Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (20 page)

They tackled the library last. Morrow started by inspecting the pocket doors from the library to Shawna Muir’s bedroom. More fingerprints and what appeared to be the imprint of someone’s cheek and part of a lip. Only one guest had admitted to being there, he remembered. Cookerly.

Shawna Muir’s literary tastes ran the gamut. Jorge Luis Borges’ fictional essays, tango coffee table books in English and Spanish, a paperback copy of
Imagining Argentina
, Lonely Planet Argentina, Insight City Guides to just about everywhere, home improvement books, philosophy, Japanese art, a battered English-Japanese dictionary, more Dorothy Sayers, more poetry.

Jackson, standing next to the piano, poked at the keys with one latexed finger. He yawned and idly lifted the lid of the piano bench. “Sir! Look! I won’t touch it.”

Morrow went to see what his partner had found and was rewarded with the sight of an antique silver dagger with an elaborately carved hilt and a gleaming, tapered blade.

“You have a real talent for finding things, Jackson. And our Ms. Blakeley has some explaining to do.”

Traspie

To stumble or trip.

In tango, to step on the same foot twice

ANTONIA HUNCHED UNDER
the bedcovers, listening for the morning noises that would reassure her she still lived in a normal world. A leaf blower droned a few houses away and a few seconds later she heard the neighbor’s infant launch into his prefeeding siren.

She emerged groundhog-like from beneath the sheets. The doors to her grandmother’s Victorian chest stood ajar, pantyhose overflowing in a jumbled cancan from one of the shallow drawers: black opaques, black fishnets, black sheers. One red leg seemed to be trying to make a getaway.

When she saw the clothing she’d borrowed from Shawna heaped on the floor the events of the previous night returned with stomach-churning clarity. Nathalie LeFebre was dead. Thank God Christian had an alibi. But until they found her killer the whole tango community would suffer.

Detective Morrow was due at ten. All she had to do was tell it like it was. She sat up and dangled her legs over the side of the bed, kicking to free them from her pajama bottoms which had crept up on her in the night and tried to constrict her—not unlike their original owner, she thought, pleased with her little joke.

She didn’t know what people normally wore when interviewed about a murder so she decided in favor of comfort and climbed into her usual leotards and army surplus pants. She went downstairs to the kitchen, ground some French Roast and brewed a pot of coffee. The aroma soon filled the house.

Detective Morrow arrived on her doorstep promptly at ten. He’d shaved and changed into a fresh shirt, jacket, and tie. No dark circles or tired lines in his chipper freckled face despite the fact he’d probably pulled an all-nighter. She, on the other hand, felt like the subject of a sleep deprivation experiment.

“Good morning, Ms. Blakeley.”

“Want some coffee?”

“Thanks.” He followed her to the kitchen and stood next to her at the sink gazing out the window at her backyard. She hadn’t raked, on the theory that if she left the leaves alone she wouldn’t have to mow again until spring. “How’s Ms. Muir?”

“Still asleep.” She passed him a mug of coffee. “Milk or sugar?”

“Got any nondairy creamer?”

“Yuck. You’ll have to make do with real milk.” She offered up the carton of nonfat from the fridge and as he poured some into his coffee she saw she’d given him the Taylor and Ng mug with the rabbits going at it. How embarrassing. Hopefully if he noticed he’d think it was funny. He looked like he might actually have a sense of humor, off duty. “So, Detective S. Morrow,” she said, “what does the S stand for?”

“Secretive.”

“I see.” He was going to pull some sort of a police power play, apparently.

Sure enough, Detective S for Secretive Morrow led her into her own living room and invited her to sit down, as if it were his place. She took her favorite spot on the couch and put her feet on the coffee table to show him who was boss. He put down his coffee, took his miniature digital recorder out of his jacket pocket, set it upright on the coffee table, and switched it on. Then he made himself comfortable in the adjoining armchair which put him about a head higher than her, so she took her feet off the table and sat up straight, putting their eyes back on the same level. Détente.

