Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) (27 page)

Hang me on Sunday, Morrow thought.

Blakeley immediately asked, “What is it?”

“Barbara Wolfe just raised her left hand.”

“She was just shifting into a more comfortable position.” Blakeley suddenly squirmed in her seat. “I know, I know. The women can’t use their right hands because they’re holding the man’s left. But a woman could move her left without anyone really noticing. Let’s see. Shawna was carrying a fan, so that’s out. The only other woman on the dance floor at the time was Nathalie, and Nathalie didn’t stab herself. Nuts.”

“Don’t be disappointed. Eliminating dead ends is progress.”

“I wonder.” After a few seconds she said, “Bobby is cabeceoing me. Do you mind?”

“Go ahead.”

 Blakeley stood up and stretched. The professor came over to get her, just as advertised, and led her onto the floor. He closed a paw over her hand, threw his right arm around her back, and began to romp around the room in what seemed like a dangerously unpredictable track. It wasn’t hard to picture him ramming into Nathalie LeFebre. Blakeley more than kept up with him, high heels and all. Despite his erratic lead each step was elegant, sensual, and true, as far as Morrow could judge. Over the course of the song Bobby seemed to take some qualities from her. He stepped in better time to the music and by the end of the song he’d stopped wobbling. She must be a hell of a teacher.

She eventually returned to sit with him on the ledge and spent the next half hour providing running commentary. Cookerly danced a set with Shawna Muir. Glass danced an awkward-looking set with Wolfe and a second one with Muir, which seemed to go even worse.

A break came in the music. Morrow saw that Guest had attracted a small crowd near the entrance to the hallway, among them a disgruntled Cookerly. He heard Guest say, “Borges is the most articulate in my opinion. He once wrote, ‘Tango is a direct expression of something that poets have often tried to state in words: the belief that a fight may be a celebration.’”

Blakeley sniffed. Morrow glanced over at Sanchez seated at the far end of the couch and saw him pointedly examining his nails, his derision apparent, while Guest ran on at length about the influence of Borges’ poetry on Piazzola’s music and his seminal “Historia del Tango” essay tracing the origins of the dance.

If bullshit’s energy, Morrow thought, this guy’s a power plant.

Sanchez abruptly stood and stepped outside onto the deck where he paced and continued to watch his former rival hold court. The more Guest pontificated on how Perón had attempted to suppress Borges’ writings, the merits of the Monegal versus the Reid translations, and the contributions of Borges to Argentine literature—and, indeed, to Argentine culture overall—the more urgently Sanchez paced. Morrow watched the Argentine flex his fingers and stalk back into the living room.

“Roland, have you ever actually read Borges?” Sanchez asked in an elaborately courteous tone.

“Of course I have.”

“Can you name … any … of his books?”

Guest smoothed his hair back and let out a meaningless laugh. Apparently Borges, whoever he was, didn’t have a quote for this situation.

Blakeley leaned towards him and said under her breath, “Looks like we’re about to have a celebration.”

Sanchez addressed Guest’s acolytes. “This man doesn’t appreciate great writing. He only memorizes phrases to impress you.”

Cookerly guffawed.

“Why don’t you just go back to Argentina with all the other psychoanalysts,” Guest shot back. “You make such a good living off of words.”

“Coming from the biggest bullshitter in Atlanta,” Barbara Wolfe said, “that’s a laugh.”

“I have a word for you: malevo.” By this point the Argentine had everyone’s attention. “Casadevall described a malevo as a coward, a bully with women and the weak, who cheats, is disloyal to his friends, and gives up at the first resistance. The kind of man who will stab someone in the back and allow an innocent man to be jailed for the crime. I wonder, now, who does that remind me of?”

Guest said, “You’re jealous because Nathalie preferred me.”

Barbara Wolfe said, “Oh Roland, you think everything’s about you.”

Morrow saw Guest glance in his direction, possibly for the “protection” Blakeley had undoubtedly promised. Guest continued to goad Eduardo, “You tried to kill me but you couldn’t even do that. You killed Nathalie instead.”

