Quickstep to Murder Read online

  I sucked in a deep breath and my arms trembled. Pebbles dug into my palms and I didn’t even want to look at my skirt. Two women emerged from the heavy glass doors of Spactacular, the day spa directly across from Graysin Motion. They had the dewy glow and gleaming nails that spoke of facials, massages, and a gossipy interchange while the manicurist toiled. They both noted me from the corners of their eyes, the look city dwellers have perfected to avoid eye contact with homeless people, and one whispered to the other, “Probably drunk.”

  “What do we pay taxes for?” the other asked, somewhat obscurely. Climbing into the Mercedes sedan parked behind me, they angled away from the curb, almost running over my toes.

  Instinctively, I put a hand to the gaping neckline of my gown and struggled to my feet. A horn blared two inches behind me and I jumped. A soccer mommish woman in a green van was making shooing gestures. She wanted the parking spot. Her bumper nudged my thigh. The hell with her. I slammed my palm down hard on the van’s hood and leaped to the sidewalk. Stalking to the corner, my knees throbbing, I crossed at the light. The woman was still backing and cutting in, trying to parallel park. I waved at her in apology as I started up the stairs to Graysin Motion and she gave me the finger.

  Damn, my knees hurt. I struggled up the stairs and hobbled to my office. Plopping into the chair, I hiked my skirt up. Ick. My knees were scraped up good and oozing blood. Just what I needed. They’d better heal before the Capitol Ballroom Dance Festival, our warm-up for Blackpool in less than two weeks. And the dress was ruined. I examined the rips and oil stains on the stretchy fabric. I didn’t use the dress for competition, just for teaching, and I’d bought it for only thirty-two dollars at a Goodwill store, but still. Holding my dress at thigh height and hoping I didn’t run into anyone, I scuttled to the half bath down the hall. Washing my knees with soap and water, I patted them dry and stuck Band-Aids on before sticking my asphalt-blackened feet one at a time under the cool water flowing from the faucet. Aah, much better. Drying my tootsies, I grabbed a sparkling water from the mini-fridge we kept in the bathroom before slinking back to the office. I settled into my chair and stretched my legs out under the desk, wincing.

  “I don’t know where you think we’re lunching, but you’re waaay overdressed for the Falafel Hut.”

  I looked up with a smile. My sister, Danielle, slouched in the doorway. About my height, she’s thin where I’m curvy and practical when I’m occasionally-witness the limo incident-a tad impulsive. She has a long, narrow face and straight brows that give her a serious look she says is a real asset in negotiations. She’s a union organizer for service and clerical workers. I don’t know what she does, exactly, except she disappears for a week or two now and then to participate in a strike and she gets a lot of satisfaction from helping wronged secretaries get back at harassing bosses. You’d think her head of flaming red curls-from Mom’s side of the family-would mean she has a temper, but she’s the calmest person I know.

  “Come on down while I change,” I said, pushing to my feet.

  She backed into the hall as I shuffled to the door. “What? Did you add judo throws to your class today? And I’ve heard of people paying obscene sums for ‘distressed’ jeans, but I didn’t know the trend had extended to ball gowns.”

  “Since when are you a fashion critic?” I asked. Dani had the dullest collection of beige, navy, and gray suits ever assembled in a single closet. With shoes to match. She called her wardrobe “nonthreatening” and said it helped her connect with the pink- and blue-collar workers she represented. I’d rather starve on the street than wear beige. Sometimes it’s hard to believe we’re related.

  Just as I reached the hall, the door leading to the exterior stairs swung open. Mark Downey stepped in, his sandy hair tousled, a grin on his face. A couple years younger than me, Mark did something with computers and danced on the side. He paid me a handsome fee to dance with him at professional-amateur competitions-common practice in the competitive ballroom world; in fact, it’s how most pros made the bulk of their money.

  “Stacy! Just the person I was hoping to see,” he said. Two strides brought him to where I stood and he bent to kiss my cheek. I introduced him to Dani and they shook hands.

  “Did we have a practice scheduled?” I wrinkled my brow, sure it hadn’t been on my calendar. His buttondown shirt and khaki slacks didn’t suggest he was here to dance.

