

“No, but he had a violent childhood. You know his history.”

Eduardo said, “Not really. And neither do you.”

“His parents managed to do each other in during a domestic disturbance—that’s Child Protective Services’ euphemism, not mine—and he witnessed it.”

“But he doesn’t remember what happened.”

“And why is that? Because he’s traumatized.”

“Antonia, what are we really talking about?”

Antonia walked over to one of the bistro tables and plunked herself down in the nearest chair. “Christian needs a father figure. You’re a man of the world. You could be a good example for him. Stay here for the fall season and help me teach the fundamentals class.”

“I would be delighted, you know that. But my patients need me. At least they think they do.”

“Can’t they lie on the couch and call you in Atlanta to tell you their dreams?”

Eduardo laughed. “Perhaps you should trust Christian to find his own path. He
is
practically an adult.”

“Are you kidding? He’s not even eighteen. He doesn’t have a frontal lobe yet. He needs to meet real, live women in a structured environment where he can develop some social skills.” Antonia reached down to undo the straps of her Comme Il Fauts, the only dance shoes that gave her enough height to embrace Eduardo at anything close to eye level. She slipped out of them and regressed to five foot four. “I know. I’ll bring him to class.”

“Isn’t that throwing him into the deep end? Tango can stir up powerful emotions.”

“You’re afraid it will mess with his head?”

“I am more concerned about his heart.”

“Don’t worry. I have everything under control.”

Eduardo shook his head and his smile faded.

Velocity

VELOCITY STUDIO HAD ONCE BEEN
a schoolhouse, the kind ruled by teachers who sent girls home for wearing long pants to class. In Antonia’s opinion she’d righted a cosmic wrong when she’d turned the building into a dance studio.

Her Sunday Tango Fundamental series officially started at three thirty but many of her students had arrived early to warm up. Twenty out of thirty-two so far. She’d started with Di Sarli to set the mood. His music presented a clear, steady heartbeat for the beginners but the melodies were still lush and evocative.

Christian slouched against the wall a few feet away, hands thrust into the pockets of his sagging jeans, a lock of curly black hair tumbling over his forehead. He’d worn his favorite Led Zeppelin T-shirt. With his pallor and soulful eyes plenty of girls would find him romantically attractive in a vampire-romance-loving sort of way. Christian caught her looking his way and shot her a twisted smile rolling his eyes in feigned boredom which meant he was having a not-too-terrible time. Just as well since she’d practically press-ganged him into coming to class.

Things were going according to plan. The next move was to get him onto the floor.

“Ant!”

Antonia turned to find Shawna Muir in her usual Shakti yoga tank and pants, auburn hair disciplined into a bun, the expression on her freckled face looking suspiciously beatific. She waved discreetly and Antonia spotted the engagement ring on her friend’s left hand.

“Holy moly,” Antonia said. “He actually did it?”

Shawna kissed her cheek, Argentine style: their usual greeting. “Don’t be rude.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t call.”

“I wanted to but Roland thought it would be fun for me to tell you in person. And he has something to ask.”

Right on cue in strode the man himself, Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, sporting twill pants, an Augusta National Golf Club shirt, and a smile, all of which looked like they’d been pressed at the dry cleaner’s. To Antonia’s dismay Roland made straight for her. “So,
Maestra
, what do you think? Will you do us the honor of being our matron of honor? Not that you’re matronly in any way.”

Oh God. “When is it?”

“We haven’t finalized the date.”

That’s hardly surprising, Antonia thought. Roland never commits to anything. “Shawna’s my best friend, of course I’ll do it. Just don’t throw me the bouquet.”

Roland and Shawna changed into their dance shoes and made their way to the edge of the floor. Shawna draped her arm around his shoulders and settled against his chest. Roland shifted from side to side to get a feel for her weight before taking his first step: the
salida
. He led her around the room, walking slow, slow, quick-quick, slow, punctuating the sprightly beat. When the music turned romantic Roland led a low
voleo
causing Shawna’s free foot to trail the floor in a graceful arc. From the expression on Shawna’s face Antonia could tell Roland was sending her to tango heaven which was a miracle considering what was going on around them.

