Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (6 page)

Eduardo disentangled Nathalie from her jewelry and took her hand. “I think this woman must have been Argentine in another life. When our country was wealthier, when my compatriots would go shopping they’d always say, ‘Give me two!’”

“Your family has certainly suffered.” Roland tossed out the comment casually.

The furrows in Nathalie’s brow deepened as she seemed to calculate the implications of the statement.

What did Eduardo see in her? She was obviously some sort gold digger, or in her case, a peso digger, and not a very well informed one, at that, when you considered Eduardo’s family lost their haciendas and polo ponies under Perón. Eduardo was too experienced to be swayed by youth and sex appeal alone. There had to be something more.

Meanwhile Eduardo smiled as if he still had two of everything. “Life does not stop for reversals of fortune.” He signaled the waiter. By this point the club had completely filled and the noise level had risen considerably. “A glass of champagne, querida, to celebrate our upcoming trip to Argentina? I suggest the Chandon.”

“Just a teensy one, darling.”

“Let me get this,” Roland offered. “I’m going down to Argentina as well, as it happens.”

Shawna said, “Again? You just came back.”

“Oh really? Maybe I’ll see you there,” Nathalie said.

“And I had a piece of good news today on the business front. We’ll drink to fortunes gained and lost.” Roland intercepted the waiter. “A bottle of your best champagne. Do you have Dom Perignon? No, let’s have two. We’re all Argentines tonight. What’s money?”

Eduardo flushed. “I insist. It’s my invitation.”

“Roland, it’s Eduardo’s party,” Shawna said.

“We don’t need two bottles,” Antonia insisted, knowing she and Shawna would only have a glass apiece, but it was too late. The waiter had disappeared.

Antonia wasn’t sure if it was the room heating up from the crowd or her embarrassment at Roland’s behavior, but she was beginning to feel distinctly warmer than she had fifteen minutes earlier. This was not the civilized social environment she’d hoped to expose Christian to. Roland was stirring up a ridiculous competition with Eduardo. In fact, come to think of it, Roland had been acting recklessly all evening. Almost fey. His comment about fortunes gained and lost sounded as if he’d been gambling. He’d just inherited Miles’ half of the business. Had Miles’ death saved Roland from financial disaster?

The waiter reappeared with two ice buckets of champagne, opened the first bottle and filled their glasses. Eduardo touched his flute to Nathalie’s.

The DJ followed the cortina with a Canaro waltz and the temporary mating ritual began anew. Individual men and women met each other’s eyes and, through the alchemy of cabeceo, transformed into couples. They stood on the floor and chatted, waiting for the right moment in the music to begin. Shawna attracted the nod of a distinguished-looking man in a white suit who came to escort her to the floor.

The key, Antonia realized, was to get Roland onto the pista. Then she could dance, too. So she said to Roland, “Why don’t you invite one of the out-of-towners? That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

”You are right, as always.” Roland turned his attention to scoping out a partner for the next tanda, leaving Antonia free to listen to the last waltz, Canaro’s “El Jardin del Amor”. When the musical introduction drew to its lugubrious end and the piano took over, setting a fresh tempo, couples on the crowded floor simultaneously began to move as if led by an unseen conductor. The vortex of dancers swirled around the perimeter as one body. Antonia imagined rather than heard the collective swish of suede and leather-soled feet polishing the Brazilian-cherry floor.

She leaned over to speak to Christian. “Isn’t it beautiful? It’s sort of like a school of fish.” But just then a lanky young man in a Hawaiian shirt and jeans stepped backwards against the line of dance, nearly smacking into the couple behind him, who unfortunately for him happened to be an Argentine milonguero and a visiting Seattle instructor. The Argentine gave him a dirty look and drew his partner closer.

Aloha Man clearly didn’t realize there were two lanes of traffic. After advancing a few steps he drifted towards the center of the floor and the Argentine promptly moved into the space the dancer and his partner had occupied. Aloha Man, seeing he was losing his place in line, tried to push back into the outer lane. Antonia cringed, knowing what was coming.

The Argentine held his left arm further out from his body and led a quick turn to the left, elbowing the other man sharply in the shoulder and causing him to stop in his tracks. The interruption reverberated through the couples downstream, forcing the whole floor to back up.

