Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (25 page)

“Fat chance they’ll do that. Not with you watching.”

“After a few minutes they’ll forget I’m here.”

“But—”

“This isn’t your show, Ms. Blakeley. You sit with me. Explain what people are doing. Watch for anything that looks out of place. I especially want you to look for opportunities where someone might have used a concealed weapon. I’ll take it from there. Any questions?”

“You’ll want the exact song that was playing that night, then.”

“Does it matter?”

She rolled her eyes. “A milonga has a totally different rhythm than a tango and besides that, each song with each orchestra is distinct. We were dancing to Pedro Laurenz’ ‘Milonga de mis Amores.’”

“Do you have a copy?”

She gave him a withering look. “It’s a classic.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“Do you think the murderer will crack?”

Mostly what he wanted to see was how someone could have struck Nathalie on the dance floor. If the reenactment provoked the murderer to confess, all the better.

Blakeley started to pace up and down the length of the deck. “Jiminy, I’m as jumpy as Hamlet before the dumb show. You know, Hamlet has the players do a pantomime that just happens to be exactly like the crime—”

“—‘Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue.’” He recited the famous monologue. When he finished he bowed with a flourish, taking off an imaginary plumed hat. “My mother taught high school drama.”

“I need a drink. Sure you don’t want one? I bet Hamlet had a few before he coached the players.” She started back into the house, paused inside the French doors, and turned to him, her silhouette backlit by the lights inside, her features shrouded by the night.

The doorbell rang.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I just have a case of the jitters.”

He knew she was still worried about her nephew but there was nothing he could do to reassure her. He’d told her the truth—female victims were most likely to have been killed by a husband or boyfriend. The competing statistic, which he hadn’t mentioned, was that most murders were committed by men in their twenties.

The Play’s the Thing

MORROW OPENED THE FRONT DOOR
to find Shawna Muir victorious from the Winn Dixie wars, judging from the plastic grocery bags hanging from her arms. She’d evidently hauled a trunk-load of bottled water up the front steps in one go. She was dressed simply in a black sleeveless top, knee length skirt and flat shoes.

“Let me, ma’am.” He relieved her of her bags and saw that their plastic handles had left white ligature marks around her wrists.

“Thanks. Antonia told me you wanted to see one of our milongas; welcome.” Morrow couldn’t tell if she was feeling unsure whether to treat him professionally or socially, or if her watchful expression hid some deeper anxiety.

“Thanks for having me.” He held the door ajar with his body to let her pass into the house ahead of him.

“Hey, Ant,” she called out as she headed up the stairs, “they were out of Poland Springs so I bought Pellegrino. And I picked up a liter of Coke and some extra limes; I hope that’s enough. Nobody else drinks beer besides Christian, do they?”

Blakeley’s voice carried into the hall accompanied by the sound of a door slamming shut. “I should never have let him have alcohol in my house. Now if I tell Christian not to drink and dance he’ll just get plastered to spite me.”

Morrow followed Muir up to the main floor. She turned left at the landing and passed through the dining room into the kitchen. He found Blakeley rummaging in the cabinet under the sink, nothing but her perfectly toned ass poking out.

“Nuts, I’m out of paper napkins,” she said, oblivious to his presence.

Muir muscled two liters of water into the already-packed fridge. “No you’re not, you put them in the pantry the last time, remember? I’ll do the music while you look.”

Blakeley came up for air. “Find ‘Milonga de mis Amores’ for me, will you?”

The doorbell rang again. Since his hostesses were occupied Morrow went to answer it. A woman in a pink halter-top, breasts proudly cantilevered out over her ribcage, kissed him on both cheeks, greeted him in a magnolia-laced accent, and swept past. A trio of dark-haired women followed.
Hola, hola, hola.
Each kissed him matter-of-factly on the cheek as they entered the house. It was a pleasant and disorienting change from the way he was normally greeted on the job, where the civilians he met on duty were more apt to take a swing at him.

Looking out at the street he saw other guests converging on the house so he figured he might as well continue to man the door. He recognized Sanchez and nodded a greeting as the Argentine mounted the steps to the front door.

