Quickstep to Murder Page 15

  Tav and I batted around a few ideas about how Victoria might tie in to Rafe’s murder. I suggested she might have killed him and was now in hiding, and Tav countered with Bazán as the murderer, having found out that his wife and Rafe were carrying on a torrid affair. He had killed Victoria, too, Tav theorized, and hidden her body. Both our theories foundered on logistics: neither Bazán nor Victoria was likely to know I had a gun, never mind have the opportunity to sneak into my bedroom to steal it.

  The band struck up “Fly Me to the Moon,” perfect foxtrot music, and I looked up at Tav. “Let’s dance.”

  He shook his head, a rueful smile playing across his handsome face. “You forget-I do not dance.”

  “I’m a teacher.” I took a step toward the dance floor. Teaching Tav to dance would be fun, and I had to admit that the thought of him pulling me close had more appeal than it should.

  He grabbed my hand to restrain me, his hand callused and hard against mine. “This”-he gestured to the crowded room-“is not the ideal location for a first lesson.”

  “There’s a dance floor and music.” I tugged at his hand. “Come on.”

  “I do not choose to look like a fool in front of so many people,” he said, standing as if rooted to the floor. “Would you want to learn how to play soccer with a hundred people looking on?”

  He had a point. “I don’t want to learn to play soccer under any circumstances,” I said, letting go of his hand.

  He grinned, crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes and looking so dangerously attractive that I caught my breath. “But turnabout is fair play, no? If you are to teach me to dance, than I must also teach you something.”

  I returned his smile, thinking that he could teach me anything he wanted to, although I’d prefer that the activity not involve a ball, teammates, or onlookers.

  Chapter 13

  The excitement of the competition swirled around me Friday morning as I descended in the hotel elevator from my twelfth-floor room in downtown D.C. Dressed in a short scarlet dress with narrow horizontal panels of flesh-colored mesh and thousands of stones twinkling across the bodice and skirt, I was ready for the Latin rounds that kicked off at seven o’clock. I’d been up since four, doing my makeup-including false eyelashes-and hair. I had pulled it back into a complicated twist, securing it with rhinestoned clips and gel. The getup was probably more appropriate for a nightclub than a hotel, and the businessman who got on at the fourth floor had trouble not staring. The lobby, though, bustled with similarly dressed women, some wearing silk robes over their brief Latin costumes and others shuffling around in flip-flops or slippers. Temperatures in the ballroom were generally kept at levels a penguin would find chilly and Latin costumes especially tended to be skimpy, so robes or other cover-ups were useful for preventing frostbite. A student in a tux did relèvés to warm up as he chatted with a friend by the registration desk.

  It was a familiar scene and I let a smile burst over my face. I loved this. The competitive spirit that electrified the air, the fit bodies, the glitz of costumes, and the female students feeling glamorous with their fake lashes and cat’s-eye black liner, moving with an ease and sensuality that they normally hid behind tailored suits or mom jeans in the cubicles or minivans that defined their usual existence. Nondancers, a minority of the hotel’s clientele this weekend, eyed us surreptitiously, disconcerted, curious, or envious of the gathering that looked and sounded like a convocation of noisy tropical birds. I didn’t imagine their dental conventions or library association meetings looked much like this.

  I grabbed a coffee, a yogurt, and a hard-boiled egg from a cart in the hall by the ballroom, needing fuel for the dancing, but keeping it light because the sleek contours of my dress would be unforgiving of a large meal. Entering the large ballroom, I spotted the event organizer on a dais that stretched the width of the room and waved. Graysin Motion’s table-each studio competing in the event had a floor-side table at which competitors could relax between heats-was midway down the dance floor on the far side and I made my way to it, exchanging greetings with pros I hadn’t seen since the last competition. Vitaly was already at the table chatting with a student. He’d called me last night and said his tummy troubles were under control and he’d be able to compete.

  “Vitaly is never saying die,” he had told me over the phone, sounding as energetic as a soggy string mop.

