Dead on the Dance Floor (16 page)

“Puff, of course,” Christie said.

He laughed. “I thought that you were referring to killer cute and meant me.”

“Thankfully, Gabriel, neither of us is foolish enough to take you seriously. We're both well aware that you've dated every single celebrity who has ever come to town. And then some,” Christie told him.

“Not true!” he protested. With a shrug, he smiled ruefully. “You know, there's an image a club owner needs to keep up.”

Ben had apparently tired of the conversation behind them. He slid into the empty chair on Shannon's other side. “You seem to keep it up okay,” he assured Gabriel, grinning at his own double entendre.

“And what about you? As charming as Fred Astaire, with women ready to follow your every step.” He spoke lightly, but then his face changed slightly. “I'm so sorry, Ben.”

“We're all sorry. I guess we have to accept it.” Ben stared at Shannon. “God knows we've got the students to set our minds at rest. Doug O'Casey admired Lara, and he's in a position to make sure the police checked out every possibility.”

“Ah, yes, the young patrolman,” Gabriel murmured. “He watched her like a puppy dog. You could tell he hated it when she danced with others, and he looked as if he'd died and gone to heaven when she danced with him.”

“He's a terrific student,” Christie said. “She certainly made a difference for him.”

“Jane is his instructor, and she's excellent,” Shannon put in.

“Yes, but he signed up for a lot of coaching sessions, didn't he?” Christie asked. “I understand he signed up for half the day when Lara was around.” She shrugged as she looked at Shannon. “She was still competing and I'm not. That makes a difference to some people.”

“Interesting,” Ben noted.

“What?” Christie asked him.

“It's so expensive…paying for coaching when you're an amateur. And Doug is just a patrolman. Where do you think he got the money?” Ben mused.

“Dirty cop?” Gabriel said.

“Hey!” Shannon protested.

“Well, he has spent a lot of money at the studio, right?” Ben said.

“Maybe he has family money,” she suggested.

“Well, maybe. And now his brother's there. He says he's not a cop, that he runs charters or fishing boats, or something,” Ben said.

“Maybe he's a drug lord with a great cover,” Gabriel suggested.

“Who's a drug lord?”

They had been joined by Jim Burke, Lara's last partner. He looked like hell. Shannon had the feeling he'd spent the week crying. His hazel eyes were red rimmed. He was in a sleek suit and a subdued blue tailored shirt, but he looked haggard despite the fact that his clothing was immaculate.

“Shannon's new student,” Christie said. “Not really—we were just speculating.”

“He runs a charter business,” Shannon told Jim. She smiled at him. “You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm doing fine. Feeling a little lost, but…I should be getting ready for Asheville. The competition there. Lara and I were signed up for it. Instead…”

“Take some time,” Shannon suggested.

“I can't afford to take too much time,” he murmured. “I don't have Lara's deep pockets. I survived on the purses from our winnings most of the time.”

“You'll get a new partner,” Christie told him.

“Yeah,” Ben muttered.

Christie turned to Shannon. “Someone should be cultivating Doug Quinn. I know he's on the police force, but that young man could have a career in professional dance.”

“Maybe he likes having a life,” Jim muttered.

“And he'd have to go back to making zilch if he wanted to teach, so he could spend time getting the training he'd need,” Gabriel pointed out.

“Maybe his drug-dealing brother could help him out,” Ben muttered.

Shannon groaned. “Oh, please. Maybe everything is just what it seems. Come on. We're all going to be ripped to shreds in the papers tomorrow—let's not do it to ourselves.” She stood. “Excuse me, you all. I think this has been the longest week in history. Christie, you'll be down for at least a week before the Gator Gala, right?” She wanted to kick herself the minute the words were out of her mouth. This was the last tribute to Lara, and she was bringing up business.

“Hey, how about me?” Ben asked her.

“Of course, Ben. We'd love to bring you in to coach,” she told him.

Gabriel stood. “You came in the limousine?” he asked her.

“Yes.”

“I'll give you a ride home. I need to get to work.”

“Great, thanks,” she said. She walked around the table, saying her goodbyes, kissing cheeks. Leaving always took a while—they were an affectionate group. It was like leaving an Italian family dinner.

“I'm sorry, I had a lot of goodbyes,” she told Gabriel when they at last exited into the late afternoon.

“It's all right. I like following you around,” Gabriel said. “Everyone kisses me.”