  “No. I was just in the area and thought I’d take you to lunch. You, too,” he said, politely extending the invitation to Dani.

  “That’s sweet of you, Mark,” I said, “but Dani and I have plans. Maybe another time?”

  “Sure.” He took the rebuff easily. “I’ve got a few errands to run anyway. See you at class tonight?”

  “Probably.” Rafe was scheduled to teach, but I usually poked my head in.

  “Great. See you then. Nice meeting you, Danielle,” he said. With a flip of his hand he disappeared out the door. I could hear him clomping down the stairs.

  “He’s got a thing for you,” Dani observed slyly.

  “He’s a kid,” I said. “And he’s got a girlfriend. She’s come to watch us in competitions once or twice.”

  “Still. You could do worse. He’s cute if you like the boy-next-door type. Beaver Cleaver or Richie Cunningham all grown up.”

  I didn’t answer since we both knew my taste ran more to an edgy, dangerous, heartbreaking Rafe Acosta type.

  We headed down the hall that ran the length of the house to a door marked PRIVATE. As we descended the interior stairs to my living quarters, I told Dani about Rafe’s strange behavior and about my run-in with the limo.

  “What’d they say before they ran you down?” Danielle asked as we emerged into my sun-drenched kitchen.

  Although I loved the natural light, it did tend to spotlight the worn areas in the lichen-colored linoleum that was probably laid down before the Iron Curtain went up, and the stained grout on the turquoise tiled counters, remnants of an unfortunate redecorating effort in the 1960s. As soon as I had any money to spare, I was redoing the kitchen. “Zilch.”

  “Have you considered the possibility this was just some poor chauffeur waiting for his employer to finish at the day spa? He probably thought you were a celebrity stalker or something.”

  I ducked into my bedroom to change, but left the door open so I could hear Dani.

  “It wasn’t a celebrity,” I called, shucking off my ruined dress and reaching for a pair of green capris. “The car had diplomat plates.” I hadn’t learned much from my confrontation with the limo, but I had noticed the license plate as it sped away; the familiar blue and white bore the country code “PR.” I didn’t know what country that was offhand, but I could Google it later.

  “Fine. So it was an ambassador getting a hot stone massage, not Tom Cruise.”

  Pulling on a green-and-white-striped T-shirt, I slipped my feet into white espadrilles and joined Dani. She was seated at the kitchen table, watching a cardinal splash in the birdbath in my backyard. It’s not really a yard-just a ten-by-five brick patio surrounded on three sides by a three-feet-wide grass border-but I keep multiple birdfeeders and the birdbath filled and have a bunch of containers brimming with flowers and herbs, so it attracts a lot of birds and butterflies.

  “Finally,” she greeted my appearance. “Let’s get going. I’m starved.”

  ***

  Over a Greek salad at the Falafel Hut two blocks east, I told her about Rafe’s erratic behavior in recent weeks. The spicy scent of gyros and the sound of kitchen clinkings permeated my story.

  She took her time answering when I finished, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin before saying, “Maybe you’re just a teensy bit too interested in Rafe’s activities for an ex-fiancée?”

  “What? You’re saying I’m making this up? That I’m jealous?”

  “Making it up-no. Jealous…” Her voice trailed off. “It’s only been a few months. You can’t expect to be over him so soon.”

  “I was over
him the minute I caught him in bed with Solange,” I said. I gulped some iced tea and choked, earning stares from the family standing in line to order.

  “Uh-huh.” Dani took a bite of her pita-wrapped falafel.

  “Don’t uh-huh me like that. Just say what you’re thinking.” I glared at her.

  She gazed back calmly. “Okay. I think the most likely explanation is that Rafe has another woman on a string and you like poking at the wound. Maybe catching him with another woman would be even more vindication for you, or something. It’s not like Solange was the first time he cheated on you. It’s just that she was the first one you caught him naked with so you couldn’t ignore the evidence.”