He pulled out his notebook and flipped through it to find a fresh page. “We’re trying to clear up one or two points, Ms. Blakeley. Barbara Wolfe apparently hit Roland Guest earlier in the evening. Did you happen to see the incident?”

“Did I ever.” She told Detective Morrow how Nathalie had flashed her engagement ring at Barbara, how Barbara had then turned on Roland, doused him with wine and pitched her empty glass at him like a gunslinger out of bullets, and how, running out of things to hurl, she’d finally come at him with her bare hands, thankfully forgetting she was carrying Shawna’s dagger on her until it dropped out of her garter. Antonia finished with Roland cringing in his matador’s costume, a priceless moment she would treasure forever.

Detective Morrow looked up from his notes. His mouth twitched and she could swear he was working to keep a straight face. “So she actually drew blood?”

“Not nearly enough if you ask me.”

He flipped back through his notes. “We found a dagger. Ornate hilt. Collector’s piece.”

“That’s the one. Where was it?”

“Last night when I said we’d found a weapon—a steak knife—you seemed surprised. Why?”

“I did?”

“Were you expecting something else?”

It really didn’t matter anymore but if it didn’t matter, why was he asking? And why wouldn’t he tell her where they’d found it? She’d totally forgotten she was being taped.

“All right, yes,” she said finally. “When I realized Nathalie had been stabbed I remembered the knife and …” Christian had been the last person to handle the dagger but she couldn’t say that to Detective Morrow.

“And what?”

“I thought someone at the party might have used it on her.” She told the truth, as far as it went. The question was, which someone? Shawna should have been the most likely person since she’d been alone in the bedroom with Nathalie, but something about that explanation just felt wrong.

Detective Morrow nodded. “I understand Bobby and Shawna collided on the dance floor with Roland and Nathalie. Did you see it happen?”

“No, but I can easily imagine
how
.”

“Oh?”

“With Bobby as part of the equation the most likely explanation is that the dancers had a genuine accident. Otherwise,” she ticked her answers off with her fingers, “somebody might have stumbled into them, a drunken bystander, Barbara, maybe. Shawna might have lost her balance, although that’s unlikely, she’s a strong dancer. Or Roland could have bumped into Bobby deliberately. It’s not unheard of to be run off the dance floor in Argentina. It happens to people who don’t follow the rules of navigation. Or Eduardo could have shoved Roland just for the hell of it. God knows he had reason to.” She’d used up all the fingers of one hand, not bad.

 “And then Roland, Shawna and Bobby helped bring Nathalie to Shawna’s bedroom.”

“I told you that before.”

“And Roland came into the kitchen for ice and never reentered the bedroom.”

“That’s right.”

“So Roland didn’t touch Nathalie after that point.”

“That’s right.” Why was he so concerned about when Roland had touched Nathalie? He couldn’t have killed her unless he and Shawna were in it together and that was hardly likely.

Detective Morrow put down his notebook and reached for his mug. It would be too hilarious if he noticed the bunnies.

“Good coffee,” he said. “Maybe I should switch to real milk.”

“Made from real cows.”

“Grew up in Maryland. Mostly farmland at the time. When I was sixteen I went cow tipping with my buddies. We found this one heifer asleep on her feet but when we tried to push her over she woke up.”

Antonia smiled, knowing what was coming. “What happened?”

He pointed to his left leg. “Took out a chunk of my shin.”

Antonia shifted back on the couch and tucked her feet under her. “I know how that feels. I’ve been kicked like that, dancing.”

He settled back into the armchair, holding one ankle crossed over his knee. “Never learned.”

“You should.”

“I’m a cow-ard.”

“That was terrible.” She stretched her legs back out on the coffee table.

He took a fresh sip of coffee and sucked a nonexistent drop from his carefully trimmed mustache. “Tell me, why would Roland Guest say he’d gone back into the bedroom if he hadn’t?”

She shrugged. “He feels guilty he didn’t help his own fiancée when she was bleeding to death. Or maybe he thought it was what you wanted to hear. That would be just like him.” She settled back into the cushions. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Someone took advantage of Nathalie being alone in the bedroom to do her in, right? And she was alone in the bedroom because she didn’t feel well. And she didn’t feel well because she’d bumped her head on Roland’s after running into Bobby and Shawna. So the collision is important, right? Either the killer caused it, and the murder was premeditated, or he took advantage of the moment to get Nathalie alone and the murder was unpremeditated. Right?”

