Quickstep to Murder Read online

  After a moment, the toilet flushed and he opened the door, paler than a funeral lily, slightly hunched over as if in pain. His blond hair looked even lanker than usual.

  “Do you want me to drive you home?” I asked. He lived in Baltimore, so it would take a chunk out of my day, but he clearly wasn’t well enough to drive himself.

  “Vitaly is calling John,” he said, holding up his cell phone. “John is coming.”

  “Maybe some peppermint tea would help?” Mom used to dose us with peppermint tea anytime we had tummy troubles. “I’ve got some downstairs.”

  “Vitaly is-” His eyes widened and he whirled, shutting the door in my face.

  Chapter 12

  Vitaly’s partner, John Drummond, arrived forty-five minutes later. A tall, solid-looking man in his late forties, I guessed, with deep-set brown eyes, he gently escorted Vitaly down the stairs, thanking me for the plastic bucket I supplied for their drive back to Baltimore. I sighed as they drove off; if Vitaly didn’t recover quickly, it would be disastrous for Graysin Motion’s showing at the competition. One of the awards was “Top Studio” and we didn’t have a prayer of winning it if our female students couldn’t compete in the pro-am divisions. And without Vitaly, they couldn’t compete. I sighed again and returned to the ballroom, beginning to think the studio was jinxed. This week had been one disaster after another. I contemplated crawling into bed and not getting out again until a new week arrived. I let the blinds down in the ballroom to keep the room cooler. I was trying to hold off on using the air conditioner until June; the utility bills almost doubled when I cranked up the AC. Crossing to the stereo, I turned it off and noticed Vitaly’s almost empty grapefruit juice bottle atop the cabinet. I picked it up, intending to throw it away, then paused.

  He’d drunk the juice, then gotten violently ill. Surely there was no connection. Did juice spoil? Could someone have put something in Vitaly’s juice to make him sick? I tried to block the word “poison” from my mind, but it seeped through. I knew my thoughts would never have headed in this direction if I hadn’t just been thinking about jinxes and the week’s string of mishaps. I was letting my imagination run away with me, I told myself firmly. Locating the cap, I started to screw it onto the juice bottle.

  “Stacy.”

  The soft voice startled me so that I jerked and dropped the bottle. It clunked to the floor, dribbling its remaining contents onto the wood. With an exclamation, I turned to see Mark Downey in the doorway.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, hurrying forward. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Well, you did,” I said more tartly than I intended. Grabbing a tissue from the box on the stereo cabinet, I sopped up the grapefruit juice droplets.

  “Since when do you drink grapefruit juice?” Mark asked, stooping to pick up the bottle and plunk it in the trash can.

  “I don’t. Vitaly does. I think it made him sick.”

  “Yeah, it’s too bitter for me, too. I’m an orange juice man myself,” Mark said, smiling.

  I started to tell him what I really meant, then stopped. He’d think I was paranoid. “Did you need something?” I asked instead.

  “Not really.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small envelope. “A friend got called out of town unexpectedly. He had tickets to Lord of the Dance tonight and he gave them to me. Any chance you’d like to go?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, not really sorry. I’d seen Lord of the Dance before and didn’t in any event want Mark to think our friendship was going to move out of the ballroom. Ours was a business relationship, teacher-student, and I could see I was going to have to remind him about the boundaries. I had to do this with one student or another at least twice a year. Most of the male pros I knew-Rafe included-had to do it more or less weekly as their female students tended to develop inappropriate romantic attachments with the first simulated caress during a rumba or the intoxication of a turn series. I’d talk to Mark after the competition, when things had settled down a bit. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings now and have it affect his dancing this weekend. “I’ve already got plans for the evening,” I told him.

  His smile froze, but then he restored the tickets to his pocket. “Yeah, it was kind of late notice. Maybe another time.”

  I carefully avoided answering him as I dropped the juice-sodden tissue in the trash can.