  Damn. This honesty thing didn’t have much going for it. I blinked back tears, scooping salad into my mouth so Dani wouldn’t notice. An unwelcome thought crept in: Maybe she was a teensy, weensy bit right. Maybe I was still a bit emotionally connected to Rafe. Not in a loveydovey way, but in a woman scorned way, which was almost as bad. I aspired to total indifference.

  “You okay?” She lowered her head almost to table level so she could look up into my face, which I kept bent over my bowl. One red curl dipped in the tzatziki sauce.

  “Sure,” I mumbled around a mouthful of lettuce. “Peachy. For a neurotic, jealous, spying ex-girlfriend.” I pushed my salad away and flashed her a crooked smile. “You have yogurt sauce in your hair.”

  She straightened up, a relieved smile on her face. Using a napkin, she wiped the sauce off her hair. The curl sproinged back into place when she released it. “Good. It’s time to move on, sister-mine. Forget the dirtball. Coop’s brother is in town this weekend-maybe we could double date.”

  I curled my lip. Cooper Tate, her boyfriend of four years, was not my cup of tea. He was lanky and serious and did something in security for a local university. For a wild night out, he went to a chess club. I didn’t imagine any man who sprang from the same gene pool would light my fire.

  She read my expression and scowled, tossing her utensils onto the tray. “Coop’s a good man. At least he’s never cheated on me.”

  That was low. “And he’s never proposed either, has he?” Sisters can push one another’s buttons like no one else in the world.

  We glared at each other, then bussed the table and hit the sidewalk. The heat and humidity draped over us like a wet mohair blanket. Feeling bad about my verbal jab, I offered a half apology. “I don’t think I’m ready to go out with anyone yet, Dani.”

  After a moment, she muttered, “It’s okay. But you’ve gotta get over him sooner or later. I vote for sooner.”

  As we hugged good-bye, I said, “You know, just because I’m neurotic doesn’t mean there’s not something fishy going on with Rafe. And if it’s something that can hurt Graysin Motion, I’m going to figure it out.”

  Chapter 2

  I tackled Rafe about his disappearing acts when he arrived half an hour late for our practice session Wednesday morning. This close to the Capitol Festival and to Blackpool, we were rehearsing two to three hours a day on top of our teaching schedule. Usually we practiced in the morning and taught in the afternoons and evenings. It made for a long day. Yesterday had been particularly long since Rafe hadn’t shown up to help with the evening class and I’d had to recruit Mark Downey to help teach. I was tired and achy and in no mood to put up with Rafe’s mierda del toro.

  We were in the ballroom and sun flooded through the front windows. Rafe squinted against the glare and pulled the cord to close the vanilla-colored sheers. All in black-a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off to display his muscled arms, and slim pants-he looked fit and elegant as he jumped in place to warm up.

  And now his flaky behavior was threatening to wreck all our hard work.

  “You missed the Latin class last night,” I said. “And it’s not the first time. What the hell’s going on?” I pulled up one pink legwarmer, hoping the Band-Aids on my knees held. This practice was a shorts and T-shirt affair and I had my long hair in a ponytail draped over my shoulder.

  Rafe arched a dark brow. “You sound like a jealous fiancée, querida. Are you regretting-?”

  I was tired of all the jealousy insinuations. First Dani, now Rafe. I straightened. “I sound like a pissed-off business partner. I can’t teach all the classes myself. Last night was the third time you’ve blown off a class in two weeks. I can’t count on you; the students have commented on your absences. What’s going on? Does it have anything to do with that limo that’s been loitering out front?”

  “What are you talking about?” Rafe’s face was carefully expressionless, but his nostrils flared and I thought he paled.

  “Come off it! I saw you get into the limo last week and I went down to check it out when I saw it lurking at the curb again.”

  “You what?” Concern, maybe even fear, flickered in his dark eyes.

  “I knocked on the window and asked for you.”

  He forced a laugh, turning away from me to sort through a stack of CDs by the stereo. The jewel cases clacked. “This is sounding more and more like a jealous girlfriend trying to keep tabs on her lover. Did you expect to find me making love to an exotic woman on the backseat? What did she say?” His voice was casual, but I could tell by the way his eyes cut to me that he was interested in my answer.

