Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (9 page)

Barbara beamed. “I feel like I’m at the top of the world when we dance.”

Roland had held Barbara quite close, Bobby remembered uneasily. At the time he’d assumed it was just one of those Argentine tango conventions. However, there could be a more sinister explanation.

Antonia pointed her half-eaten fry at Barbara. “Tango is life, but it’s not real life.”

Barbara grabbed her sandwich with both hands, raised it to her mouth, and took a gargantuan bite.

Antonia said, “There’s a social contract in tango, any intimacy that develops during a dance exists just for that moment. This way you can express your emotions freely and no one takes advantage of it later.”

Barbara, still gripping her sandwich, licked a drop of barbeque sauce from the palm of her hand. “Polygamy without the consequences, I get it. For God’s sake, you’d think I was some ignorant backwoods virgin.”

Polygamy, virgins, this is too much, Bobby thought. Next we’ll be talking human sacrifices. Roland taking advantage of a young woman like Barbara, it was hardly appropriate. The British had terms for men like that: bounder … cad … scoundrel.

Barbara and Roland Guest. Over my dead body.

He unscrewed the cap of the ketchup bottle and inverted it. Nothing came out. He plunged a knife into the mouth of the ketchup bottle.

Red sauce flooded his plate.

Think Hard

THE SMELL OF SPAGHETTI SAUCE
wafted in from the kitchen where Christian was heating up lunch. Shawna could hear him tapping out a rhythm on the metal pot and rapping something about not knowing about being his mother’s evil seed.

In the three days since Shawna had ended it with Roland her feelings had cauterized, leaving only a merciful numbness. Even their conversation that morning had left her cold. The only thing she cared about at this point was to make it through the Halloween tango party, which she’d committed to host long before the breakup. Less than two months to go.

She and Barbara had come to Christian’s Cabbagetown loft to work on the Halloween milonga invitations. The makeshift desk where she sat was partially masked from the living area by a barrier of metal shelving housing his stereo, CDs, computer manuals, and various stacks of papers. His computer system included several TV monitors, two keyboards that weren’t plugged into anything as far as she could tell, a printer, some sort of tower with a DVD slot, a box that allowed him to switch between computers, four miniature but very loud speakers and, what she most appreciated, a laptop with broadband Internet access and a high-speed color printer. The whole work area was infested with a kudzu tangle of wires and cables.

She’d offered to organize his clutter but Christian had told her, no thanks, he didn’t like anyone messing with his stuff, as he put it, so she respected his wishes. She was just grateful for his help.

Christian had compiled a database of the tango community and linked it to a sophisticated e-mail and marketing program, so anyone who needed to get the word out about any event could just go to his loft to produce whatever they needed. Her immediate tasks were to finalize the invitation, e-mail it to the usual tango list, print out hard copies for Antonia to distribute in the community, have Barbara Wolfe e-mail her university connections, and get Christian to post the invitation on the Atlanta tango website. She hadn’t started to plan the party itself and she was running out of time.

But Barbara, instead of doing something constructive while she waited her turn at the computer, was still giving her grief about including Nathalie LeFebre on the guest list.

“Couples break up and new ones form all the time,” she said to Barbara through the partition. “That’s just tango.” Roland would bring her anyway. It was better to put a good face on it.

 “I don’t like her,” Barbara’s disembodied voice came back and Shawna heard the couch’s antiquated springs squeak in protest.

 “Then don’t talk to her. There will be plenty of people and everyone will be in costume. Just pretend not to recognize her.”

“How many are you expecting, for God’s sake?”

“From Atlanta, at least forty. From outside Atlanta, it depends. Last year we got people from as far away as Seattle. Everybody is welcome.”

“Is Eduardo Sanchez coming? I hear he’s a dreamy lead.”

Think hard before you take this step, she thought. There’s no turning back. Just like the song. Shawna corrected one last spelling error on the invitation and saved it. “I doubt it. He was just here.”

Christian should host a milonga, she thought. His loft overlooked the railroad tracks so the neighbors wouldn’t care about the noise. The ceilings were nice and high, and the restored oak floor was in perfect condition. The place just needed some folding chairs and a decent couch.