Tango Fundamentals was one of her favorite classes to teach because it mixed all levels of dancers and helped build community. Advanced dancers came for the opportunity to deepen their technique. Newer dancers came for the opportunity to dance with the experienced ones. Many of her students were beginners so they could be forgiven for not understanding how to navigate well yet. Everyone was supposed to be traveling counterclockwise around the room but there was always the rogue couple. Bobby Glass and his partner struggled to stay on course but only succeeded in looking like a horse costume going two places at once.

When Bobby had originally broached the idea of inviting his colleague, Barbara Wolfe, to class, he’d described her as a paleontology professor might, if the woman in question were forty thousand years old. Five foot five, twenty-eight, wiry build, well-defined clavicles, and a chip on her front tooth. Of course he’d failed to mention her most striking features: her vitality, and a glorious mass of hot-chili hair, which at the moment was threatening to burst free from its barrettes. But he had volunteered Barbara’s entire curriculum vitae, unnecessary but interesting. Originally from Tennessee. Visiting Archaeology lecturer on loan to Emory from the University of Maryland specializing in cranial deformation practices of the Inca Empire, which sounded quite bloodthirsty. Basically he’d told Antonia everything except his reason for bringing her but Antonia already knew
that
.

People were drawn to tango for many reasons, some healthy, some decidedly less so. After working with Bobby, Antonia had concluded that he, like many intellectuals, had come to find his heart. He was unaware of this, naturally, but she had plans for him.

Bobby tried to lead a side step but he’d put Barbara on the wrong foot and she stumbled.

“Hey! Don’t forget the gal you brung, sugar.”

“Sorry, sorry. Lost the beat.” Bobby smoothed a strand of hair over his bald spot and took Barbara back in his arms.

Antonia turned off the music. “Welcome.” It was always the same dynamic in the beginning. The men checked out the women to see if there were any hot prospects while the women counted the men to see if there were enough to go around. “This isn’t the performance tango you might have seen on Broadway or in the movies. We’ll be dancing the social tango that people dance in Argentina. It’s also known as close embrace because you dance ‘on the body’— sternum to sternum.”

She caught Christian eyeing one of the Emory students. “Sure you don’t want to join us?”

He shook his head,
no way Jose
, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he’d participate. It was all about creating a welcoming climate.

“Social tango is basically a walking dance. The old
milongueros
will tell you it takes a lifetime to master.” She watched the usual apprehensive looks flash across the beginners’ faces. “For the next few weeks we’re going to concentrate on fundamentals which will be enough to get you out on the floor. Just a bit of housekeeping—don’t forget to buy your tickets for Trasnochando. It starts August 5, that’s just a week from now. We still have a couple of private lessons available with Eduardo Sanchez for those who missed him on his last visit. And if anyone can offer up a spare bedroom for our out-of-town guests, let me know.”

She queued up Di Sarli’s “Champagne Tango” and invited Roland to join her in the center of the room. They demonstrated a simple tango. Roland’s clear lead and lighthearted musicality made for a pleasant, if superficial, dance. When they finished the class clapped and Antonia was heartened to see Christian join in the applause.

She led the class through a series of basic exercises on posture, the embrace, and walking, and then asked people to find a partner and walk to the music. Restarting “Champagne Tango” she made the rounds, correcting individual technique and basically encouraging everyone to get comfortable. When the song ended she called the class back.

“Tango can be about many things—seduction, longing, nostalgia, intimacy, tenderness— you get the picture. Whatever the music and the moment inspires. This song isn’t one we normally dance to but I happen to think it’s a beautiful piece, especially if you understand the words. It’s called ‘Uno.’ One.”
Uno, oh yeah
, she thought.