  “It wasn’t a she,” I said. “Not unless she likes cigars. And they didn’t tell me anything-just pulled away, almost knocking me into traffic.” I hesitated, trying to find a way to put my concern into words. “I’m not remotely jealous and if this is just a woman who’s hot for your bod, then great. But if it’s more than that, if you’re in trouble, or mixed up in something-”

  He turned to face me and indecision played across his handsome face. For a moment I thought he was going to confide in me, but then he fixed a smile in place and said, “You are letting your imagination run away with you. You are under too much stress with the studio. If I promise not to cut class again, can we let this go and talk about how Graysin Motion can generate more income?” He made a big, mocking X over his heart with one finger.

  I snorted with disgust. “If you say ‘recital,’ I swear I’m going to scream. If you want more money, sell the damn Lexus.”

  “It’s leased.” His mouth tightened.

  That took me aback. I might only get toaster ovens as gifts, but at least they were mine to keep. “Oh.” He strode toward me and stopped inches away. I caught the familiar scent of him, a hint of sweat and a whiff of musky cologne. “Are we going to argue or practice?”

  “Sounds like trouble in paradise,” a sultry voice said from the threshold.

  Solange Dubonnet lounged against the doorjamb, all voluptuous curves and tumbling auburn curls. Her green eyes tipped up at the corners, making her look like a cat. Of course, that might just have been her personality oozing through.

  “This is a private practice, Solange,” I said. Since catching her in bed with Rafe, I’d found it hard to be civil to her. She’d injured her ankle not long after I caught her with Rafe and had left the studio where she’d been teaching. I didn’t know if she’d been fired or had chosen to leave. Her partner had found someone else to dance with while Solange healed and did rehab, and had told her earlier this week that he was sticking with his new partner permanently. It was almost-not quite-enough to make me feel sorry for her. I’d feel a whole lot sorrier except I figured she and Rafe would team up after Blackpool, assuming her ankle was sufficiently recovered.

  “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting.” She strolled toward us, leaning up against Rafe to plant a kiss on his lips.

  He turned his head so her lips glanced off his cheek. “I’m busy, Solange.”

  Oo-ho. Was he bored with her already? The juvenile part of me wanted to taunt, “Nyah-nyah. You lasted only four months.” The mature part of me-I was about to turn thirty, after all-asked, “What did you need?”

  Her cheeks had flushed at his rebuff, but she shrugged and headed for the stereo. “I just need to pick up my CD.�
� She flipped through the jewel cases, held one up in a manicured hand, and walked to the door, hips rolling provocatively under a silky green sarong. She looked over her shoulder when she reached the door. “Later?”

  “Maybe.” Rafe didn’t meet her eyes. “Stacy and I need to talk business after practice.”

  Solange narrowed her eyes and looked from me to Rafe and back again. “Sure. Call first, if you’re going to come over. I might be going out.” She flung her head, swishing her hair over her shoulders, and stalked away.

  Before Rafe could resume his arguments about the business, I cued up our quickstep music and turned the volume high enough to make conversation difficult. A sweaty two hours later, we’d made solid progress on our new quickstep routine and added a nifty turn series to our foxtrot. Rafe had been checking his watch the last twenty minutes of our practice time and when we finally quit he said, “I’ve got an appointment I can’t miss. Let’s talk this evening, Stacy. Please? It’s important.”

  “Sure,” I said, using much the same tone as Solange had earlier. I grabbed a small towel and blotted my forehead.

  He caught my arm and I looked at him in surprise. His face was unusually serious. “I mean it. I’ll come over.”

  “Call me and I’ll meet you in the office,” I agreed, not wanting him in my house, evoking memories of our good times, leaving a trace of his scent on the couch cushions. This would be a business meeting, not a cozy reunion. The thought crossed my mind that maybe he was looking for a reconciliation. If his relationship with Solange was over already, he might be having some regrets. I hardened my heart, letting my mind replay the moment I opened our bedroom door and found him with Solange. Skin, gasps, rumpled bedclothes. I threw those sheets away, even though they were almost new. I headed downstairs for a shower. It was too late for kissing and making up.