  “Are the police making any progress on Rafe’s case?” he asked as we moved into the hall.

  “Not unless you consider arresting me progress,” I said.

  “What!” He put a hand on my arm to stop me and scanned my face worriedly.

  “Well, they didn’t really arrest me,” I conceded. “They hauled me down to the station for questioning, though, and scared me good.”

  “They’re idiots,” he said, releasing my arm with a small laugh. “Give me a call if they lock you up-I bake a mean German chocolate cake and I’m sure I can slip a file into it, or maybe some plastic explosives.”

  “You cook?” Maybe I needed to reconsider my rule about getting involved with students.

  He shook his head. “Bake. And only German chocolate cake. It was my mom’s favorite and I baked one for her birthday every year. My dad didn’t know a measuring spoon from a garlic press and my sister was too busy memorizing words to bother-she was into spelling bees big-time-so I elected myself.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Shrugging, he pulled open the door to the outside landing and the wind ruffled his sandy hair. “Mom seemed to enjoy it. So, see you tomorrow?”

  “You bet. You are going to walk away from the comp with the Top Student prize.”

  “I’ll do my best to make you proud.” With a light kiss on my cheek and a grin, he descended the stairs two at a time.

  Tav and I approached the historic building that housed the Argentine embassy on New Hampshire Avenue as a waning spring sun cast long shadows across the treelined street and rush-hour traffic clogged the roads. I was a little nervous, never having attended an embassy function of any kind before. Even though Tav had assured me that all the embassy personnel spoke flawless English, I worried that other guests might speak only Spanish. In his tuxedo, Tav looked like a movie star from the 1940s and I was too conscious of the hand he placed at the small of my back to guide me through the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the three-story white brick mansion. I craned my neck to see more wrought iron curving around toe-hold balconies on the second floor and a couple of window air-conditioning units jutting out like warts from windows on the top floor. Argentina’s blue-and-white-striped flag with the starburst sun in the middle undulated in the evening’s gentle breeze. Uniformed guards checked our IDs and invitation before nodding us toward social secretary types, who directed us into a receiving line.

  We shook hands and murmured pleasantries to tuxedoed or military-uniformed men and stunning women in designer gowns. I wasn’t quite sure what the guest of honor, a rotund man with a luxuriant mustache and small hands, did, but he greeted me with a vigorous handshake and a huge grin. I smiled back and moved ahead of Tav into the reception rooms, the hem of my emerald-green dress whispering against my ankles.

  Surveying the room, I noted more men than women, a buffet table clad in a tablecloth that echoed the blue of the Argentine flag, and a combo of six musicians playing big band tunes for a handful of dancers at the far end of the room. My foot tapped in time with the beat. Tav stood close behind me. I could feel his heat against my back and our faces were disturbingly close when I tilted my head back to ask softly, “Do you see him?”

  Scanning the assembled guests, Tav urged me forward slightly so we weren’t blocking the entrance. “There,” he said, nodding discreetly toward the far corner of the room, where a clump of dark-haired men in formalwear carried on an animated discussion with raised voices, expansive gestures, and the occasional bark of laughter. “The one facing us with the blue bow tie and cummerbund.”

  I studied Bazán surreptitiously. Probably no more than fiv
e-eight or five-nine, he still, in some indefinable way, seemed bigger than the taller men around him. Maybe it was the barrel chest or broad shoulders and bull neck. Or it could’ve been that he was much stiller than the other men, with an economy of motion that made his few gestures seem stronger. He had broad features, tanned skin, and dark eyes under droopy lids; I could totally see him on a horse riding the range or the steppes or the pampas-whatever they called open grassland in Argentina.

  It took me a moment to realize he was studying me as closely as I was studying him. Our eyes met and I looked away, flustered. I chastised myself for being so obvious. I’d make a really bad spy. “Bazán caught me looking at him,” I confessed to Tav.

  “What man would not be flattered by your interest?” he said, pivoting to impose his body between me and Bazán.