She called up the mailing list, attached the file, and clicked “Send”.

Her task completed, she came out from behind the partition and seated herself gingerly at the other end of the couch from Barbara, avoiding the spot where the sofa had lost its springiness entirely. Barbara had pulled her hair into a fiery snarl on top of her head and jabbed a pencil into the knot. “Do you want to do your e-mail now?”

“I’d like to give that bitch a good case of smallpox.”

Shawna held her tongue. Barbara didn’t understand Nathalie was inconsequential.

“I’ll take care of her at the next milonga,” Barbara said, picking at the nail polish on her little finger. She bit the last remains off, leaving a fleck of scarlet stuck to her upper lip. “I’m sorry, it’s not my place. You deal with Nathalie. He’s your fiancé.”

“Not anymore.”

Barbara said, “We just seem to have a special connection when we dance.”

I felt that way once, Shawna thought. Before he broke my heart.

Barbara looked up and Shawna could see the false hope in her face. “You wouldn’t be the first woman to fall for him, you know,” she said gently. More like the hundredth, she thought, thanking her stars she could talk about Roland without reopening old wounds.

Barbara impulsively seized her hand. “I wouldn’t dream of letting anything happen if
you
wanted him back.”

It was all Shawna could do not to pull away. “Roland is free to do whatever he wants. So are you.” After a discreet interval she withdrew her hand. “But be careful. What you’re experiencing is an illusion.”

“What are you talking about?”

Shawna could hear the crows shrieking outside. She smoothed her skirt and, not satisfied with the result, smoothed it again. “Roland reflects what people want to see. You don’t know him. Nobody can know anyone, really.”

“I disagree. You just need to dig deeper for the truth. Context is everything.” Barbara scanned the loft. “I could tell you all about Christian from what he reads.”

Shawna sniffed. “That would be difficult.” Except for Christian’s manuals and a few newspapers and technical magazines the room was almost devoid of books.

Barbara bounded up from the sofa and raced around the partition to the computer. “I’ll prove it. We’ll use his bookmarks.”

Shawna, horrified, darted after her. “You can’t do that, that’s personal, like reading someone else’s mail.” She tried to reach around Barbara’s shoulder to turn off the computer but Barbara stuck out an elbow to block her.

Barbara reached for the mouse. “I’m not going to open any of his files. I just want to see what websites he likes. How is a website any different from a book jacket?”

“This isn’t one of your archaeological digs. You don’t expect people to go through your computer any more than you’d expect them to rifle through your desk. It’s private property.”

“Where’s Christian at? Still in the kitchen?”

Shawna heard the whistle of an oncoming train approaching, then the rumbling of the freight cars pounding against the tracks, growing louder, louder, louder. The sound felt as if it was coming from inside her head. “That’s not the point.”

“Look at this. He’s saved hundreds of sites.” Barbara started to read aloud, raising her voice to make herself heard over the clatter.

Shawna turned away from the screen. “I refuse to be part of this.”

“Medieval Jousting, Merlin …” Barbara’s voice was briefly obscured by the racket from the train. “ … Semiotics, E-Prime, what in tarnation is that? Realm of Rhydin, Martial Arts. A lot of Dungeons and Dragons stuff. He’s added some tango sites: I’ve seen those. Shakespeare’s sonnets. Cyrano de Bergerac. Medieval weapons, that’s interesting. I should show him my Inca sling. Here’s a folder called Tango Heaven.” The train passed and the noise subsided while Barbara continued to read.

Shawna became aware of the odor of scorched garlic permeating the apartment.

Barbara called out, “Oh my God! Shawna, Shawna, there’s a folder on Nathalie.”

Shawna whirled around. “Don’t open that!”

“I’m just—”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Christian stood not five feet away in a chef’s apron, clenching a wooden spoon, his face contorted in rage and dismay. “Did you look at that?”

Barbara, still touching the keyboard, was too stunned to answer.

He shouted, “Did you look at that?”

“No!”

Christian raised his spoon and started towards Barbara. “You did, you did … you said Nathalie, God dammit … you lie.”

Barbara recoiled from the keyboard and tumbled onto the floor. “I didn’t, I swear!”

Shawna mustered up her most authoritative voice. “Everybody, calm down.”

