Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (17 page)

“Yessir.” The officer retreated into the hall.

 “Ms. Blakeley. You were about to tell me how much time had elapsed between when Roland Guest came into the kitchen and Shawna Muir called for help.”

Antonia shook her head while she continued to digest the news that the dagger had been found. No sudden moves, she told herself, nothing to show Detective Morrow you have anything in mind except a desire to help. She couldn’t remember exactly when she’d left Christian on the dance floor but it was certainly long enough for him to have slipped into the library and from there into Shawna’s bedroom. What if Shawna had stepped out of the room for some reason and left Nathalie alone?

“Ms. Blakeley.”

Christian had been acting strangely all evening and he’d actually fantasized aloud about cutting Nathalie. Could he possibly have done it? Could he have gone into Shawna’s bedroom from the library with no one in the dining or living room seeing? The pocket doors from the library to the hallway had been shut, hadn’t they? She didn’t dare turn around to check if they still were. She felt ashamed of herself for even imagining for a second … but he
had
touched the dagger … the police would think …

“Ms. Blakeley.”

She finally decided what was good enough for government officials was good enough for her. “I’m sorry. I don’t recall.”

“You said Roland Guest came into the kitchen to get some ice for Ms. LeFebre.”

“That’s right.”

“You were together one minute? Two?”

She snapped, “How should I know? How long does it take to fill a dishtowel full of ice?”

Then it hit her. If Roland had been in the kitchen only a couple of minutes Christian couldn’t have had time to creep into the bedroom from the library, sneak up on Nathalie without being seen, and stab her in the back.

He couldn’t have done it.

First Murderers

MOST HOMICIDES CLEARED QUICKLY.
Usually it was a case of domestic violence with the grieving spouse cast as the repentant, talkative killer. But not this one, Morrow thought. This one’s a friggin’ train wreck.

Normally he’d have had Jackson take informal statements while he went over the crime scene to establish the basic facts. Then they’d transport the witnesses separately to the station to make more detailed formal statements. But the witnesses had already had the run of the house, and the first responders, instead of sequestering them, had stashed everyone together on the porch, leaving them free to talk, hug each other like long-lost relatives, and dance tango with roses in their teeth for all he knew. They’d have spread trace evidence everywhere. And to top it off Jackson had screwed up chain of evidence with the weapon.

He’d decided to take statements himself, on the spot, before anyone could gin up a story or ask for a lawyer. Break the news of Nathalie LeFebre’s death and watch the reactions. Get everyone’s movements straight. Circle back later once he had the physical evidence, chip away at the witnesses, and see if he could get someone to crack. It wasn’t ideal to bring them back into the house but the crime scene was already FUBAR. At least he had a head start with the players from the Rothenberg case and he was now free to reopen that investigation officially. Thank God for small favors.

He ran down the list of names and background information Jackson had compiled so far.

Robert “Bobby” Glass

Background: Age 40. Born and raised in College Park, Maryland. Single.
Education: BA in Geology, PhD in Paleontology from the University of Maryland
Occupation: Professor of Geology, Environmental Studies Department, Emory University
Criminal History: Unknown
Costume: Marshmallow?

Roland Guest

Background: Age 45. Raised in Atlanta, family ties to the community back to the 1850s Engaged to Nathalie LeFebre (the deceased)
Education: Whitefield Academy, Atlanta. BA in Economics, Yale University
Occupation: Owner, Rothenberg and Guest European and Asian Acquisitions
Criminal History: None
Costume: Bullfighter

Shawna Muir

Background: Age 34. Raised in Westport, CT. Single.
Education: BA in Anthropology, Cornell University
Occupation: Flight attendant, Delta Airlines
Criminal History: None
Costume: Geisha

Barbara Wolfe

Background: Age 28. Raised in Huntington, West Virginia. Single.
Education: Buffalo Middle School, Huntington, West Virginia. BA in French from Emory College. Masters in Archeology, University of Maryland
Occupation: Lecturer, University of MD. Visiting Archeology lecturer, Emory College
Criminal History: Unknown
Costume: Streetwalker

Eduardo Sanchez Jaury

Goddamn, Morrow thought. The guy Miles Rothenberg called before he died. Maybe we’ll catch a break after all.

Background: Age 59. Raised in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Widower.
Education: Instituto Universitario Nacional del Arte. Universidad de Buenos Aires
Occupation: Psychoanalyst. Tango instructor.
Criminal History: Unknown
He’d have to brief Jackson on what he’d learned about Sanchez’ Montonero past.
Costume: None

Antonia Blakeley

Background: Age 35. Raised in Seattle, Washington. Divorced.
Education: Garfield High School, Seattle, WA. BA in Biology, MFA in Dance, University of Washington. Studied tango in Berlin, New York City, and Buenos Aires
Occupation: Tango instructor
Criminal History: Unknown
Costume: Greek goddess

Christian Cookerly

Background: Age 18. Raised in Cincinnati. Single.
Education: Getting his BS in Mathematics and Computer Science at Georgia Tech.
Occupation: Part-time IT staff member at Georgia Tech.
Criminal History: Unknown
Costume: Wizard

Morrow consulted the floor plan. Jackson had left out the windows and mixed up East and West but had otherwise faithfully rendered the scene, noting the bloodstains on the armchair and ottoman in the bedroom, the shawl next to the sink in the kitchen, and the knife in the potted plant in the corner dining room.

According to Blakeley’s statement Shawna Muir owned the house and had found Nathalie LeFebre, so Morrow decided to take her next. Muir had been engaged to Guest, Morrow remembered. Had she broken it off or had he? If she’d dispatched Nathalie LeFebre to clear the way for a homecoming with her former lover she wouldn’t be the type to burst into song about it. He’d see what Shawna Muir volunteered about her relationship to Guest and the victim.