  The dark blue silk robe he wore with VOLOSHIN embroidered across the back gave his skin the pallor of a day-old corpse, but he managed a smile when I got to the table. Maurice showed up moments later, an elderly student on each arm. They were the pair I’d heard arguing the day Rafe died. The lanky one wore a stunning silver gown I suspected was vintage Valentino and the plumper one had on a hot-pink number with enough ruffles to make it fit in at the Copacabana. At her side walked the harlequin Great Dane, a green vest around his middle that read SERVICE DOG. His cropped ears were pricked forward and he sniffed interestedly at everyone who crossed his path. The threesome sat at the table and the dog rested his chin on it, his nostrils working as if trying to figure out where the food was.

  “Service dog, my eye,” the woman in silver said. “You’re not blind or crippled, Mildred, even if your knees creak like a rusty gate when you dance.”

  Mildred patted the dog’s head and he lolled his tongue happily. “Hoover is a service dog. He keeps away people who annoy me, don’t you Hoover-love?” She made kissy noises at the dog and he licked her face. “Give Edwina a little sugar. Sweeten up her sour attitude.”

  The dog obligingly moved toward Edwina, who rolled her chair backward and swept her skirts out of the way of his huge paws. “Don’t let him drool on my gown. It’s Valentino!”

  “See, it works,” Mildred said triumphantly, patting her thigh so the dog lumbered back to her.

  “Hmph.”

  I shot Maurice a look and he shrugged his shoulders in a “what can you do?” gesture.

  The students competing with us in the bronze Latin heats trickled in and the competition kicked off only a few minutes behind schedule. My student was a fiftyish man with all the rhythm of a two-by-four, but he loved the Latin dances and jiggled from foot to foot as we waited in the holding area just off the dance floor, near the table laden with computers, scorecards, and schedules. Judges ringed the floor, clipboards at the ready, as the announcer called out the competitors’ numbers and we filed onto the floor with eight other couples, including Vitaly and his student. Samba music boomed out of large speakers and someone hastily adjusted the volume to something less than shuttle liftoff decibels as we began to dance.

  Heats lasted only a minute and twenty seconds with dancers filing off the floor and new ones hurrying on in a choreography almost as complicated as the cha-chas and jives that livened up the dance floor. At this early hour, few spectators besides other competitors ringed the floor or sat in the lines of chairs carefully set out by the hotel. We danced for ourselves and the judges alone, and I felt my student relax into the music. I whispered words of encouragement or step reminders as the music flowed around us. We stayed on the floor, moving from one heat to the next, as the judges made notes on their scorecards and runners took the cards from the judges and ran them up to the score collators seated behind computer terminals. By the time I left the floor, Taryn and Sawyer were seated at our table alongside Sherry Indrebo with a man I guessed was her husband, and Leon Hall. The latter kept his eyes fixed on his daughter, much the way I imagined a U.S. marshal might keep an eye on a convicted felon he was transporting. All that was missing were the handcuffs.

  “Have you guys warmed up?” I asked brightly.

  “We should probably stretch,” Sawyer said, seizing on the excuse and rising.

  “There’ll be room in the hall,” Taryn said. She slipped gracefully between the tables, which were situated too close to one another and headed for the door, the turquoise chiffon of her dress fluttering behind her.

  Her father foiled their plan to snatch a little pr
ivacy by plodding after them. Sherry and I watched them go.

  “He acts like he’s her jailer,” Sherry observed, unconsciously echoing my thoughts. She pulled her cashmere robe more tightly around her slim figure. “You’d think she was six instead of sixteen. By the time I was that age, I’d already worked on my first political campaign and traveled to D.C. by myself for the inauguration festivities.”

  The story impressed me and I realized I didn’t know much about Sherry. “Have you always been interested in politics?” I asked.

  “Always. It’s my life.” Sincerity rang in her voice. As if embarrassed about her response, she immediately turned to face the dance floor and studied the jiving couples as if she were going to be quizzed on them later.

  Her husband, a distinguished-looking man in his late sixties or early seventies with steel-gray hair, squeezed her arm. A cane hung over the chair arm on his left side. “I told Sherry the first day we met that she could get elected to Congress. I’ve always been one to put my money where my mouth is, so I backed her and she was on her way to D.C. the next November. It’s been a winwin situation for the American people and Sherry.”