Sanchez thankfully didn’t try to kiss him. “Good evening, Detective Morrow. Do you have any news of Nathalie?”

“Nothing yet, I’m afraid.”

“You must think it strange that we should meet like this so soon,” Sanchez said. “But for us tango is a way of cheating death.”

“I think I understand,” Morrow answered, noting the dark circles under the Argentine’s eyes.

The music came on, the orchestra managing to sound both melancholy and cheerful, and Morrow was instantly transported back to El Abrazo.

The noise level rose as more people streamed in, some casually dressed, some more gussied up, many bearing offerings of brownies, fruit, or wine, and nearly all of them carrying cloth shoe bags. Most kissed and hugged each other, including the men, as he’d seen people do at El Abrazo. With the ruckus in the hall Morrow could barely hear the music but he could sense when each dancer heard or felt it because their bodies answered the beats with unconscious movements and pulses of their own in a collective tempo.

Christian Cookerly slipped through the door and offered up a sullen nod. Barbara Wolfe and Bobby Glass followed, the former holding a Tupperware container and the latter carrying a six-pack of tonic water. The professor seemed genuinely pleased to see him. “Ah, Detective Morrow, you’re here, are you? Come to see us in our natural setting?”

“What
are
you doing here?” Wolfe covered her mouth with her fingers and quickly removed her hand to reveal a wary smile. She wore the same orange-red shade of lipstick they had found on the wine glasses at the crime scene. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

“Your hostess offered me a bet to learn tango.”

“That’s right, fifty bucks, if he’s got the nerve.” Blakeley had snuck up behind him. “Use the cooler out on the deck, Bobby, the fridge is packed.” As soon as the couple drifted out of earshot she added in a low voice, “This isn’t going to work.”

“Yes it will. Settle down.”

She looked out at the street. “Any sign of Christian?”

“He got here a few minutes ago.”

“I knew it. He’s avoiding me. But at least he came.” Blakeley fiddled with her ponytail and smoothed her dress, neither of which needed fixing. He recognized the signs of nervousness, the prebattle checking and rechecking of equipment.
Treat every weapon as if it were loaded.

Guest arrived carrying a bottle of red wine and kissed Blakeley on each cheek. “Madame looks ravishing tonight, as always.” He ceremonially presented her with the bottle. “Silver Oak cab—let it breathe for at least a half an hour before you drink it.”

“That’s very generous, Roland,” she said. “That deserves a real glass. Let’s see if I can find the decanter.”

Guest shook hands with Morrow as Sanchez had done. His palm felt slightly damp. “It was good of you to come personally.”

 Does he think I’m his protection?
Morrow wondered. He wouldn’t put it past Blakeley to have promised something along those lines. Didn’t matter. She’d delivered.

With all the main players present and accounted for, Morrow judged it time to join the party. Blakeley’s eyes met his. “Just prop the door, Detective Morrow. I’ll be right with you.”

He found his way back to the living room, took his place on the ledge with his back to the fireplace and surveyed the scene.

The area was properly set up and sequenced. The song that had played the night of the murder was loaded into the CD player, ready for his cue. As expected, the dancers had adjusted to his presence. About fifteen couples were tangoing, if that was the right term. He hoped he wasn’t wasting his time watching a bunch of tango enthusiasts dancing “one body, four legs.” The only thing missing was his amped-up hostess who was supposed to be at his side providing color commentary. She’d deserted her post.

The music abruptly stopped.

Ting-ting, ting-ting. Ting-ting-ting-ting.

The room fell quiet. The dancers stopped and backed away to reveal Blakeley standing at the entrance to the kitchen holding a fork in one hand and a water goblet in the other. She stepped to the center of the room.

“Thank you all for coming,” she said, studiously avoiding his eyes. “Most of you know one of our dancers, Nathalie LeFebre, was tragically killed the other night. I want to introduce Detective Morrow who is working on Nathalie’s case.” She pointed her fork at him and everyone turned his way. “I invited him tonight so he could get a better feeling for what happened the night she, uh, died. I know all of us would like to help in any way we can. So I’ll turn it over to Detective …” At this point she looked straight at him and he saw a flash of impertinence in her expression. “… Morrow, who will ask for your help in reenacting some of the critical moments of that night.”