“That’s a rhetorical question.”

She scrambled up in her seat. “I’m right?”

“You’re doing fine without my help.”

“I saw your people take Roland’s jacket.”

“We took everyone’s costumes.”

She leaned forward in her excitement. “But you also asked whether Roland touched Nathalie. Was Nathalie’s blood on his jacket and you’re trying to figure out how it got there?”

He didn’t deny it so she felt emboldened to continue. “The only way that could happen was if Nathalie was already bleeding
before
she was taken to the bedroom. That means she was stabbed in the dining room.”

She stopped, horrified. If that was true Christian no longer had an alibi. Detective Morrow had gotten under her guard with his stupid cow story when all along he’d been hoping to trick her into saying something incriminating. Which she had.

“How well do you know Christian Cookerly?” he asked.

“He’s my nephew,” she answered, feeling Damocles’ sword about to descend. “I’m his legal guardian. His parents died a few years ago.” And if Detective Morrow finds out how, she thought, he’ll think Christian did this.

“Professor Glass says you were on the floor with Christian at the beginning of the dance. But you say you didn’t see the pileup. Why not?”

Because she’d already gone to the kitchen.

She didn’t know what to say and what not to say now. They’d stopped dancing in the middle of the song. She had no idea what he had done after that. No idea at all. Why hadn’t she compared notes with Christian when she’d had the chance? “I always close my eyes when I dance. Most women do when you dance ‘on the body.’”

“What in the world does that mean?”

 “That’s what they say in Argentina about close embrace style. It means you dance heart to heart. Actually, it’s more like sternum-to-sternum where the lead comes from the body instead of having an open frame where you lead more with the arms. Women generally close their eyes to get the feeling of the music and their partners.”

“In that case what did you hear?”

“Just the music.” She had to divert him before he figured out exactly when she’d left the room. “Have you considered the possibility that Nathalie could have caused the collision herself? Maybe she fainted.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Maybe she hadn’t eaten all day.”

Detective Morrow didn’t say anything.

“Maybe she had iron poor blood.”

No response.

“Maybe she was pregnant.”

He just slurped coffee out of her bunny mug while she ran out of ideas. “What were you doing at the exact moment of the collision?”

Should she tell him the truth? Or stall for time until she could talk to Christian? Detective Morrow might not be as bad as the others but he was still a policeman.

“I told you,” she lied. “Dancing with Christian.”

Arrepentida

A repented action.

In tango, a check-step to get out of a tight space

ANTONIA WATCHED MORROW
turn off his recorder, satisfied he’d bought the lie. Now all she had to do was square her story with Christian before he talked.

From the floor above she could hear footfalls and the sound of creaking wood.

“Your sleeping pill gave me a hangover.” Shawna shuffled into the living room. Her face was puffy from crying. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were here, Detective Morrow. I’m interrupting.”

Antonia rose to her feet and stretched. “Detective Morrow has been interrogating me.”

“I prefer to call it chatting,” he said, also getting up.

“You’ll want to interview Shawna. I’ll just leave you two alone.”

“I’m not done with you yet,” he said cheerfully and she couldn’t tell from his expression if he was telling the truth or if he just wanted to let her know he was in charge. “Ms. Muir, why don’t you join us?”

“Of course. Let me just get something to drink. Does anyone else need anything?”

Nobody did. Detective Morrow went back to his armchair. Shawna returned from the kitchen with a glass of water and took a seat on the built-in couch. Antonia plunked down next to her.

The detective reopened his notebook and did his little speak-into-my-lapel name, date, and time thing with the recorder.

“Just a few questions about the relationships, Ms. Muir. You said you broke it off with Roland Guest. Then he became engaged to Nathalie. I understand Nathalie and Eduardo Sanchez were also at one point—” Detective Morrow looked at his mug, saw the mating bunnies, and cleared his throat—“involved.”