Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (34 page)

“Turn that off.” Shawna spoke sharply. She had reappeared in the doorway, not with a broom, but with the Japanese fan.

“You back-led Bobby the night Nathalie died,” Antonia said, feeling her stomach churn as the full significance of what she’d said sank in. “He always runs into people on the dance floor. He naturally assumed it was his fault. But it was you. You got him all turned around. So when he thought he was taking a safe rock step he was actually stepping backwards in the line of dance. You engineered the whole collision. And you stabbed Nathalie with your fan.”

Shawna snapped the fan open and said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“But how? I held that fan and it was harmless.”

Shawna pressed the handle with her thumb and Antonia saw something metal spring out of the fan’s base. A switchblade. And suddenly the pieces fell neatly into place.

“There were two of them,” Antonia said, unable to take her eyes off the fan. “The one you showed the police, and this. But you only bought one off the website.”

When Shawna spoke her voice was barely above a whisper. “I bought the other with cash on my last trip to Asia.”

Of course, Antonia thought. Shawna had used her airline status to fly non-revenue to Japan right before the Halloween party. “You didn’t need to mortally wound her, just draw blood so it would look like she’d been killed on the dance floor. Then all you had to do was get her into your bedroom.”

It had been easy, Antonia realized. Horribly easy. “You got rid of Bobby and Roland and then you planted the kitchen knife in her back. How did you get her to hold still?”

“I told her if she felt faint to put her head between her legs.”

The sheer, horrible efficiency of it almost brought Antonia to her knees. “After you stabbed Nathalie you carried the knife out in her shawl and called for help, and then when everyone was running into the bedroom you stuck it in the potted plant.”

“You seem to know everything,” Shawna said.

“But then you realized Christian had been in the library—were you afraid he’d seen you? Or did you think he might look at your website and figure out how you did it? Is that what happened?” Antonia could feel the blood rushing to her face, searing her skin, as she realized her best friend had nearly killed the boy she loved most in the world. “Why did you come to the hospital that day? To see if he remembered the attack? Or to finish the job?”

 Shawna began to choke up. “No! I never wanted … not
him
.”

The Nathalies of this world don’t count.
“But it was okay to take Nathalie’s life? You killed a woman and her unborn baby—and you, a Catholic—for what? Did you think Roland would come back to you?”

Shawna wailed, “Roland loves
me
!”

“Don’t you know you can’t control other people?”

Shawna lashed out, “That’s rich, coming from you. If you weren’t always trying to run Christian’s life instead of living your own, none of this would have happened.”

Antonia gasped. “That’s crazy.”

“Is it?” Shawna’s voice rose and her eyes flashed with anger. “You got Roland to dance with Nathalie to keep her away from Christian. You threw them together. You were so obsessed with protecting Christian you never thought about the consequences to anyone else.”

Antonia flinched. “That’s not true.”

“It is. You swore off men and diverted all your love into Christian. You’re mothering him to death.”

“
You’re
the one who tried to kill him!” Antonia wanted to cover her ears and run out of the house. Shawna knew her better than anyone. Had been with her through the worst times of her life. Had always been honest with her. Always. Was it true? Would things have turned out differently if she’d left Christian alone instead of introducing him to tango, forcing him to come to class, dragging him to Trasnochando? If he’d never met Nathalie at El Abrazo? If she’d treated Christian like an adult, trusted him, would he have told her where he’d been when Nathalie died? Had everything she’d done to protect Christian backfired?

Shawna closed the fan. Her shoulders slumped. The fight had gone out of her. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” Antonia stopped. She really didn’t know.

What would happen if she said nothing? Shawna could turn herself in with dignity. Or she could run. Slip out the back door and run. And Morrow would catch her. Either way, Christian was safe.

But what about Morrow? They were partners. He trusted her. If she let Shawna go he’d never speak to her again.

Had she nearly mothered Christian to death?

Antonia finally said, “Shawna, it’s your life. You decide.”