“He gave away his heart to a woman who betrayed him and now he can’t love the way he used to. That’s life and death stuff.” She was pleased to see Christian nodding, solemnly. “For this exercise I want you to move with whatever emotion inspires you. No partners. Walk around the room in the line of dance, counterclockwise, everyone, remember? Don’t worry about steps, the idea is to get used to feeling the music and transmitting it through your bodies.”

Antonia started the track, savoring the instrumental opening. When Sosa finally started to sing the yearning in his voice punctured her heart as it never failed to do. The class shuffled around the room, some self-consciously, others with more abandon. One of the Emory students seemed to be channeling Martha Graham, in a good way.

Something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention: a stranger, not that much taller than she was, standing in the doorway. His military bearing, neatly trimmed mustache, and close-cropped sandy hair would have conveyed unyielding strength if it hadn’t been for the fact that his eyes were pale blue and his nose had been broken at least once. He would have been just her type if she were interested in a relationship.

It wasn’t unusual to have people wander in off the streets, curious to see what tango was about, emotions from embarrassment to titillation writ large on their faces. But this man seemed strangely unfazed. And he was wearing a coat and tie so he probably wasn’t a prospective student. Too bad: the women would have loved him. She went over to find out what he wanted.

“Name’s Morrow, ma’am. Atlanta police.”

Oh swell. Another of our city’s finest. She summoned up her best professional voice, “What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for Roland Guest. His assistant said I could find him here.”

What’s the Charming Child been up to? Her initial defensiveness immediately gave way to curiosity.

Roland drifted into range. Antonia caught his eye and tipped her head towards the detective. Roland abandoned the exercise and sauntered over.

“Mr. Guest?” Detective Morrow asked.

“Guilty as charged.” Roland appeared perfectly guilt free, but then again he always did.

The detective politely introduced himself and said, “Miles Rothenberg. Your business partner. When’s the last time you saw him?”

Roland hesitated. “Miles? Why, has he run off with the silver?”

The detective didn’t smile.

Antonia felt her stomach seize up.

Rank Offense

CLOSELY WATCHING ROLAND GUEST’S
body language, Morrow explained how a kayaker, ignoring the danger from e coli and looking to shoot the “Hootch,” had spotted Miles Rothenberg’s corpse spit up by the Chattahoochee River onto its rocky shoals. Not that he’d put it that baldly to a civilian.

“Jesus!” Guest glanced away.

Morrow was holding back the fact that a second 9-1-1 had been placed that same morning. This one from New York City. According to the dispatcher a distraught Lauren Weiss Rothenberg reported her ex-husband had left a drunk-dial message on her answering machine rambling about his business partner Roland Guest engaging in some shameful activity and, apparently, saying goodbye for keeps.

It wasn’t clear, yet, how Miles Rothenberg had met his maker and what role Roland Guest might have played. The antiques dealer had gone in fully clothed from his Hermes tie down to his handmade leather-soled shoes, slick in both senses of the word. His body showed effects from being batted about in the river but no obvious signs of an attack. Suicide, accident, or murder—all options were technically still on the table—but in the end, regardless of who was responsible, it would come down to the same cause of death. Stupidity.

Roland Guest clearly came from money. The country club tan gave him away. Six feet tall, about one ninety, mostly health club muscle. Could easily have taken Rothenberg in a fight.

 “Poor Miles.” Guest lowered his voice, downshifting from shock to sorrow, although neither emotion seemed genuine. “I can’t believe it.”

Interestingly, Guest didn’t ask the usual question—how did it happen? Maybe he already knew. “I’ll need you to come with me, sir. We’ll need a formal ID.”

The dance instructor, who’d been listening with openmouthed dismay, took Guest’s hesitation as an opportunity to butt in. “Are you positive it’s Miles? The police make mistakes all the time.”

No arguments there, Morrow thought, hiding his amusement. In his twenty years as a cop he’d seen more snafus than he had as a career Marine, which was saying something. In this case the corpse’s face had been eaten away but Rothenberg’s wallet had provided the needed calling card. “We’re pretty sure on this one, ma’am.”