Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (16 page)

Antonia leaned closer. “Who did this to you?”

Nathalie’s lips parted. She tried to speak. All that came out was a bright red bubble.

“Antonia!” Bobby cast off the cardboard sign that had been dangling down the back of his neck and began to undo his dress shirt. He fumbled with the last buttons. “Here!”

“Hurry!”

“Yes. Right.” In his agitation he couldn’t get the last button to go through the hole and finally just yanked it, popping the button onto the carpet. He stripped off his shirt and pressed it into her hand.

Eduardo burst into the room. “I’ll do it,” he said, his voice urgent but controlled. “You call.”

Eduardo knelt in front of the chair, circled his arms around Nathalie and drew her towards him. Propping her chest against his, Eduardo tied the shirt around her back, knotting the sleeves in the front. He cradled Nathalie in his arms, buried his head in her hair and rocked her as the white shirt bloomed red.

Day of the Dead

ANTONIA LED THE EMERGENCY WORKERS
to the bedroom whereupon they promptly threw her out. She backtracked to the kitchen and found the water still running in the sink so she stuck her hands under the faucet to rinse off Nathalie’s blood. As she turned off the tap a policewoman bustled in, scolded her for contaminating the crime scene, and shooed her out onto the front porch to wait in the dark with the others.

A linebacker of a policeman stationed himself in front of the door to prevent them from going back into the house and in a quiet, calm voice, ordered everyone to shut up.

There was nothing she could do. It was horrible.

Christian had taken refuge in the corner of the porch. Shoulders hunched, hands pressed against the screen, he stared out at the street.

Barbara and Bobby had taken the wicker loveseat. Barbara sobbed in Bobby’s arms, trying without success to catch her breath. Bobby tried to get her to drink a glass of water and she pushed it away. He’d sweated clear through his undershirt.

Shawna had retreated to the rocking chair and was putting it to good use. Her tears had cut rivulets through the white makeup and she’d bitten away most of her lipstick, leaving a red tide mark above her upper lip. Antonia pulled up a chair and, smelling vomit on Shawna’s breath, used an unstained section of her toga to wipe her friend’s mouth while Shawna stared out at nothing. Rocking, rocking, rocking.

Roland stood as far apart from the others as he could in their contained circumstances. He avoided looking at anyone. Eduardo paced the short length of the porch with his hands in his pockets, looking through the windows into the house. From the muscles that moved in his jaw Antonia realized he was clenching and unclenching his teeth.

A group of onlookers returning from Halloween parties began to gather in front of the house. Someone in a latex Frankenstein head said something to a man dressed as a circus clown, while the lights from the ambulance and patrol cars cast surreal stripes of color on their masks.

A light breeze tickled her arm. A weather front was blowing in. What could the police be doing in there? She couldn’t hear anything from inside the house. The music had stopped long ago. There was nothing to do but wait. At some point Christian shuffled over and she stood up and put her arms around him. They stood together, shivering.

More minutes passed.

More silence.

Then from far back inside the house she heard someone call out an order and suddenly the house was buzzing with activity again. The front door to the house opened. The police guard stepped aside to allow the emergency technicians to file out of the house in a ghastly caravan, bearing Nathalie on a stretcher. They whisked her down the porch steps and across the lawn, headed for the ambulance. Eduardo and Roland scrambled to follow, despite the guard’s protests. Antonia took advantage of the opportunity to slip out behind them. She felt a few raindrops hit her head.

The technicians hoisted Nathalie into the back of the ambulance and climbed in. The female officer followed. Eduardo tried to board with them but the officer closed the doors firmly in his face and the ambulance sped away, lights flashing.

Antonia found herself pressing her palms together as she had been taught to do as a little girl at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. When she’d still believed.

Well, she thought, now’s a good time to start believing again. She bent her head to concentrate and shut her eyes. Please God, she prayed, if you’re there don’t let Nathalie die. Just make her go back to New York. A wave of nausea hit and she felt herself sway.

“Whoa, Bessie,” a man said in a low, gravelly voice and Antonia felt a warm, strong hand take hold of her upper arm.