Blakeley said, “Stop it, Roland,” and Morrow hoped Guest would ignore her because this was a confrontation he’d been waiting for.

Guest said, “This isn’t the first time a woman you loved has died because of your rash behavior, is it?”

“¡Hijo de puta!”
Eduardo went off into a tirade in Spanish.

The only people who seemed to understand Sanchez were the Argentine women Morrow had met earlier in the evening and Blakeley. Their faces showed shock and embarrassment so whatever Sanchez was accusing Guest of it must be juicy.

Blakeley said, “Roland, you’d better leave.”

“I don’t have to stand here and take this,” Guest said, snatching up his street shoes and heading for the hall. “Good night.”

“Go ahead,” Barbara Wolfe shouted. “Run away, you coward.” She pursued him with Glass trailing in her wake trying to calm her down. Her voice carried clearly from the hallway as she shouted after Guest. “Nobody cares if you go, you stinking coprolite. I hope you run your stupid BMW through a plate-glass window!”

From his post in the living room Morrow heard the front door slam, Barbara Wolfe busting out laughing, and the professor’s muffled voice saying, “Barbara, that was very unkind,” and Barbara answering him, “I’m sorry, Bobby. I know you think I’m perfectly horrible.” Meanwhile, Sanchez sat back down on the couch and put his head in his hands.

With Guest gone the real show was over. Morrow could only hope he’d wound the players up sufficiently.

Letdown

THE OTHER DANCERS GATHERED THEIR GEAR,
preparing to depart. Antonia let them go. She had only followed a portion of Eduardo’s harangue because he’d used a lot of
lunfardo
but she was pretty sure he’d called Roland a son of a whore and a betrayer of friends. Roland was certainly the latter. And whatever you wanted to say about Nathalie, Eduardo had once loved her.

Antonia took a seat next to Eduardo on the couch.

Shawna perched on his other side. “Don’t blame yourself for Nathalie’s death.”

Antonia put her arm around Eduardo, “Roland’s so scared of being suspected he’ll say anything.”

Eduardo answered in a low voice, “I know. I should not have lost my temper. I am so very tired.”

“Are you all right? Physically, I mean.”

“Every time I close my eyes I see my Nathalie.” He pressed his lips together. “I know she was not the woman I imagined her to be. But I feel a responsibility. I lie awake wondering what I could have done differently.”

“I know just how you feel,” Shawna said, her eyes welling up with tears.

“I haven’t slept.”

“I can help you with that, Eduardo,” Antonia said. “Here, come with me.”

She led Eduardo up the stairs to her bathroom and opened the medicine chest while he stood at the sink cooling his face with her washcloth. Under the fluorescent lights his normally handsome face looked gray and haggard.

She found her Seconal, checked the instructions, pried open the cap, and doled out one pill, wrapping it in a few sheets of toilet paper. “You haven’t had anything to drink tonight, have you?”

“No.”

“Good, don’t. Take this when you get home. I’m sorry Roland behaved like such a jerk. Don’t give him a second thought.”

“It’s not that I think he deserves to be considered or not. It violates my personal code of conduct to lose my temper.”

“We’re all on edge, I guess.”

“That is natural. Having the police in your home is unsettling even if they aren’t coming to interrogate you. And there is a bad feeling in the air.”

“We love you,” she said, giving him the best championship hug she had in her.

As Antonia returned to the landing with Eduardo she found Shawna, Barbara, and Bobby seeing Christian off. He’d avoided her all evening and far as she could remember he hadn’t danced, or even tried to break into the beer, come to think of it.

As he slunk down the front steps to the driveway she followed him outside and made one last effort to connect. “Don’t forget you promised to help me burn a new CD for Sanctuary tomorrow.”

 “I’m rebuilding my hard drive.” Christian addressed his nonanswer to the air. “Want me to save any of your files?”

“You can spare a few minutes, can’t you?” Antonia persisted. “I’ll come by at ten.”

He shrugged.

The entire evening had been like that; just one big, fat nothing. She went back into the house to find Morrow and found him in the kitchen putting a fresh liner in the garbage can.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Morrow said, “I was raised to be a good guest.”