  “He didn’t look flattered,” I said dubiously. “Maybe we should go talk to him and get it over with.”

  Tav smiled and I felt a little jolt zing through my body. “It won’t be necessary. He’ll come to us before the evening is out.” As he talked, he nudged me toward a buffet table laden with goodies that made me want to forget dancing and eat until I qualified for a career as a plussize model. I helped myself to a handful of carrots, some strawberries, and a few barbecued shrimp.

  “How can you know that?”

  “He will have seen the guest list for tonight’s party and noted my name. I mentioned that our ranches shared a border, did I not? He will come over to greet us out of respect for my father.”

  “Goodness.” I wasn’t sure my father’s neighbors would recognize him on the street, never mind go out of their way to chat with him at a party. Maybe that was the difference between renting a suburban town house and owning a ranch. I watched enviously as Tav bit into a puff pastry that oozed chocolate and raspberry. The rest of his plate held other desserts, including a minicheesecake, a strawberry-kiwi tart, and sopapillas dusted with powdered sugar.

  “How can you mainline sugar like that?” I asked, searching his plate in vain for a vegetable or any item that didn’t come from the “rot your teeth” food group.

  “I have a sweet tooth,” he said, licking a trace of confectioner’s sugar from the corner of his mouth. “And, luckily, I have a fast metabolism.”

  “You’d be easy to hate,” I informed him.

  He laughed. I crunched ostentatiously and noisily into a carrot. A voice from behind Tav said, “Good evening, Acosta. What brings you to D.C.? I was surprised to see your name on the invitation list for tonight’s reception. Is Arturo in town?”

  Tav turned to reveal Héctor Bazán standing there, even more intimidating up close. The men shook hands. “No, my father is at home. I am here to make arrangements for Rafael’s body to be returned for burial. You will have heard about his death?”

  “Indeed,” Bazán said, his gaze panning me from my upswept hair, to the shoulders bared by my strapless emerald dress, to the red-painted toenails peeping from my high-heeled, bronze-colored sandals. “I read the reports and have discussed the case with the detective in charge. Even though Rafael opted for American citizenship, I took an interest for your father’s sake.”

  “That was kind of you,” Tav said.

  “The police seem to think Rafael’s business partner did it.”

  With an amused glance at me, Tav said, “I do not believe you have met Stacy Graysin, Héctor. She was my brother’s dance partner and co-owned the studio with him.”

  Irritation flickered in Bazán’s eyes for a moment before he took my hand and gracefully dropped a kiss on it. “I regret my unintentional rudeness, Señorita Graysin,” he said, smiling. “Obviously, you had nothing to do with Acosta’s death. The police are imbeciles.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I said, reclaiming my hand. The man had a certain rough charm and an intensity that I figured many women would find attractive. I was not completely immune to it myself, even after what Tav had told me about him. “And thank you for inviting me tonight. I’ve never been to an embassy party. It’s fascinating.”

  “They pall after a very short time, believe me,” he said.

  “I wanted to say hello to Victoria,” Tav said, “but I don’t see her. Is she here?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Bazán said smoothly. “She is visiting friends. She will be sorry to have missed you.”

  “I will be in town for a while yet. Perhaps I will still get a chance to see her. When does she get back?” Tav’s expression was guileless, expressing only the casual interest of a neighbor. Being a good liar obviously ran in the family.

  “Her plans are flexible,” Bazán said, after the briefest of hesitations. His narrowed gaze assessed the nature of Tav’s interest. “I’m not sure exactly when she’ll be home-a week? Ten days? But I’ll be sure to tell her you send your greetings.” Before Tav could respond, he turned to me. “Octavio said you dance?”

  I nodded.

  “Perhaps you would do me the honor?” He nodded toward the dance floor, where four or five couples chachaed with varying degrees of ability and enthusiasm. “You don’t mind, do you, Acosta?”