Goddamn. Blakeley was hijacking the show.

Embellishment

A follower’s improvised flourishes

DETECTIVE S-FOR-SECRETIVE MORROW
will just have to understand, Antonia thought. Nobody will dance naturally until they think he got what he came for.

She turned the floor over to Detective Morrow and went to stand with Shawna. The night air from the open French doors felt cool against her back. She hadn’t danced yet and she was already sweating.

Morrow seemed at ease in his compact body, hands clasped behind his back, holding himself neither too stiffly nor too loosely. He addressed the group with the authority of a man accustomed to commanding crowds. “I want to thank Ms. Blakeley …” he made eye contact, lingering a little longer than was necessary, and she felt her face tingle in response, “… who kindly offered me this opportunity to see you in an unofficial setting.”

Shawna hissed in her ear, “Did you two plan this?”

“Not exactly,” she muttered back.

The dancers, in various states of apprehension, waited. Even though she knew what Morrow was going to do the anticipation was still torture. Christian might not be Morrow’s top suspect but he was still on the list.

“As you know, someone stabbed Nathalie LeFebre at Shawna Muir’s Halloween party.”

The dancers stirred with prurient excitement at the matter-of-fact opening. It was all well and good for them. It wasn’t their loved one under suspicion. She glanced at Christian to see how he was reacting and found him picking at the molding of the other set of French doors, probably wishing he were home in front of the computer. A good sign.

 “I want to establish the circumstances leading up to her death. If those of you who were at the party that night would help me reconstruct your movements on the dance floor it will eliminate some of the loose ends in this case.”

Barbara frowned at Morrow. “What exactly are you trying to establish? Nathalie died in the bedroom.”

Eduardo had folded his arms over his chest and it was hard to tell if his pose was a sign of defensiveness or just his proud Argentine way. “Is this a normal procedure in America?”

“Only in Hollywood,” Morrow replied cheerfully which prompted a nervous laugh from the crowd. “People have been very helpful explaining what they were doing but I have to admit I couldn’t visualize it. I don’t know anything about tango but I can see it’s a sophisticated and beautiful dance.”

It was a smart thing to say whether he believed it or not. The dancers, being preconditioned to expect admiration for their favorite passion, seemed to collectively exhale.

 “If those of you who weren’t at the party would excuse us,” Morrow continued, “We need the floor for a few minutes. You’re free to use the rest of the house.”

“There’s food in the dining room,” Antonia said. It took a few minutes for the dancers to collect their drinks and file out, some onto the deck to angle for a good view of the proceedings, others to the dining room to freshen up their drinks. The room finally cleared leaving Morrow, Roland, Shawna, Bobby, Barbara, Eduardo, Christian, and herself.

Morrow said, “Let’s see if we can reconstruct where you all were beginning from just before the collision on the dance floor, up to the point when Nathalie was taken to Shawna’s room. Ms. Blakeley, will you stand in for Nathalie please?” Morrow looked her up and down, inspecting her. “No, on second thought, you’re too short. Can you call for a volunteer who stands five foot seven and dances about as well as Nathalie did?”

“Nathalie used to wear three inch heels,” she corrected him. “You’re going to need someone taller than that.”

Roland had edged so far from the center of the room he was practically standing in the kitchen. “Is this necessary? I’m sure we all want to help but this does bring back unhappy memories for people.”

Shawna said, “Don’t you want to see your fiancée’s murderer caught?” Antonia was pleased to hear the sting in Shawna’s voice; maybe she was truly done with the Charming Child.

Morrow reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a notepad, and consulted it. “I’d like to establish who the intended victim was and I can’t do that without your standing up for yourself.”

Pun intended. Antonia stepped out onto the deck and found the visiting instructor from Augusta. Her dance was nothing like Nathalie’s but in her heels she’d be almost the same height and that was more important.