Quickstep to Murder (18 page)

That gave me pause. The police probably wouldn’t be interested in a suspect they couldn’t toss in jail unless they had rock-solid proof he did it. I wondered what kind of investigatory resources Phineas Drake had available.

“There is a party at the embassy this evening.” Tav broke into my thoughts. “I have been invited. Perhaps you would like to go with me? It is almost certain Bazán will be there.”

“You must really be somebody to rate an invite to an embassy party.”

“Correction: My
father
is somebody.” The smile that lit his eyes said he didn’t mind.

Even though I had to pack and take care of lastminute things before leaving for the competition in the morning, I wasn’t about to miss the chance to finally come face-to-face with the mysterious limo man. “What time and what do I wear?”

 

After Tav had left, hurrying to a business meeting, I realized I had once again forgotten to mention that I’d like a say when he got around to selling his half of Graysin Motion. I didn’t know if he would have to wait for probate or other legal processes, or who might be interested in buying into the studio (besides Mark Downey and Vitaly), but I wanted to vote on any and all potential buyers. After a moment’s thought, I dug Phineas Drake’s card out of my desk drawer and phoned. A sultrysounding receptionist answered and told me he was in court. I hung up rather than leave a message, getting cold feet about giving Bazán’s name to Drake. Who knew what he would do with it? True, Bazán sounded like he belonged behind bars, but I didn’t want to start an international incident by having my uncle and his lawyer frame him for Rafe’s murder if he wasn’t involved.

I wandered into the ballroom a few minutes later, watching Vitaly work with Taryn and Sawyer. When the latter got frustrated with his samba rolls, Vitaly clapped his hands together. “We is breaking now.”

Sawyer and Taryn drifted to the corner where their dance bags sat and pulled out water bottles. They talked quietly, Sawyer reaching up at one point to smooth a sweaty strand of hair from Taryn’s face. Vitaly, halfdrunk bottle of grapefruit juice in hand, came over to me to discuss the couple. He was disappointed when I told him Taryn was going to stop taking lessons at the studio.

“Is pity,” he said. “She is having talent. And her partner is being better than average,” he added, studying the pair across the room.

“She’s very good,” I agreed. “I hope they do well this weekend.”

Vitaly, who I was beginning to believe had been a member of the Russian Imperial Guard in a former life—he ran lessons with almost military discipline—clapped his hands to bring Taryn and Sawyer back to the middle of the dance floor. They waltzed in a big circle around him and he urged Sawyer to “Smiling!” and tilted Taryn’s face a fraction of an inch. Putting a hand to his abdomen, he grimaced, and I saw that sweat beaded his upper lip. Before I could ask if he felt all right, Vitaly said, “Excusing me,” and bolted from the room. A few seconds later, the bathroom door slammed.

The dancing couple stuttered to a stop. Slightly embarrassed by Vitaly’s obvious digestive difficulties, I moved toward them and motioned to indicate they should continue. They circled the floor another couple of times, but it was clear from Taryn’s pallor and her occasional stumble that she was exhausted, so I halted them and told them to go home. “Eat. Get some rest today and a good night’s sleep. Friday’s the big day and it’ll be a busy one.”

Sawyer glanced at his partner, but spoke to me. “I’m not sure we should compete. I think it’s too much for Taryn in her . . . now that she’s . . . with the . . .”

Taryn stamped her small foot. “Don’t you dare try to tell me how I feel, Sawyer Iverson, or make decisions for me. I’m tired, not ill, and I’ll be fine by Friday.”

Sawyer backed up a step in the face of her ferocity, still looking uncertain. His thumb and forefinger tugged at the small gold hoop piercing his earlobe. Her face softening, Taryn placed a hand on his arm. “Let’s just dance and have fun this weekend, okay? We’ve worked really hard for this.”

Sawyer acquiesced with a nod and they walked from the room, his arm around her waist. I found his concern for her touching. Whether or not he was the baby’s father, he was clearly willing to help her through this difficult time and I hoped their friendship endured. I left the ballroom and paused in the hall, hearing retching from inside the bathroom. I didn’t know Vitaly well enough to intrude, but he sounded really ill. I knocked lightly on the door. “Vitaly? Are you okay?”