 She opened her eyes to see a pair of official-looking rubber soled shoes, their toes pointing in her direction. Her eyes traveled up to see a pair of khakis, a white button-down shirt, a jacket, a tie, a military mustache, a broken nose and a pair of baby-blue eyes set in a homely, familiar face.

“I know you,” she said. After going so long without talking her voice came out more like a croak. She cleared her throat. “You came about Miles. You’re Detective … I’m sorry …”

“Morrow. Come on inside, ma’am.” The detective’s tone was matter of fact.

“What’s happening to Nathalie? How is she?”

He took her by the elbow and guided her back up the stairs to the porch. He said something in a low voice to the man guarding the front door and the man promptly stepped aside.

Detective Morrow ushered her into the library and pointed to the leather armchair. “Please sit down, ma’am.” He planted himself on the piano bench, took out a mechanical pencil and a steno pad from inside his jacket, flipped to a clean page, then brought out a miniature digital recorder; each economical movement strangely comforting. He switched the machine on. Even though they’d previously exchanged contact information, he gave his name, rank, and place of work; asked her to state her name, address, and date of birth; announced the date, time, and Shawna’s address; and then said, simply, “Tell me about it.”

“Everything happened so quickly. Oh God, what a cliché.” Antonia concentrated on the neat rows of books lining the opposite wall to center herself. She caught sight of one title, the Dali Lama’s
The Art of Happiness: A Handbook for Living
, which almost caused her to lose it again but she forced herself to breathe in-two-three-four-five, out-two-three-four-five. When she’d calmed down enough to be coherent she said, “Her name’s Nathalie LeFebre.”

She saw the detective’s hand hover uncertainly over the writing pad so she spelled Nathalie’s last name and he entered it in his notebook.

“She just moved here. We were dancing, we were having a tango party, and Nathalie fainted so they took her to lie down in Shawna’s bedroom. Shawna Muir owns this house,” she added. Everything was coming out bass-ackwards but she couldn’t help it. “Shawna came running out of the bedroom screaming. She had a shawl, she held it up, and I saw she had blood on her hands. Like Medea,” she added, realizing how inconsequential it sounded. “I’m sorry; when I’m upset I tend to go off on tangents. Was it an accident? It can’t be. I suppose I know that, really. Someone would have said something by now if it were—you know, something like, ‘I’m so sorry but I unintentionally stabbed you with part of my Halloween costume.’ Unless they were afraid they’d get in trouble.” She stopped short. “I’m know I’m babbling, I know.”

The detective’s cell phone rang. He got it before the third ring. “Yes … I see … Thanks …Yes, looks like it. Give me your notes as soon as you can. Meet you here.”

“Was that about Nathalie? How is she?”

Detective Morrow looked into her eyes for a moment before speaking. His face was expressionless. “I’m sorry, Ms. Blakeley. Your friend died on the way to the hospital.”

Before Antonia could stop herself, she said, “She’s not my friend.”

“Oh?”

What did I say that for? Now he’ll ask all sorts of questions about our relationship and I’ll have to tell him how I knew Nathalie, and why Nathalie came to Atlanta, and that will lead to more questions about more relationships which will lead straight to Christian. The police will get it wrong. They always do.

I’ve got to keep Christian out of this.

 Déjà Vu

SHE’D BEEN WRONG
about the color of Detective Morrow’s eyes. They weren’t baby blue – they were hard, cold, pieces of slate. She hated Nathalie for dying.

She struggled to compose a suitably benign expression. “What I mean is, I barely knew Nathalie. None of us did, really. Except Roland, of course. Roland Guest. They just announced their engagement tonight.”

“Really?” Detective Morrow consulted his notepad.

Why does he bother writing this down if he’s taping me? And what’s he writing? Reading upside down she couldn’t decipher his chicken scratches except to see he’d noted the time of day.

He clicked his mechanical pencil to expose a fresh piece of lead and looked up at her. “Let’s see if we can trace Miss LeFebre’s final movements, ma’am. You said just now that ‘Nathalie fainted so they took her to lie down in Shawna’s bedroom.’ Who is ‘they’?”

“Bobby for sure. I think Shawna and Roland helped. Ask him.”

“Which one is he?”

“The man on the porch in the white t-shirt. He’s the iceberg that sank the Titanic.”