  “And you,” Sherry said, a note of petulance in her voice. She shrugged off her husband’s hand.

  I tried to remember his name. Ruben? Rudy?

  He seemed unperturbed by her pettishness, letting his hand drop to the table. A heavy gold ring set with a dark red stone winked dully from his ring finger, drawing attention to a large-knuckled hand more suited to farming or blacksmithing than steering a Fortune 500 company. “We’ll be living in the governor’s mansion before we’re through.”

  “Or the White House?” I suggested, half joking.

  “Never say never,” he agreed.

  “Ruben.” Sherry frowned at her husband like he’d said something indiscreet.

  A flicker of movement from the far end of the ballroom caught my eye and I looked up to see a slim, dark-haired woman staring at me. Wearing jeans and a denim jacket, she turned away when she saw me looking her way and hurried out of the room. My brows drew together; she looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Obviously not a dancer-probably just a fan, or a relative of a dancer trying to figure out where to sit. It could be confusing. I dismissed her from my thoughts and rose to join my student as our next heat was called.

  The day progressed pretty much as usual, although I found myself missing Rafe more than I’d realized I would. I kept looking for him to share a glance or a raised brow about a judging result or a misstep by one of our fellow pros, but he wasn’t there. Vitaly’s ongoing commentary was more trenchant, and occasionally amusing-“He is looking like the hunching back of Notre Dame with that weak frame”-but I didn’t have the connection with him I’d had with Rafe. Having to break the news of his death to the few pros and friends who hadn’t heard about it put a damper on my day, too. Our students did well in the day’s heats, though, and came off the floor glowing when the judges handed them ribbons during the rapid-fire announcement of winners at the end of each division.

  Late that afternoon, as the day’s competition was wrapping up so dancers could grab a quick meal before the evening’s heats started at seven, I finished a conversation with the woman selling off-the-rack ball gowns and Latin costumes and cut through a darkened conference room that adjoined the main ballroom via one of those folding walls. A shuffling sound in the corner made me realize it wasn’t empty and I found myself gazing at Sawyer and Taryn, locked in the kind of clinch that convinced me Taryn’s baby would probably sport Sawyer’s strong nose and high forehead. I took a surreptitious step backward, planning to ease myself out of the room before they came up for air, but halted when I caught sight of another figure staring at the oblivious couple, his rage visible even across the shadowy room. Leon Hall.

  “Taryn Adrienne Hall!” he bellowed, charging toward the couple, who split apart guiltily. “Why are you kissing that… that poofter?”

  Sawyer straightened his spine and took a half step to shield Taryn from her father’s wrath. He looked young and spindly, and I knew Hall could mow him down in half a second. “Sir, I-”

  The clue-bird landed on Hall with the heavy weight of a vulture and his expression of astonishment was almost ludicrous. “You’re not queer, are you? Taryn lied to me! You told me he was light in the loafers.” Hall growled at Taryn, caught midway between confusion and fury. “That’s the only reason I let you do this ballroom dancing thing and spend all that time practicing with him. Why did you lie to me?”

  I thought he’d just answered his own question, so I kept my mouth shut, moving forward quietly so I could intervene if necessary.

  “Daddy, I-”

  With the inevitability of the sun rising in the east, the rest of the truth dawned on Hall. “You’re the father! You’re the bastard who knocked up my baby!” With a roar, he charged toward Sawyer, who held his ground for a split second and then scrambled toward the door.

  I wished I had my cell phone so I could call hotel security, but there was nowhere to put it in my Latin costume so it sat uselessly on the table in the ballroom. “This way,” I called to Sawyer, hoping to direct him out the door I’d come in, but apparently he didn’t hear me because he dodged around a couple of chairs and vaulted onto the conference table, sliding across it on his hip before Hall could change direction. Sawyer dashed through the door into the main ballroom as Taryn called, “Don’t kill him, Daddy. I love him!”