Shawna called out from the hall, “We’re going to the diner. Want to join us?”

Antonia called back, “No thanks.”

The others said their goodbyes. Antonia heard the front door shut and the house fell quiet. She turned to Morrow, “So? What do you think? Did you get what you came for?”

“Tell me something,” he said as he poured the plastic glasses of wine out into the sink and pitched them into the trash, “Is Bobby Glass as bad a dancer as he seems? He seemed to do pretty well with you, I thought.”

“Better followers stay on their axis which is polite way of saying we don’t fall on our butts when the man gets off balance. And I back-led a little.”

“Isn’t it the man’s job to drive?”

“We’re not cars. It’s a two-way conversation. The lead invites, the follower suggests.”

They walked through the house, cleared up most of the mess, got the couch inside, and shut up the house. She saw him to the front door. It was the first time that evening she’d felt she could safely relax. The air smelled of fallen leaves. She looked up at the night sky.

“The stars are out,” she said.

“I noticed them earlier.”

“You don’t normally see constellations this clearly in Atlanta.” She realized how silly she sounded and she didn’t really know why she was talking about stars in the first place. Maybe it was the letdown.

She met his eyes. He looked back at her and she thought she could see guarded compassion in his expression.

“Thank you for your help tonight,” he said. “The evening has given me a great deal to think about.” He turned and started down the steps to the drive.

She called out to him. “So what did you learn? Aren’t you going to share this with the class?”

He turned back. “Tell you one thing.”

“What?”

“Your back door lock is broken and you need better security lighting.”

Antonia went inside and closed the front door. He’s watching out for me, she thought. A good man. That’s not something you see every day.

She was still smiling when she went upstairs.

Christian

SHE AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING
with the vague, not unpleasant memory that she had dreamt about Detective Morrow building her a new security system. She looked at the clock: 10:13.

Nuts. She was late.

Spotting her army fatigues flung over the open door to her dresser she stumbled out of bed and lurched in their direction. She stepped into her pants, tried to find a matching pair of socks but settled for two of a similar color, slipped on a t-shirt, and bounded downstairs.

She arrived at Christian’s apartment just after eleven. She rang the doorbell and of course, like usual, he didn’t answer. He was probably online. She used her key to open the front door.

The stench hit her like the aftermath of a bad fraternity party. Vomit. Just like the night of Nathalie’s murder. She fought the reflex to gag.

 “Christian?”

She walked into the living area, wanting to run but not able to, hearing only the sound of her shoes against the wood floor.

It’s nothing, she thought. He’s still asleep. It’s nothing.

“Christian?”

No answer. She approached the wall of shelves that separated Christian’s living area from his office, dreading what she might find. The smell became stronger the closer she got. She was having trouble with her knees. Her legs wouldn’t do anything she told them.

Blub-blub.

She gasped.

Blub.

Blub.

It took her a second to realize the noise was just Christian’s underwater sea life screensaver blowing fish bubbles.

She shut her eyes and reopened them, took another deep breath, and forced herself to take the last remaining steps toward his office. Her foot skidded on something. Looking down, she saw splattered vomit. Then a hand, leading to an arm, and Christian’s body.

Quilombo

A complete disaster

THE ICU WAS SILENT
except for the monitors blipping and beeping, keeping score of Christian’s vital signs as he battled quietly for life.

Antonia watched the machines that Christian depended on—she didn’t even know what they were called, only that one of them monitored his heart rate which was exactly what she did with him when they danced. She held Christian’s hand, warming his fingers between her palms, but there was no response. The possibility that he might actually die was too much to bear.

Don’t cry. No crying. Crying is for babies. “When you get better I’m going to make you a dinner with all your favorite foods. How about a rib-eye steak and homemade French fries?” She forced confidence into her voice even though she didn’t feel any. She mentally prayed to God,
save him,
every molecule of her body pressed into service but there was no way to know if God was listening. The doctor, in a white coat with his name and specialty embroidered on it like some glorified gas station attendant, had told her Christian had overdosed, passed out and suffered a concussion, and needed a CT scan but wouldn’t tell her what she really wanted to know.