“Hey! You want a piece of me?”

The Argentine parried in rapid colloquial Spanish.

The man in the Aloha shirt shoved the Argentine. Eduardo immediately headed for the floor but the stranger who’d avoided her cabeceo got to the newer dancer first.

“Whoa, Bessie.” The stranger took the man aside and said something in a low voice and Aloha Man and his companion left the floor. Honor satisfied, the Argentine took his partner back in his arms. Eduardo returned to the table and settled back down.

Christian asked, “What was
that
?”

“The idiot took a back step against the line of dance,” Roland said, before Eduardo could answer.

Antonia said, “If you don’t know how to navigate on a crowded floor you shouldn’t be out there.”

Eduardo pointedly put his arm around Nathalie. “The man should have respected his place.”

Roland drained his champagne glass. “He’s lucky he just got bumped. A century ago he might have gotten a knife in the side. Isn’t that right, amigo?”

Eduardo brushed the question aside. “That was another era. I am happy to say we have put that chapter behind us.”

Nathalie traced her finger down Eduardo’s cheek. “How many times has that happened here, would you say?”

Antonia said, “This is Atlanta. We just charm you to death.”

Roland said to Christian, “In the old days in Argentina the milongueros used to fight over the women.” Seeing no one else seemed to want more champagne he poured a glass for himself and held it up, toasting, “To the victor go the spoils.”

Nathalie’s lips curved into a feral smile. “Eduardo, have you ever fought like that?”

Antonia glanced at Christian who by that point had apparently decided to try to sneak some champagne and was reaching for the bottle. Little devil. She nudged him.
Not in public.
He grinned.
Had to try.

Eduardo said, “On the pista? It was never necessary.”

Nathalie’s smile widened. “How about off the dance floor?”

She obviously doesn’t know what Eduardo went through in the Dirty War, Antonia thought. They can’t be that close.

“Querida, death is not a joking matter.”

“It’s just a question, darling. I want to know if we women are still worth fighting for.”

“Some more than others,” Antonia said pointedly.

Nathalie smiled at Christian. “What about you? Would you fight? To the death?”

Christian froze.

Don’t go there, Antonia thought. “Ask Roland. He started this.”

The diversion worked. Nathalie batted her lashes at Roland. “You’re my last hope.”

“I’m sorry to have to disappoint you.”

“No strong male impulses? Not even jealousy?”

Roland said, “I must not be a very passionate man.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Nathalie said in a low voice, and Antonia saw Roland’s eyes stray to Nathalie’s décolletage.

Eduardo frowned. “Have you forgotten your fiancée, Roland?”

“I trust Shawna completely. She’s a lady.”

“That isn’t what I meant. In my experience you can’t be too sure of anyone.”

Nathalie turned to Eduardo. “Are you suggesting
I’m
not to be trusted?”

Christian said, “I’m sure nobody meant … I mean, you’re so beautiful it would be natural … It’s not your fault.”

The DJ started a set of Pugliese, in Antonia’s opinion the most inflammatory music in all of tango. And, of course, perversely, just when she had to protect Christian from Roland
and
Nathalie, that was the moment her favorite milonguero, the elusive, exclusive Osvaldo, cabeceoed her.

“Nathalie,” Antonia said, hoping to get her out of the way so she could accept Osvaldo’s invitation, “Why don’t you and Roland dance?” What she meant was why didn’t each of them dance, instead of stirring up ridiculous competitions, but it came out as if she wanted them to dance together.

Roland extended his hand to Nathalie. “What do you say?”

Antonia nearly fell out of her chair. Roland was breaking the codigo, interfering with an existing relationship. Eduardo could not possibly let that stand.

“Nathalie is with me,” Eduardo said.

 “I’m sure I can decide for myself.” Nathalie accepted Roland’s hand and rose from the table, acting as if she didn’t notice the dark look Eduardo was giving her.

The visiting Argentines, acutely aware of every social nuance, had not missed the slight to one of their own. Antonia could see the disapproval in their body language. She craned to see if Osvaldo was still looking her way but, to her disappointment, he’d found another partner.

She turned her attention back to the floor to see Roland insinuate his arm around Nathalie’s back and begin to draw Nathalie to him. Nathalie pretended to resist. The sexual tug of war went on for a few seconds. Then, in a move straight out of a bodice ripper, Roland yanked her full length against him in a complete violation of the tango code.