  Her words added fuel to Hall’s fire and he ran after Sawyer with Taryn and me following, hoping to prevent a maiming. Dancers floated across the floor to the strains of a Viennese waltz and Sawyer plowed through them, knocking a woman in yellow chiffon aside as the rest of the dancers stuttered to a halt. One pro I knew slightly, a tall man in his thirties, stepped in front of Hall, holding his hands out to stop him. “Hey, buddy, this is a dance-”

  Hall knocked the pro aside and the man windmilled his arms to keep his balance. Several people pulled out cell phones and began to take photos or video of the chase. I hoped some of them were calling the police because I had no doubt Hall meant to inflict serious damage on Sawyer if he caught up with him. Sawyer had made it to the far side of the ballroom and was headed for an emergency exit when he caught his foot on a table leg. The table, laden with glasses and pitchers of ice water for thirsty dancers, tilted and its contents splashed to the ground, strewing broken glass and ice cubes across a twelve-foot radius. Stumbling forward, Sawyer recovered without hitting the ground, but it gave Hall the necessary seconds to catch up with him. With a huge lunge, Hall flung himself toward the younger man, catching the tails of his tux.

  The fabric made a ripping sound but didn’t totally give way, and Sawyer crashed against the emergency door, triggering a loud alarm that added to the general chaos. He fell, half in and half out of the door, with Hall clutching at his feet. Daylight and a fresh breeze swept into the room.

  A quavery voice yelled, “Sic ’em, Hoover,” and suddenly the Great Dane was there, unclear on the concept of “siccing” but happy to join in this fun game that involved people rolling on the floor. He nosed first Sawyer and then Hall, who turned his head aside with a gagging noise.

  “Woof,” Hoover barked, bowing over his outstretched forelegs, his rump in the air with his tail whipping back and forth. Skirting the tail, which had already knocked a soda can from a nearby table, I flung myself onto Hall and grabbed for one of his legs as he tried to simultaneously climb his way up Sawyer’s legs and pound at him. Kicking at the heavier man, Sawyer struggled to claw his way out the door to safety. Hall had maneuvered his way up Sawyer’s torso and had one hand around his neck when Taryn joined me and latched on to her father’s other leg. Together, we leaned backward, bracing our thighs and hauling on Hall’s legs. My shoulder muscles burned as he twisted and kicked. My hands slipped and I was reduced to clutching at the hem of his jeans, unable to get a good grip.

  “Daddy!” Taryn cried, tears in her voice and her ey
es. “Stop it!”

  Just as my grip gave way, Hoover bounded over again, planting one saucer-sized paw onto Hall’s back, making the man grunt and look over his shoulder, which allowed Sawyer to wiggle forward another couple of inches. Mildred appeared in her ruffly pink dress, a supersized Milk-Bone in her hand, and commanded, “Sit, Hoover.”

  Hoover sat, planting his rear end firmly on Hall’s back, and disposed of his treat with two crunching bites. Five men hurried up-finally!-and two of them grabbed Hall’s arms while another two secured his legs. The fifth took his cue from Hoover and sat on Hall’s back. Immobilized, Hall hurled names and threats at Sawyer, who had struggled to his feet and limped over to where Taryn sobbed into her hands. He glared at Hall, his face rigid and white.

  “Don’t you talk about how much you love Taryn when you treat her like this.” Sawyer hugged Taryn to his side with one arm. “I love Taryn and I’m going to take care of her and our baby whether you like it or not.”

  Despite the strain on his face, his ripped clothes, and the way his voice cracked on the word “baby,” Sawyer had a certain dignity about him. I caught a glimpse of the man he was going to be and I thought Taryn could do far worse. Apparently, her father didn’t agree.

  “You’re not good enough for my daughter, you lying sack of crap,” Hall growled, his words muffled from having his face mashed into the ground by one of his captors. “Don’t tell me I don’t love her-I’d do anything for her.”

  “Like kill Rafe Acosta because you thought he was the baby’s father? Like try to kill me? Like tell her she can’t dance anymore? Yeah, you’d do anything for her except respect her choices.”

  From the sudden silence in the room, I suspected everyone had tuned in after Sawyer accused Hall of killing Rafe.

  “He wouldn’t-” Taryn began, eyeing her father with heartbreaking doubt.

  Hall saw it and let out a groan, going still beneath his captors. I felt some sympathy for him, but it was all mixed up with my disgust at his ugly prejudices and my fear of the way his anger and frustrations immediately fizzed into assault and battery.