He took her statement without comment as if he met treacherous icebergs every day. Antonia found herself examining the freckles on his forehead – not that there was any way to divine his intentions by reading their pattern. She came back again to the broken nose and the mustache that was so neatly trimmed.

“Have I seen you somewhere before?” she asked. “I mean, besides my studio?”

“It’s a small world,” he answered without looking up. He scribbled something. “Where were you when Miss LeFebre took faint?”

“In the kitchen.”

“So you didn’t actually see Miss LeFebre collapse.”

“No. They brought Nathalie to Shawna’s room to lie down. Bobby came back to check on Barbara. Shawna and Roland stayed with Nathalie.”

“Just tell me what you saw, personally.”

“I am telling you.”

“You say you were in the kitchen.”

“I was.”

“Did anyone cut through the kitchen?”

“No.”

“Then you can’t have seen what ‘they’ were doing.”

The guy was totally anal. She sighed. “Okay. I went to the kitchen to get some water and there were no clean cups out so I looked around the pantry for more but couldn’t find any. Bobby came into the kitchen and told me they’d taken Nathalie to Shawna’s bedroom and that he’d taken a back step against the line of dance and rammed Nathalie and Roland. I said I told him what would happen if he did that – step back, I mean, not take Nathalie to Shawna’s bedroom – and he said, yes, he knew, and it was all his fault. Then he went back to the dining room to check on Barbara. I know he was checking on Barbara because he said he was going to check on her and he’s always checking on her. Is that what you want?” The last part came out rudely, she knew, but she was too rattled to care.

“You’re doing fine, keep going.”

She told him everything in as much detail as she could remember. “I heard a scream. I thought Shawna was hurt. Then I realized she was trying to get help for Nathalie. She’d carried Nathalie’s shawl into the living room and it had blood on it.”

“How do you know that? The living room was dark.”

 Antonia threw up her hands. “I don’t know. I just knew Nathalie was in trouble and so I ran to Shawna’s bedroom and found her alone, slumped back in Shawna’s chair, and I tried to stop the bleeding.”

Detective Morrow double-clicked his mechanical pencil. “Was the blood fluid or tacky?”

Antonia looked down at the front of her costume. It was stained and still damp. The room suddenly felt close. “Not gushing,” she said, wishing he would open a window. “More like a steady leak.”

 “Did you move her?”

“A little, to feel around. I laid her back on the cushions.”

“What happened after that?”

“I took her pulse. I had trouble finding it. Everybody was yelling and I remember Eduardo kneeling at Nathalie’s side. I noticed that especially because I had expected to see Roland and I thought it was odd that it was Eduardo and not Roland. I heard water running in the sink and I remembered I’d left the tap on. I realized we needed a doctor and I saw Roland standing in the doorway nearest the phone so I told him to call 9-1-1.”

“Did he?”

Antonia sniffed. “No, he just stood there. Eduardo said he’d take care of Nathalie so I went.”

He flipped back to the first page of his notebook. “Your call came in at two thirty-seven. From the time you found Miss LeFebre injured to the time you phoned for help, about how long was that?”

So he’d known all along she’d been the one to call 9-1-1. What was he driving at, then? Did he think she should have acted sooner? “I don’t know. Maybe five, ten minutes? Long enough for Shawna to find the first-aid kit.”

Detective Morrow leaned towards her. He smelled faintly of deodorant soap. “Good. Now, let’s go back. From the time Roland Guest came into the kitchen for ice to the time Shawna Muir came into the kitchen looking for help, how long was that?”

He’s trying to see who has an alibi. Where was Christian? Think.

A clean-cut, slightly pudgy man in a beige raincoat poked his head into the library. “Sir, we found the weapon. It was stuck in the potted plant. There’s still blood on the blade.”

Oh no. The dagger. Christian’s prints will be all over it.

“Did you have Sevedra photograph it first?”

The younger man scratched the back of his neck. “Uh … no, sir. She just got here. But I noted it on the plan like you said.”

Detective Morrow pressed his fingers to his sinuses and closed his eyes. He opened them and said, “Don’t touch anything else. Tell her there should be a shawl somewhere. Ask her to shoot the witnesses first, all of them. Let me see your floor plan when you’re done with it.”