Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

“What happened? What was Miles doing at the Chattahoochee? He’s a strictly urban guy.”

Seems to know him pretty well, Morrow thought. She could be useful. He reached into his jacket pocket for his notebook. “Ma’am, would you mind giving me your full name and phone number?”

The woman sized him up like a wrestler weighing her options to pin him to the mat, which was pretty funny—she couldn’t have topped a hundred and ten soaking wet. Midthirties. A rakish white streak ran through her otherwise brown, nearly waist-long hair, which was pulled back in a severe ponytail as if to downplay her femininity. It wasn’t working. An almost invisible scar on her left cheekbone underscored the determination in her face. He’d seen that type of injury before with battered women. “It’s Antonia Blakeley. Ms.” She rattled off her phone number. “And would you mind giving me your name and contact information, too?”

It never paid to get into a pissing match with a member of the public. He brought out one of his business cards.

She inspected it. “Detective S. Morrow.” That seemed to satisfy her because her expression softened. She looked up at Guest and said, “Roland, I’m sorry. Miles was a good man.”

“One of the best.” Guest pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “Excuse the heat. We’re in the middle of a tango lesson.”

Could’ve fooled me, Morrow thought. One woman in an Indian shirt was spinning and waving her arms like some underwater Hindu goddess, eyeing Guest and pretending not to. “When did you see him last, sir?”

“I spoke with him on the phone Tuesday night. Miles was supposed to help me manage the store on Friday but he never made it.”

The dance instructor turned on Guest. “And you didn’t call or go look for him?”

Witnesses were often more frank talking to each other. And Ms. Blakeley was asking good questions. Morrow decided to let her run.

“Now Antonia,” Guest said in a patronizing tone. “Just because a guy fails to show for work doesn’t mean it’s a police matter.”

Blakeley didn’t give an inch. Atta girl. She planted her hands on her hips and shot back, “Maybe not, but you and I both know that wasn’t like him.”

Guest said, “I never thought Miles was the type to kill himself.”

“He wasn’t,” Blakeley countered flatly.

Morrow said, “Any reason to believe your business partner was thinking of suicide, sir?”

Guest shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. Miles was a very private person.”

Blakeley asked, “Did he leave a note?”

The dead man hadn’t left one at his home, which made suicide less likely, but there was no value in sharing that news. “It’s early days, ma’am.”

Guest hadn’t shown any unusual signs of nervousness over cause of death so Morrow switched topics, watching for any betraying signs of self-grooming. “Did he have any financial troubles?”

The antiques dealer brushed a nonexistent bead of sweat from his upper lip. “The business is running well in the black. I can’t speak for his personal finances.” Guest refolded his handkerchief and slipped it back into his pocket. “As I’m his business partner I imagine it will fall to me to make the necessary … ah … arrangements. And you’ll want my help with his personal effects.”

Morrow pretended to consult his notes but he was really just letting Guest dangle, hoping he’d volunteer something else, but Guest kept his cool. “I understand there’s an ex-wife. Lauren Weiss Rothenberg. Cell phone record shows he called her.” Technically true; Guest couldn’t know they didn’t talk.

“Oh. Of course.” Guest gazed longingly at the exit. “I know this sounds callous but Miles would understand. I’m supposed to leave for BA—Buenos Aires. I have pressing business there.”

What’s this big dog got to do in Argentina that’s so important, Morrow thought. “Afraid you’ll have to wait.”

“How long?”

“Just a few days for the autopsy.”

“You can’t cut him up,” Ms. Blakeley interrupted. “Miles was Jewish. It’s a violation or a humiliation, I forget which.”

 “Sorry, ma’am,” Morrow said, neatly cutting her off, but his next comment, the one he’d been waiting to make all along, was really directed at Guest. “We have to eliminate the possibility of homicide. Rest assured, there will be a full investigation.”

Guest blanched.

Morrow smiled to himself.
Ooh-rah
.

Grave Matters

AS MORROW EXPECTED
the preliminary report showed Miles Rothenberg had drowned. The stretch of water where he’d gone in had been too shallow for anyone to reliably kill themselves or anyone else, and there had been reports of flash flooding that night. The tox exam would establish whether drugs or alcohol had helped him along, but unless it revealed evidence of poisoning the death would be ruled an accident.