“A Mis Companeros” dramatic, staccato phrases jolted in tune with Antonia’s heart. Pugliese’s music could be suspenseful, even dangerous, but she’d never before thought of it as angry.

Eduardo pushed back his chair and stood. He buttoned his jacket and smoothed back his hair. He replaced the chair to its original position. He picked up Nathalie’s evening bag. He stepped to the edge of the dance floor and waited for Roland and Nathalie to circle around. When the couple passed in front of him Eduardo grabbed Nathalie by the arm, stripped her from Roland’s clutches and forced her off the dance floor, through the maze of tables, towards the exit while Nathalie screeched in indignation.

Christian burst out laughing.

Antonia said, “What?”

“You call this shit civilized?”

Obstacles

Marines never give up, never give in, never willingly accept second best

MORROW’S TASTES RAN TO PLAIN DRIP
but Jackson was addicted to a higher form of caffeine, so they’d agreed to meet at Caribou Coffee to compare notes.

The answering tape had turned out to be a bust. They hadn’t been able to stop Guest from going to Argentina but there had been nothing to prevent Morrow from following him when he returned to see if he tried any funny business. It had been a calculated risk to track him into Bones, and then El Abrazo, but a guy like that wasn’t likely to remember a cop. It had been useful to see the dynamics between Guest and the other members of his party. Only downside, the dance instructor had almost certainly recognized him when he’d accidentally caught her eye. But she probably wouldn’t say anything. She clearly didn’t like Guest. That fact might come in useful.

By the time he had gotten his joe, claimed one of the leather armchairs, and powered up his laptop, Jackson had dispatched a midmorning cinnamon roll popover and was halfway to pounding down a “moosed” caramel cooler with whipped cream. Eating like he still played football—no wonder the guy struggled to stay in shape.

Jackson pulled out a sheet of paper and consulted it. “In Buenos Aires there were thirteen individuals and seventeen companies on the antique store contact list and a bunch of restaurants and bars, at least I think that’s what most of them are. When I compared these numbers with calls Rothenberg made I got four matches; one to a guy named Eduardo Sanchez Jar – oh shit, what’s
this
name, J-A-U-R-Y, and three to antiques dealers. All in—,” he balked again, “San Telmo. Is that a neighborhood?”

“Sounds like.” Morrow scrolled through his e-mails to see if the tox results had come through yet, half hoping they hadn’t.

“What do you expect Guest was up to in Buenos Aires before? And what’s he doing going there again?”

“You tell me.”

“Drug dealing? He could be bringing cocaine to Ms. Blakeley’s class and selling it there. Anyone can take a dance lesson.” Jackson’s face brightened. “Miss Muir works for an airline; think she could be sneaking stuff out of Argentina for her fiancé?”

“Not unless the ground crew was in on it. The flight attendants go through security with everyone else.”

“How about prostitution?”

Morrow laughed. “I like your drug idea better.” He found one of the e-mails he had been waiting for, a response to his inquiry into Rothenberg’s finances. “Looks like Miles Rothenberg made a substantial withdrawal from one of his business bank accounts the day he died. Wired two million, seven hundred ninety-five thousand dollars to the Argentine Central Bank. They don’t know where it went after that, yet.”

Jackson said, “I thought you couldn’t wire money without knowing who’s who on the other end.”

“Branch manager is out sick, apparently. They’re talking to him tomorrow.”

“Do you think Guest knows about the transfer?”

“He ought to. According to this, one of the tellers remembers he came in to make a deposit late on Friday.”

Jackson said, “So Guest could have known the money was gone but not where it went.”

Guest didn’t seem worried last night, Morrow thought. In fact, he acted like a man who’d just beat a rap. “Why do you think Guest didn’t say anything about this when I interviewed him at the dance studio?”

“He might have thought Rothenberg was doing some sort of business deal for the company. For all we know, maybe he was.”

While Morrow stared at the screen a new e-mail popped up. Tox screen results were in. He opened the e-mail and scanned the report. “Rothenberg had wine in his system but nothing else. Death’s an accident. I’ll notify Lauren Weiss Rothenberg.”