Justice

ANTONIA MANAGED TO MAKE IT
down the front steps and back across the street to the stakeout without her knees buckling out from under her. She found Morrow and Eduardo waiting outside the car.

Morrow said, “What’s going on?”

“She asked me to leave. Everything’s okay,” she lied feeling lousy about it, hoping her expression wouldn’t give her away.

They settled back in her Audi, Morrow and herself in the front, Eduardo in the back. As they waited she replayed her decision in her mind again and again and decided again and again to let Shawna do whatever it was she chose to do. It had to be her decision.

Eight o’clock came and went. No sign of Detective Jackson.

“Where’s your partner?” she finally asked Morrow.

“Watching the back of the house.”

So if Shawna decided to run Jackson would surely see her. What was Shawna doing? Praying? Waiting for them to come back?

Who did Morrow think was coming to the house? She felt sick holding out, knowing he was waiting for nobody.

Eduardo leant forward from the back seat. “It’s almost eight thirty. Nobody’s coming.” She heard the tension in his voice.

Morrow nodded. “Let’s go.”

They climbed out of the car and Morrow led them across the street, up the stairs, through the porch, and into the house.

Their footsteps echoed on the hardwood entryway.

Morrow called out, “Ms. Muir. It’s just us.”

Silence.

Morrow quickened his pace, making straight for the bedroom. Eduardo followed and she followed Eduardo and they both nearly rammed into Morrow when he stopped abruptly at the entrance to Shawna’s bedroom. “Shit.”

“What is it?” She pushed her way into the room.

Shawna knelt on the floor, toppled face first into the seat of the same armchair where Nathalie had died. She’d changed into a Japanese yukata, its tranquil blue and white cotton violated by the blood still seeping through the fabric. A Japanese fan lay at her feet, looking curiously long, and Antonia realized she was looking at the switchblade, sticking impertinently out from the end of the handle.

Morrow bent down and touched his fingers to her neck. “She’s gone. She turned the
tessen
on herself.”

It took a second for her to realize what he’d said. “Tessen?”

“Her Japanese fan.”

“That’s what Christian was trying to tell me, in the hospital. He must have seen it on one of Shawna’s websites.”

Morrow used his handkerchief to pick up a piece of notepaper from the floor. He opened it, read it, and refolded it carefully.

Eduardo said, “The fan. I looked everywhere. Where did she hide it?”

Morrow walked over to Shawna’s cabinet. One of the panels was open, revealing a tiny drawer about two inches wide and ten inches deep. “A hidden compartment.” He turned and Antonia saw the disappointment on his face. “I can understand Sanchez wanting to take matters into his own hands. But you? How long have you known? You could have trusted me.”

“I didn’t really know, I just had a feeling,” she replied unhappily. “I wasn’t sure until I went into the house just now. And once I knew, I wanted to give her time.” She braced for his wrath.

“Time? For what? To slit open her bowels?”

“To choose her fate!”

And she burst into tears.

La Hora Cero

Zero hour. “An hour of absolute end and absolute beginning.”

—
Ástor Piazzola

ANTONIA HEARD NOTHING FROM MORROW
in the month following Shawna’s death but then she didn’t really expect to. He’d made it abundantly clear he wanted nothing to do with her. But happily, Eduardo had returned to Atlanta, ostensibly to teach a series of master classes but in reality she knew it was to coax her back into tango; the one thing in her life that had always proven true.

Sanctuary was less crowded than usual. Antonia sat alone at a table in the back, the drafty section near the door, discreetly stretching her Achilles tendons. The DJ played Piazzola’s
“
Milonga del Angel”, better suited to listening in her opinion. The song took place in melancholic and tender slow motion, perfect for tuning out the world.

The Nuevo faction had taken over, having waited for the end of the evening for the floor to clear, to accommodate their rangy, acrobatic open style. She normally enjoyed seeing what they made of Piazzola’s classical and jazz-infused music but that night all she wanted to do was crawl into a hole.