  Taking Tav’s acquiescence for granted, Bazán led me toward the dance floor, a smooth expanse of parquet at the far end of the long room from the buffet tables. Bazán led me around the floor and had a brief word with the keyboard player. Within seconds, the band segued to a beat suitable for the Argentine tango. Unlike its American counterpart, the Argentine tango is largely improvisational and I was surprised that Bazán had apparently requested it. It’s much easier to do standard figures with a partner who you don’t know than to improvise. Bazán clasped my right hand in his left and settled his right hand just above my waist, pulling me into a close hold. There was something familiar about his scent, but I couldn’t place it.

  “You are familiar with the Argentine tango?” he asked, leading me into a paso basico, the basic step. “It is not as predictable as your American version. You strike me as a woman who appreciates unpredictability.”

  What the hell does he mean by that? I wondered, following him easily. His timing was just a shade off the music’s beat, and he moved with more power than grace, but he was a better than average dancer.

  “Occasionally,” I agreed.

  “That must have been part of what attracted you to Rafe Acosta,” he said. “His… unpredictability.”

  I arched back slightly in his hold, trying to read his face. His eyes held a hint of mockery. “Actually, Rafe was pretty predictable,” I said. Up until the last few weeks. “He took dancing very seriously and trained hard.” And slept-predictably-with any woman who caught his fancy.

  As we traveled counter-clockwise around the floor, I spotted Tav engaged in conversation with a handsome couple about his age. He seemed oblivious to Bazán and me. I felt a bit piqued at his indifference, but quickly squelched the feeling. Tav was Rafe’s half brother and would be returning to Argentina in a few days. Letting myself be attracted to him spelled “disaster” in at least eight languages.

  “I, too, am a hard worker,” Bazán said, reclaiming my attention. “Perhaps I could be a competitive dancer.” He laughed, as if the idea were preposterous, but I got the sense of an ego that believed it could excel at any challenge. “I could take lessons at your studio.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “Drop in when your wife gets back from her trip.”

  His hand tightened painfully on mine. “What do you know about Victoria?”

  I gave him a startled look. “Nothing! I’ve never met her.” I tugged at my hand and his grip loosened.

  Steering me around an elderly couple who moved like they’d been dancing together for fifty years, he studied my face. “So who do you think killed Acosta?” he asked. “Perhaps it was a random thing-he surprised a thief or some such?”

  His tension communicated itself to me through the stiffness in his shoulders and a certain immobility in his jaw. “I have no idea,” I said truthfully. “Although I can’t think w
hy a thief would be in our ballroom. Hopefully, the police will realize I had nothing to do with his death and get on with finding the real killer.”

  “Indeed,” Bazán said with a tight smile. I got the feeling he was going to say more, but something behind me caught his attention.

  “The ambassador needs me,” he said. “I’m afraid I must cut our dance short, Miss Graysin. May I call you Stacy? Perhaps we can finish this another time.”

  “Of course,” I murmured as he escorted me to Tav’s side, nodded, and strode off toward the beckoning ambassador. The disturbance in the air caused by his movement brought a whiff of his scent back to me and this time I identified it: cigar.

  “He’s the one,” I whispered to Tav as we moved away from the couple he’d been speaking to. “The man from the limo.”

  “What were you talking about?” Tav nodded sideways toward the dance floor.

  “I’m not quite sure,” I admitted, filling him in on our conversation.

  “I would really like to talk to Victoria,” Tav said.

  “Did you believe Bazán about her traveling?”

  Tav’s gaze followed the diplomat as he exited the room. “No, I do not think I did.”

  “Maybe Rafe knew where she was. You said they were engaged once. Maybe they were running off together.” My stomach felt hollow and I had to force the words out. Maybe Rafe had never loved me. Maybe our whole time together was a sham. When he thought Victoria was unavailable, he settled for me, but when he found out she was here, nearby, they rekindled their romance. I blew out a sigh as if expelling the idea. It completely left Solange and his other brief flings out of the equation.