After a moment, the toilet flushed and he opened the door, paler than a funeral lily, slightly hunched over as if in pain. His blond hair looked even lanker than usual.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” I asked. He lived in Baltimore, so it would take a chunk out of my day, but he clearly wasn’t well enough to drive himself.

“Vitaly is calling John,” he said, holding up his cell phone. “John is coming.”

“Maybe some peppermint tea would help?” Mom used to dose us with peppermint tea anytime we had tummy troubles. “I’ve got some downstairs.”

“Vitaly is—” His eyes widened and he whirled, shutting the door in my face.

Vitaly’s partner, John Drummond, arrived forty-five minutes later. A tall, solid-looking man in his late forties, I guessed, with deep-set brown eyes, he gently escorted Vitaly down the stairs, thanking me for the plastic bucket I supplied for their drive back to Baltimore. I sighed as they drove off; if Vitaly didn’t recover quickly, it would be disastrous for Graysin Motion’s showing at the competition. One of the awards was “Top Studio” and we didn’t have a prayer of winning it if our female students couldn’t compete in the pro-am divisions. And without Vitaly, they couldn’t compete. I sighed again and returned to the ballroom, beginning to think the studio was jinxed. This week had been one disaster after another. I contemplated crawling into bed and not getting out again until a new week arrived. I let the blinds down in the ballroom to keep the room cooler. I was trying to hold off on using the air conditioner until June; the utility bills almost doubled when I cranked up the AC. Crossing to the stereo, I turned it off and noticed Vitaly’s almost empty grapefruit juice bottle atop the cabinet. I picked it up, intending to throw it away, then paused.

He’d drunk the juice, then gotten violently ill. Surely there was no connection. Did juice spoil? Could someone have put something in Vitaly’s juice to make him sick? I tried to block the word “poison” from my mind, but it seeped through. I knew my thoughts would never have headed in this direction if I hadn’t just been thinking about jinxes and the week’s string of mishaps. I was letting my imagination run away with me, I told myself firmly. Locating the cap, I started to screw it onto the juice bottle.

“Stacy.”

The soft voice startled me so that I jerked and dropped the bottle. It clunked to the floor, dribbling its remaining contents onto the wood. With an exclamation, I turned to see Mark Downey in the doorway.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, hurrying forward. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Well, you did,” I said more tartly than I intended. Grabbing a tissue from the box on the stereo cabinet, I sopped up the grapefruit juice droplets.

“Since when do you drink grapefruit juice?” Mark asked, stooping to pick up the bottle and plunk it in the trash can.

“I don’t. Vitaly does. I think it made him sick.”

“Yeah, it’s too bitter for me, too. I’m an orange juice man myself,” Mark said, smiling.

I started to tell him what I really meant, then stopped. He’d think I was paranoid. “Did you need something?” I asked instead.

“Not really.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small envelope. “A friend got called out of town unexpectedly. He had tickets to
Lord of the Dance
tonight and he gave them to me. Any chance you’d like to go?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, not really sorry. I’d seen
Lord of the Dance
before and didn’t in any event want Mark to think our friendship was going to move out of the ballroom. Ours was a business relationship, teacher-student, and I could see I was going to have to remind him about the boundaries. I had to do this with one student or another at least twice a year. Most of the male pros I knew—Rafe included—had to do it more or less weekly as their female students tended to develop inappropriate romantic attachments with the first simulated caress during a rumba or the intoxication of a turn series. I’d talk to Mark after the competition, when things had settled down a bit. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings now and have it affect his dancing this weekend. “I’ve already got plans for the evening,” I told him.

His smile froze, but then he restored the tickets to his pocket. “Yeah, it was kind of late notice. Maybe another time.”

I carefully avoided answering him as I dropped the juice-sodden tissue in the trash can.

“Are the police making any progress on Rafe’s case?” he asked as we moved into the hall.

“Not unless you consider arresting me progress,” I said.

“What!” He put a hand on my arm to stop me and scanned my face worriedly.

“Well, they didn’t really arrest me,” I conceded. “They hauled me down to the station for questioning, though, and scared me good.”