That just left the unexplained call Rothenberg made to his ex-wife. Guest was clearly up to something. Hopefully the dead man’s last words would give them reason to continue investigating.

Morrow had arranged to meet Jackson, the new partner he was breaking in, half an hour before Rothenberg’s funeral. The plan was to observe how Guest handled himself at the service, assuming he hadn’t already left for Argentina. Then Morrow would interview Lauren Weiss Rothenberg and take custody of the answering machine tape, as arranged, and Jackson would follow Guest. It wasn’t clear where that might lead but it was good practice for the recently promoted detective, and if Guest spotted an eager young greenhorn trailing him, that could have its good points, too.
Improvise, adapt, and overcome.

Oakland Cemetery represented a Who’s Who of Atlanta’s dead.
Gone with the Wind
author Margaret Mitchell and golfer Bobby Jones were buried there, as well as governors, Confederate soldiers, and even slaves—buried under both their own names and the names of their owners. A section had been set aside in antebellum times for what the guidebooks called “people of the Jewish faith.” Miles Rothenberg’s forebears had managed to snag a plot.

Morrow decided to take up observation thirty feet from the grave where a stand of oaks would provide cover. If the funeral party turned out to be large enough he’d slip into the crowd to observe at closer range. If not, he’d pretend to be calling on another of the honored dead. A mockingbird trilled, cheeped and warbled on one of the carefully tended lawns.

Morrow spotted Jackson trotting down the brick path, beige raincoat open and flapping behind him. The younger man drew up, slightly out of breath, earnest face contorted in an expression of apology. “Sorry, sir. Traffic on Martin Luther King, sir. But I secured the information you requested.”

“You’re right on time and knock off the ‘sirs,’ son.”

 Jackson brought out his notes. “Miles Rothenberg and Roland Guest jointly owned an art and antiques shop called Rothenberg Guest European and Asian Acquisitions. Real fancy setup. Paintings, oriental rugs and carpets, sculpture, antique furniture. At that location for twelve years. According to Rothenberg’s lawyer, his share of the business passes directly to Guest and most of his personal assets will go to Lauren Weiss Rothenberg, his ex-wife.”

“That’s good work.”

“Guest had dinner at Aria with Shawna Muir on Thursday night. The staff remembers because he proposed over dessert. If he had anything to do with the deceased’s, uh, unfortunate accident, sir, we’ll have to be real careful, sir. You know who his family is, don’t you?”

Whoa Bessie. Not
those
Guests. One of the most over-privileged families in Atlanta. “I do now.”

“Mrs. Rothenberg hadn’t left New York so her alibi checks.”

“Good. What about Rothenberg’s last movements?”

“Looks like he ate dinner at home on Thursday. Last credit card purchase was at Publix. Rotisserie chicken, salad stuff, bottle of wine. We’re fixin’ to get the phone records.”

A hearse pulled into view on the winding path. A fair size crowd followed on foot. Miles Rothenberg had been loved or at least respected. The vehicle halted periodically and the mourners recited a prayer at each stop. Morrow spotted Guest in the middle of the pack with his arm around the woman who’d watched him in class. Antonia Blakeley had turned up with two other people he’d seen at the dance studio: a thin red-haired woman and a portly man with a comb-over. The mourners chatted among themselves with more animation than he usually saw at Christian funerals.

Jackson said, “The lady in the blue raincoat, that’s his fiancée. Shawna Muir. Flight attendant.”

“She was at the dance class. Seemed concerned to see me questioning Guest. Any link to Rothenberg?”

“Not so far, sir. Who’s the lady with the long brown hair waving her umbrella?”

“Ms. Antonia Blakeley to you. Dance teacher.”

“What the heck’s she doing, landing a plane?”

 “Organizing the mourners, probably.” Morrow chuckled. “You should have seen her the other day. Ordering the class around like a drill instructor. Tried to horn in on the investigation.”

The hearse stopped and six pallbearers shifted the simple pine coffin onto their shoulders and bore it to the grave. The mourners gathered. One woman stood alone. She wore a black ribbon on her trench coat, which made her a member of the family. Lauren Weiss Rothenberg.

Morrow signaled to Jackson. They left their observation post and joined the group, keeping close to Guest but out of his sight line.

