Dead on the Dance Floor (28 page)

“Nothing. I'll be out in a sec.”

Katarina was in the studio, minus her husband David. She was dancing with Ben. They were working on an advanced waltz, with Ben showing her how to create a beautiful arc with her body. “It's easy to forget the body when you're learning the steps,” Ben was saying seriously. “But now that you have the routine down, it's time to work the body. Think elegance. We dance together, but you've got to remember your position—your universe.”

“And get the hell out of your universe, right?” Katarina said, laughing. “I know what you mean, Ben. I just keep forgetting.”

“That's why we'll keep going over it,” he said. They waltzed away. Quinn two-left-feet O'Casey was waiting.

She walked over to him and took his hand, leading him to the other side of the floor. Justin Garcia was there, teaching salsa to a pretty young Oriental girl taking her first class. Sam Railey was still with Marnie. Her class was over, but they were talking by the kitchen, where Sam was fixing her a cup of coffee.

There was really nowhere private in the studio, but most of the time the music drowned out any conversation.

“Why are you taking classes at all?” she asked Quinn, leading him to her stash of CDs.

“Because I'm dying to be the Irish salsa sensation of the city,” he said dryly.

“Really?”

“Sibling rivalry? Doug has gotten so good, I can't stand it.”

“Really.”

“It's the best way to be here.”

“It's an expensive way to be here.”

“True,” he agreed. “But if I hang around enough, I can find out all the deep, dark secrets going on around the place.”

“Yeah, like our lives are deep, dark secrets,” she said dryly. “We don't have lives. That's the sad truth.”

“Lara had a life. An active one.”

Shannon waited for Justin's salsa to end, then slipped a basic waltz into the player. “Come on,” she told him. “Get the count. It's very basic. One, two, three…one, two, three…”

She was amazed to discover that he actually had it.

“Not bad,” she told him.

“My mom made me do this one when I was growing up,” he admitted. “But you seem really unhappy teaching me. So let's talk.”

“Can you talk and keep count?” she asked.

“Yes!”

“Don't bark at me. Lots of times, in the beginning, people need to count. Then they learn to move and converse at the same time.”

“Let's see, you know what I am, what I do. So let's start with you. On the day Lara died, did you spend any private time with her?”

Shannon stared at him, realizing that he was far better at dancing than he had let on. Or maybe it was just the waltz. He seemed extremely capable of moving around the floor and grilling her at the same time.

She stared at him hard in return and answered. “No. I got along with her fine. When she came to the studio, I wrote her checks, chatted pleasantly and applauded her triumphs. But we weren't friends, and we didn't go looking for each other's company. So no, I was never alone with her.”

“Did you see anyone alone with her?”

She shook her head. “I wouldn't have been watching her.”

“So what shook you up so badly that day?”

“Nothing,” she said, then stopped, inhaling sharply.

“So you've been lying?”

She shook her head. “No, not lying,” she said, and hesitated. “I…I've been pretty angry at you.”

“Gee, you're kidding.” His eyes were sharp as crystal, cool, distant. He was working now. And he was good at it. She felt as if she should be ready to spill everything. She reminded herself that he was a P.I., not a cop.

But he had been a cop once. Maybe he'd left in hopes of making more money as a private citizen. She felt as if she was dancing with Eliot Ness.

“Tell me,” he persisted. “And tell me, too, why you haven't told me yet.”

“Because it isn't really anything,” she insisted.

“I'll decide that.”

“When Lara was dancing, a waiter came up to me and said, ‘You're next.'”

“‘You're next'?” Quinn repeated.

“Yes. That's why…well, I'm assuming he just mixed me up with someone else. I wasn't competing, so I couldn't have been next. But that's also why it freaked me out a little. You know…
you're next.
As if I were next…to die. I assumed it's just part of the paranoia I picked up after Lara died.”

“You should never assume. You're sure the man was a waiter?”

“He was dressed as a waiter.”

“I'll check into it,” he told her.

“How are you even going to know what waiters were working that day? Never mind—it's what you do.”

The music stopped. Justin slipped a salsa CD back into the machine. Shannon determined to tone her temper down. After all, he wasn't the enemy. He was trying to find the truth.

And that was what she wanted.

“Thank you,” she managed to tell him. “If I can find out that the man really was just mixed-up, then I will feel better.”

“I'll find out,” he said flatly. “And here's the deal—when you think of anything, no matter how silly, you tell me.”

“Yes,” she said.

“And…” he said firmly.

“And what?”

“My time isn't nearly up. I think I've proved I've got the count on this. What I don't know is any more steps. And why are you arching away like that, trying not to look at me?”

“Because I'm not supposed to look at you in a waltz. There's a way to hold your partner in close contact, but you're not really ready for that yet.”

He arched a brow. “Try me,” he said softly.

“You're a beginner—two left feet. You said so yourself.”

“Not in everything.”

She wasn't sure exactly what he meant, if there was an innuendo there, or if he was referring completely to dance.

“Excuse me. I'll get your book and put on a waltz as soon as Justin's disk ends.”