Christian turned, cornered. “Shut up! Just shut up!”

“Put the spoon down. Stop!”

Christian wailed, “She messed with my stuff!” Turning away from Barbara he hurled the spoon at the computer screen, spattering tomato sauce everywhere: the desk, the floor, and her blouse.

And then, like a sudden thunderstorm, it was over. Christian dropped his arms to his sides. It was only after she exhaled that Shawna realized she had been holding her breath.

Barbara scrambled to her feet. “Christian, damn it, I was just trying to make a point. We didn’t really look at anything personal. We’re sorry. Please don’t be upset.”

 “You don’t understand. Just get out of here.”

We violated his trust, Shawna thought. I know just how he feels.

“I’m sorry, really.”

“That’s enough.” Shawna gave Barbara a look to signal her to shut up and went to the kitchen for something to clean the mess from Christian’s screen. She returned with a paper towel and wiped the computer off before shutting it down. “Christian, we’re going. We’re going right now.”

He turned stiffly and stalked out of the room.

“I said I was sorry,” Barbara said in a subdued tone as they packed up to leave.

Shawna, still unsettled by the raw display of emotion, said nothing.

As they left the apartment and took the elevator down to the ground floor Barbara continued to defend herself. “I just looked to see what was in the folder. It’s not as if I opened his files and read them.”

Shawna didn’t answer. She was supposed to meet Antonia for lunch and turn over the extra invitations, and she was debating if she should tell her about Christian’s outburst. She took out her keys and went to unlock the car.

Barbara said, “What was his deal? Does he have some deep dark secret?”

Shawna turned back and this time she didn’t bother to modulate her tone. “Barbara, you’re dealing with the living. And if you’re smart, you let them alone.”

Volcada

A falling step.

From
volcar
: to spill over or capsize

ANTONIA OPENED THE FRONT DOOR
to find Shawna standing on the threshold, grim faced, her white shirt and linen skirt spattered with something that looked like red sauce. She looked like she needed a bath, a stiff drink, or a good cry. Preferably all three. “What happened to you,” Antonia asked, hugging her.

“It’s nothing.”

“You sure? You look sort of Jackson Pollocky.”

“Something boiled over.” Shawna presented her with a sheaf of flyers bound with rubber bands. “The Halloween invitations went out. I made seventy extra hard copies for you. I hope that’s enough. I’m going out of town for a while.” She said it with an air of finality. “To Tokyo. I’ll be flying non-rev but I’ll be back for the party, of course.”

Something’s really upset her, Antonia thought. “Come in and have a glass of wine, honey. Good for your heart.”

“No, thanks. I’m not drinking.”

“Well, come in anyway and give me a hand.” Antonia thought quickly. “I’m breaking down a volcada lead.” She didn’t know why a volcada popped into her head, exactly, as it wasn’t a very milonguero move. It must have been a volcano-Pollock association.

They went to the kitchen where Antonia applied soda water to the stains on Shawna’s clothes and fixed them each a glass of ice water with lemon. They brought their drinks into the living room. She threw open both sets of French doors.

Shawna sat on the edge of the couch and slipped off her street shoes. Antonia went over to the CD player and put on a leisurely, swirly de Caro: volcadas deserved a lot of time. “Colombina” would do. She should have said she needed help with a
calesita
lead, a much more plausible step to teach in a milonguero style class. But since she’d mentioned volcadas she’d have to go through with it.

She invited Shawna to join her on the floor. “If I were leading you open style you’d feel like you’re on a swing, that part of the arc where you’ve stopped going up but you haven’t started going down. With close embrace it’s more subtle.” Antonia listened to the violins, holding Shawna and waiting for her to relax. The poor girl felt as brittle as a twig.

Antonia started walking, stepping on every other beat with all the flavor she could put into it. Shawna’s stockinged feet caught occasionally on the oak floor but otherwise she seemed technically, if not emotionally, present. When the moment felt right Antonia started forward, put Shawna’s weight on her right foot, then stepped back, taking Shawna off her axis and causing her left leg to drop forward. For a moment, their upper bodies balanced together like a house of cards, and as Antonia shifted her weight forward again Shawna swung back.