A few of her students still braved the floor. Christian, long since released from the hospital and seeming none the worse for his experience, was squiring one of the younger dancers. Bobby and Barbara were on a leisurely trajectory to collide with the couple ahead of them. She watched them pass behind the plastic palm tree that camouflaged the post. It had been repainted since her last visit and an extra coconut and some low-lying foliage had been added as an additional bumper.

She expected to see Bobby turn towards his blind side and knock into the other couple, pushing them right into the palm tree. The violins and bandoneon would override all other sounds but in her head she imagined Bobby apologizing to the couple:
sorry, sorry, my fault entirely
. But Bobby and Barbara came out the other side without incident. A first.

It had been a mistake to come. She bent down to unbuckle her high heels to change into flats. She felt a cold breeze on the back of her legs and a spit-polished, rubber-soled shoe stepped in her line of sight.

Sam Morrow, of all the gin joints
, she thought.
What’s
he
doing here? He can’t possibly have come to arrest me for obstructing justice. Not after all this time.
She tried not to think about how her foul mood had suddenly lifted at seeing him again.

She looked up.
Sorry, sorry.
“Detective Morrow.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He pulled out a chair and sat down at her table without waiting for an invitation, acting as if they met at Sanctuary all the time. He maneuvered his chair around to her side of the table to face the dance floor.

Morrow ordered an American coffee and a piece of carrot cake. He draped his right arm casually over the empty chair at the next table. He seemed superbly unconcerned at being the only person in the room in jeans. The man certainly had nerve.

Morrow had come to watch respectable Atlanta citizens and former murder suspects dance to Argentine tango music, Antonia thought. That’s how he sees it, through the lens of his job.

Because of the crush of tables they sat practically knee-to-knee. It was humiliating to sit in such forced intimacy considering all that had passed between them. She could feel the cold air that lingered on his body and it made her aware of how warm she felt.

Sorry, sorry, my fault entirely.

“Come to arrest me?” She tried to keep her tone light and unconcerned, like someone who’d never lied to the police.

“I notice Roland isn’t here tonight,” Morrow said.

“That’s because he’s got television stations camped out on his lawn.”

“What?”

It was gratifying to know
something
he didn’t. “Barbara gave an interview this morning, offering libelous details about his role in Nathalie’s murder. You know the sort of thing: wronging his loyal fiancée, getting a gold digger pregnant, seducing a young innocent girl—that would be her in case you don’t recognize the description—on the side. He’s afraid to leave the house.”

Morrow gave her his slow-roasted grin and said, “I wonder who gave her that idea.”

Antonia did her best not to preen. “Don’t look at me.”

Morrow said, “He’s going to have a lot more people than that to avoid, I’m afraid. Looks like he may have engaged in a spot of money laundering for some Nazi descendants in Argentina.”

“So I was right about him. Wow.”

“Professor Glass was quite helpful. He confirmed a name—Klement. And he was able to authenticate one emerald as
not
being from Colombia as advertised. Guest was paying museum quality prices for average pieces and vice versa, depending on whether money was coming in or out.”

“Like the drum table in the invoice?”

Morrow nodded. “Looks like Miles Rothenberg found out and managed to funnel some of the money back to the pieces’ original owners through Argentina’s B’Nai B’rith. I was able to let Lauren Weiss Rothenberg know her former husband had made reparations. I also introduced her to Bobby Glass. What with his organization and her money I have high hopes for that collaboration.”

Antonia settled contentedly back into her seat. It was the one bright spot in the whole affair to see Roland get his just deserts. Well, maybe not the only bright spot. “So you came to arrest Roland?”

“Can’t. No proof. By the time we got the warrant to search his house he’d gotten rid of the drum table. Who’s to say it was real or fake.”

Antonia was about to say something disparaging about the speed and efficiency of the legal process when she heard her name being called. She looked up to see Eduardo headed their way. He kissed her on the cheek before she could rise from her seat and greeted Morrow with a vigorous handshake.

“I didn’t expect to see you still here,” Morrow said to Eduardo, looking pleased.