She walked away from him, grabbed his new student folder from the bookshelf and headed back over to the stereo system. The salsa ended. She got ready to slip in another waltz.

There was a second between the disks. A split second.

And in that fraction of time, she heard it.

That sound, a scraping, like nails against a blackboard, like metal against metal, like…something moving, opening, closing….

Then the music started again, and Quinn came up behind her.

She turned, frowning. “Did you hear that?”

“What? Something in the music I should have heard?” he asked.

“No…no…like…”

“A car backfired down on the road somewhere,” he told her.

She shook her head again.

“What did you hear?” he demanded.

“I don't know. Nothing, really. I guess it was the car.” It was broad daylight. The studio was filled with people. The streets below were busy. It could have been anything.

Except she had heard that noise before.

When his lesson ended, she was very surprised to realize that it hadn't been mercilessly painful, and he seemed ruefully pleased himself. Maybe the classes were just a byproduct of his work, but he was getting somewhere with them, at least.

He left right after his lesson, taking Marnie with him.

And after he was gone, the day seemed to drag on. She made a point of wandering into every room, studying it. Trying to figure out what might make the noise she kept hearing.

Nothing. She had to make a lame excuse about checking the toilet paper when she ran into Sam as he walked into the men's room while she was on her way out.

“Slow day for you, huh?” he teased.

Then Justin came in. “We never had a lineup like this in here before,” he said.

“I was just checking supplies,” she said.

Then Gordon entered. “What the hell is this? Grand Central Station?” he demanded. Hands on his hips, eyes narrowed, he looked at her suspiciously.

“I was making sure there was enough toilet paper.”

A bushy white brow hiked. “In the men's room? The cleaning lady does that once a week.”

“Someone said we were out,” she mumbled. Then, both exasperated and embarrassed, she pushed her way out.

Despite her search, she continually found herself listening. And watching Ben. Finally, when she was in the reception area and Ben came to check his schedule, she asked him about the night before.

“Ben?”

“Hmm?”

“Last night…?”

“Yes?”

“You said you'd been at the convenience store.”

He looked from the book to her. “Right.”

She shook her head. “But you didn't have a bag or anything with you. What did you buy?”

He frowned, staring at her. “Something personal,” he said. “And really none of your business.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you accusing me of having run up here to follow you?”

“No, I was just asking.”

He set his hand on her chair and leaned toward her. “Condoms.”

“What?”

“If you must know, I was buying condoms. And if you don't believe me, go ask Julio. The little Honduran guy. He was the one working there last night.”

She felt a flush cover her cheeks, but it didn't matter. Ben had stepped away from her chair.

“Thanks for the info,” she said, rising and pushing past him.

After that, the day became even more tedious, with the tension rising between her and Ben.

That night, a number of the others were going down to the club. Shannon was glad she wasn't going to be leaving the studio alone.

But as she started to close down, she realized Ella was already gone, and the group going clubbing was already on the way down.

She was going to wind up in the studio alone after all.

She ran into her office, grabbed her purse, then froze. There were footsteps coming toward her office.

She swung around, ready to wage battle with her purse.

But it was Gordon. He arched a brow slowly. “What is going on with you, Shannon?”

She lowered her purse but kept it clenched tightly in her hand.

“Shannon?”

His voice seemed low and quiet, and yet his features were tense. He was holding a pen at his side. He seemed to be clutching it very tightly.

Gordon Henson had been her mentor from the beginning. He had given her this job, had given her his trust. He had brought her through the ranks.

He had also been the first to teach and encourage Lara Trudeau.

“Nothing. Nothing is going on.” She looked at his pen. He was clicking it open, then clicking it closed. Continuously.

“Hey.”

She looked past Gordon. There was someone else in the studio.

Quinn.

“I just wanted to see if Shannon was going down to the club. Or you, Gordon,” he said casually. Both of them stared at him. He offered them a slight grin. “Hey, guys, I'm not a ghost. I've been here for a while. I came back to watch the group class.”

“I'm going home tonight,” Gordon said. “Since you're here, you can walk Shannon out. Ben told me she's been getting a little freaked out at night lately. Good night.”

Gordon lifted a hand, waved and left.

“Are you going clubbing tonight?” Quinn asked Shannon.

She shook her head. “I'm really tired. I just want to go home.”

“Did you drive?”

“Yes.”

“I'll follow you, then.”

“Thanks, but you don't have to, not if you want to go to the club.”

“Not tonight.”

She almost asked him to wait, to let her walk around the studio and try again to find what it was that made that sound.

But she didn't hear it then. And she didn't know how to describe it. And for some reason, she was still disturbed because of what seemed like a strange encounter with Gordon.

She walked out of the studio, locking the door behind her, then paused, listening.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing.” And there was nothing. Just the sound of the music from down below.

“So…?” he said.

“Let's go,” she said with a shrug.

He didn't say a word, just followed her to her car, and when she was in it, slid into the driver's seat of his own Navigator. He followed her to the house, parked and walked up the front door behind her.