The rabbi spoke in Hebrew, then in English: “O thou that dwellest in the covert of the Most High and abidest in the shadow of the Almighty …” He did full justice to the psalm, but in Morrow’s experience, evil
did
touch people who said their prayers.

Just as the rabbi finished it began to drizzle.

After the coffin was lowered into the ground Lauren Weiss Rothenberg picked up a shovel, turned the blade face down and jabbed it into the soil. Morrow heard the scrape of metal against stones. She turned towards the grave and flicked the shovel. Dirt and pebbles rained down onto the box. She placed the shovel on the ground and turned back towards the other mourners.

Morrow watched Blakeley go up to her and offer condolences. He got the impression they’d not met before. He waited to see if Guest would do the same.

Guest had been standing at the fringes looking off into the distance. He took his hands out of his pockets and approached the grieving woman. “Lauren.”

She whipped around. “You! Don’t speak to me.”

Guest stepped back, astonished. “Lauren—”

“You’re responsible for this.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have some nerve, you slick son of a bitch.” Lauren reached for the shovel but before she could put it to use Ms. Blakeley stepped between them.

“Time to go.” Blakeley grabbed Guest by the arm and hauled him out of reach, no mean feat considering their height and weight differences.

The Rabbi did his best to rise above the commotion. He made it through the memorial prayer and bade the non–family members to form two lines. As the mourners passed Rothenberg’s widow, those who knew it recited the traditional condolence, “May God comfort you among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.”

Lauren pulled a tissue out of her purse and wiped her hands.

***

Morrow helped settle Rothenberg’s ex-wife on one of the benches that lined the main path through Oakland Cemetery. She gathered her trench coat around her and lit up a menthol cigarette. Jackson was off on his mission and the other mourners had dispersed, leaving only the honored dead, and they weren’t about to complain of secondhand smoke.

She took a drag and exhaled. “He kept saying into the machine ‘pick up, pick up,’ that he needed to talk to me about something. He was rambling. I thought he was drunk and that wasn’t like him. If I hadn’t been out of town I’d have been there for him.” Her voice faltered as she pulled out a cassette tape and handed it over. “I didn’t check my messages until I got home. How was I supposed to know it would be the last time I heard his voice? I could just kill him.”

Morrow offered her his handkerchief and she used it to touch up the area under her eyes where her mascara had run. They sat in silence for a while. He wondered what had caused the marriage to break up. Money. Infidelity. The so-called growing apart which really meant the sex had dried up. None of the obvious explanations seemed to fit. “You said he accused his business partner of something. Did he say anything specific?”

“He’d found something out about Roland’s activities in Argentina. Something that brought shame to his reputation, that he had to atone for.” She waved her hand, trailing smoke in her wake. “Listen to the tape.” She fought back her tears and stubbed her cigarette out on the brick path. She inspected the butt and flicked it away. “We hadn’t spoken in years. That’s the point. Miles wouldn’t have called unless it was important.”

She rummaged around in her enormous handbag, came up with a nearly empty pack of cigarettes, extracted one and tried to light it but her fingers shook so badly she couldn’t get the match to work. He relieved her of the matchbook and did the honors. She nodded her thanks. “But, mind you, if there was any funny business Miles had no part of it. He was a real mensch. I warned him not to go into business with that louse. Roland Guest is responsible for this, I just know it.”

 “Guest was nowhere near the Chattahoochee that night,” Morrow said gently, knowing from experience she wouldn’t listen.

“Maybe Roland didn’t push Miles into the river, but just the same, he killed my husband. Roland has it all. Smarts, looks, breeding. But everything always came too easily to him and the schmuck’s got no moral compass. None.”

“Who else might know about Roland’s activities?”

“There was some Argentine aristocrat who helped introduce Miles and Roland around when they first started going to Latin America. Don’t remember his name, it’s too long ago. He’s in Buenos Aires somewhere. Talk to him.”

The drizzle had changed to rain. Morrow closed his notebook. “I’ll call and see what I can find out.”

Lauren rose to her feet and hoisted her purse strap over her head and across her shoulder, bandolier style. “That’s it? You’re not going down there?” Her black-limned eyes shone with hurt and fury. “Do you really think anyone will talk to you on the phone? I have to know what happened.”