He returned to the porch and at first he didn’t recognize Muir in her getup. She was shivering and showing signs of going into shock—another point the first responders had missed. He moved her inside and into the library, sat her down, and finding an afghan hanging over the back of a wooden armchair, wrapped it around her shoulders. He saw she’d gone to the last detail in creating her role, making up the nape of her neck in the W shape that the Japanese were supposed to find so erotic. As he sat down in front of her he noted the traces of dried blood on her slender fingers, her hanhaba and the skirt of her yukata. He’d spent a fair amount of time in Japan and her costume looked like the real deal.

Shawna Muir rocked in her seat. Her black wig had shifted back on her head.

“We’ll need your house for a few days, I’m afraid. Is there someone you can stay with?”

She gazed out at him through the ravages of her geisha makeup and eventually nodded. “Antonia Blakeley.”

“Good. Are you warm enough? Able to answer some questions?”

She nodded.

He noted the date, time, and witness’ name in his notebook—
11/1. 0328. Shawna Muir—
and started the digital recorder. “Tell me how Nathalie LeFebre happened to be here tonight.”

“She came with one of the regular dancers in our community. Roland Guest.”

“And how well did you know her?”

“Did? Is she dead?” Shawna Muir pulled the afghan tighter around her. “There’s something I should tell you.”

Here it comes, he thought. Nice and easy.

“Roland and I were once engaged. I broke it off a few months ago because I found out he was seeing Nathalie.” She looked down at her hands which she’d clasped in her lap. “I just thought you should hear the facts from me instead of someone else.”

“Appreciate that, ma’am. Tell me what happened tonight.”

Shawna Muir looked away. At last she said, “Nathalie was complaining she didn’t feel well so we brought her—Roland, Bobby Glass and I—to lie down in my bedroom for a while. Bobby went back to look after Barbara and I asked Roland to get us some ice. I suppose I thought Nathalie might be overheated. It was still very hot.”

That puts her alone with the victim, Morrow thought. “How long was Roland gone before you noticed something was wrong with Nathalie?”

Muir hesitated. It was hard to read whether she was trying to be accurate, working up a lie, or calculating how her answer might hurt or help Guest. Amazing how many women shielded their exes.

 “A minute, perhaps. He’ll know.”

“Did you leave the bedroom at all while Roland was in the kitchen?”

“No, of course not. I stayed with Nathalie.”

“Was she conscious?”

She grimaced, causing a new set of fissures to open in her makeup. “At first.” She bent forward and pressed her left hand to her stained hanhaba.

Morrow steadied her shoulder. “Put your head between your knees if you feel faint.”

“No!” Shawna Muir snapped upright in her chair. “I’ll be all right, thank you. I tried to loosen her shawl. I pulled it away and I felt something sticky,” she said, her voice rising. “There was a lot of blood. I … I suppose I lost my head. I remember screaming. I went to the dining room to get help. Then I went back to the kitchen for the … the f-first-aid kit.”

She pressed her lips together but they continued to tremble. She turned her face to the ceiling and shut her eyes. “But I couldn’t find it right away.” Fresh tears tumbled down her whitened face. “And I threw up.”

11/1. 0342. Roland Guest.

Morrow was pretty sure Guest didn’t remember him. No surprise there.

“I can’t think how it could have happened.” Guest sat with his legs slightly apart and his hands on his knees in the self-important posture of a gentleman sitting for a portrait, but the stained shirt and the scratches on his cheek painted another picture entirely. “It’s ridiculous to think someone would have attacked her like this. How is she?”

“I’m sorry, sir. She didn’t make it.”

Guest’s lips twitched briefly. He started to lift one hand up to his mouth but redirected it towards the back of his neck. “What a terrible tragedy.” Guest’s voice matched the unctuous tones of an undertaker. “We’d just announced our engagement. Who could have done this? She was so young, so beautiful. Everyone loved her.”

Give me a break, Morrow thought.

Guest went on to offer his version of the events leading up to Nathalie’s collapse which tracked with what Blakeley and Muir had described.

“How long were you in the kitchen?”

 “Only a few seconds. Just long enough to get ice, as I said. I was with Shawna the whole time I was in the bedroom and with Antonia the whole time I was in the kitchen. I was never alone.”

The witness doth protest too much, Morrow thought, but that didn’t necessarily make him a killer.

“Shawna came running though the kitchen, screaming. When I went back to the bedroom I saw poor Nathalie was in distress and told Antonia to call 9-1-1.”

Blakeley said she’d asked Guest to call. Check that with the other witnesses. “When did you first notice Nathalie was feeling ill?”

“Shortly after we were hit on the dance floor.”

Morrow’s eyes strayed towards the welts on Guest’s cheek. “Hit? What happened exactly?”

“We were doing a milonga. A type of tango. Bobby and Shawna slammed into us and Nathalie and I bumped our heads together. It was all Bobby’s fault. I wouldn’t say this publicly but his floor craft is terrible and he has no sense of balance. He’s always—” Guest seemed to realize he’d strayed from his script. “What a tragedy. I can’t believe it’s not a terrible mistake of some kind.”

Morrow intentionally blunted his answer. “I’m afraid not. Somebody stabbed her in the back.”

“Nobody here would have wanted to hurt Nathalie. Barbara went after her earlier, sure, but that’s women for you.”

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Officer Sevedra poked her head in to let him know she’d finished photographing the other witnesses. Morrow motioned her into the library and invited Guest to stand. “We just need a couple shots, sir.”

Guest rose to his feet. “That’s red wine on my shirt, by the way.”