“They’re idiots,” he said, releasing my arm with a small laugh. “Give me a call if they lock you up—I bake a mean German chocolate cake and I’m sure I can slip a file into it, or maybe some plastic explosives.”

“You cook?” Maybe I needed to reconsider my rule about getting involved with students.

He shook his head. “Bake. And only German chocolate cake. It was my mom’s favorite and I baked one for her birthday every year. My dad didn’t know a measuring spoon from a garlic press and my sister was too busy memorizing words to bother—she was into spelling bees big-time—so I elected myself.”

“That’s nice.”

Shrugging, he pulled open the door to the outside landing and the wind ruffled his sandy hair. “Mom seemed to enjoy it. So, see you tomorrow?”

“You bet. You are going to walk away from the comp with the Top Student prize.”

“I’ll do my best to make you proud.” With a light kiss on my cheek and a grin, he descended the stairs two at a time.

 

Tav and I approached the historic building that housed the Argentine embassy on New Hampshire Avenue as a waning spring sun cast long shadows across the treelined street and rush-hour traffic clogged the roads. I was a little nervous, never having attended an embassy function of any kind before. Even though Tav had assured me that all the embassy personnel spoke flawless English, I worried that other guests might speak only Spanish. In his tuxedo, Tav looked like a movie star from the 1940s and I was too conscious of the hand he placed at the small of my back to guide me through the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the three-story white brick mansion. I craned my neck to see more wrought iron curving around toe-hold balconies on the second floor and a couple of window air-conditioning units jutting out like warts from windows on the top floor. Argentina’s blue-and-white-striped flag with the starburst sun in the middle undulated in the evening’s gentle breeze. Uniformed guards checked our IDs and invitation before nodding us toward social secretary types, who directed us into a receiving line.

We shook hands and murmured pleasantries to tuxedoed or military-uniformed men and stunning women in designer gowns. I wasn’t quite sure what the guest of honor, a rotund man with a luxuriant mustache and small hands, did, but he greeted me with a vigorous handshake and a huge grin. I smiled back and moved ahead of Tav into the reception rooms, the hem of my emerald-green dress whispering against my ankles.

Surveying the room, I noted more men than women, a buffet table clad in a tablecloth that echoed the blue of the Argentine flag, and a combo of six musicians playing big band tunes for a handful of dancers at the far end of the room. My foot tapped in time with the beat. Tav stood close behind me. I could feel his heat against my back and our faces were disturbingly close when I tilted my head back to ask softly, “Do you see him?”

Scanning the assembled guests, Tav urged me forward slightly so we weren’t blocking the entrance. “There,” he said, nodding discreetly toward the far corner of the room, where a clump of dark-haired men in formalwear carried on an animated discussion with raised voices, expansive gestures, and the occasional bark of laughter. “The one facing us with the blue bow tie and cummerbund.”

I studied Bazán surreptitiously. Probably no more than five-eight or five-nine, he still, in some indefinable way, seemed bigger than the taller men around him. Maybe it was the barrel chest or broad shoulders and bull neck. Or it could’ve been that he was much stiller than the other men, with an economy of motion that made his few gestures seem stronger. He had broad features, tanned skin, and dark eyes under droopy lids; I could totally see him on a horse riding the range or the steppes or the pampas—whatever they called open grassland in Argentina.

It took me a moment to realize he was studying me as closely as I was studying him. Our eyes met and I looked away, flustered. I chastised myself for being so obvious. I’d make a really bad spy. “Bazán caught me looking at him,” I confessed to Tav.

“What man would not be flattered by your interest?” he said, pivoting to impose his body between me and Bazán.

“He didn’t look flattered,” I said dubiously. “Maybe we should go talk to him and get it over with.”

Tav smiled and I felt a little jolt zing through my body. “It won’t be necessary. He’ll come to us before the evening is out.” As he talked, he nudged me toward a buffet table laden with goodies that made me want to forget dancing and eat until I qualified for a career as a plussize model. I helped myself to a handful of carrots, some strawberries, and a few barbecued shrimp.

“How can you know that?”

“He will have seen the guest list for tonight’s party and noted my name. I mentioned that our ranches shared a border, did I not? He will come over to greet us out of respect for my father.”