She laughed. “You're so full of it. Everyone walks into your club and kisses you, too.”

He shrugged. “It's a good life. I work hard, but it is a good life. Don't you feel that way?”

“Yes, of course. I absolutely love what I do.”

“But it doesn't leave room for much else. At least,” he teased, “what I do is social.”

“Oh, come on. You can't get much more social than dancing.”

“But you put up walls. I don't.”

She laughed suddenly. “What is this? All of a sudden everyone has decided that they have to be my psychoanalyst. I'm fine.”

He arched a brow. “Everyone is telling you this?”

She shook her head, suddenly not wanting to tell him it was her brand-new student—Quinn, the cop's brother, the one they were teasingly suggesting might be a drug lord—who had made a similar observation.

“Never mind. There's my house.”

He let out a sound of mock disgust. “I know where your house is.”

He pulled up in front and started to get out. For Gabriel, it was natural. A man opened a door for a lady.

“Gabe, I'm fine,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

“Hey, you taught me—in dance, a man always leads. I will teach you that, in life, that same man likes to open doors for a lady and walk her to her door.”

She laughed. “Okay, Gabe.”

He came around and opened the car door, taking her hand in an elaborate show of attention. “If you had any sense, you'd fall madly in love with me. We'd rule the world.”

“I have plenty of sense, and that's why I'll never fall madly in love with you. And I don't want the responsibility of ruling the world.” She slipped the key into her lock and opened the door, then turned to say goodbye.

“You could still invite me in. We'd be two lonely souls making wild passionate love on a stolen afternoon so that we could go back to our all-business lives with secret memories of what might have been,” he said.

“Gabriel, that's the biggest crock I've ever heard.”

“Okay, but it would still be fun, huh?”

“I'm sure there are dozens of women out there who would willingly give you an afternoon,” she assured him.

“They don't have your body.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“I've got it. You're already having a secret affair with someone.”

“No, I'm afraid not.”

“Then come on. My body is pretty good, too.”

“Gabriel, you're practically perfect in every way.”

“Then why not?”

“You're my friend. I want to keep it that way.”

“Okay. Want to go to a movie?”

She burst out laughing again. “You know, that would be fun. Ask me again. But not today. It's just been far too long a week. And, hey, I thought you had to go to work.”

“I'd call in sick for you.” He sighed. “All right. Spend your lonely Saturday night by yourself.”

“Thanks for the ride, Gabriel.”

He swept her a little bow and gave her a mocking grin. “Any time. Goodbye. Lock up, now.”

She nodded. As he walked down the path to his car, she noted that it had gone from dusky to dark. She wished it was summer. She loved it when the daylight hours extended late.

After closing and locking the door, she hesitated. The shadows had invaded the house. She walked around, turning on all the lights in a sudden flurry. Better.

Ridiculously, she had another creepy feeling. Not creepy enough to make her wish she had invited Gabe in, but uncomfortable.

There was, she thought, absolutely nothing in her house that resembled a weapon. Until recently she had never been afraid in her own home.

The best she could come up with was one of her old tennis rackets. Brandishing it in one hand, she began a methodic check of the house.

Beyond a doubt, it was empty.

She sat down in the back, staring at the TV, despite the fact that it was off. The room was bright. The back windows were large, looking out on her little bit of yard. It was rich with foliage. She suddenly realized that if you were worried about people looking in at you, it wasn't smart to have bright lights on inside, darkness outside and the draperies opened. She jumped up to close the drapes.

As she did so, she thought she saw a flash of movement through the trees.

No.

She
did
see it.

Palms bent, bushes swayed. And a sense of cold deeper than any fear she had ever known coursed through her veins.

 

He watched and cursed himself.

Close call.

Close call? No, not really. She wouldn't have come out into the yard. And if she had…?

Pity.

But she was nervous. Really nervous. Why? Because she just didn't believe? The little fool. What the hell did she owe Lara Trudeau? Why should she care?

But she wasn't giving up. Everyone talked about the way Shannon kept insisting that Lara hadn't accidentally done herself in. Was it because she knew Lara?

Or because she knew something else?

He stared at the house for a moment longer. Then he turned, disappearing silently around the back. He knew the house well. There was no alarm. If it was ever necessary…

He paused, looking back.

Let it go, Shannon, he thought.

Let it go.

Or…

You'll be next.

Q
uinn rubbed his forehead and looked over his notes. Students, teachers, competitors. Possibilities, motives. He had a sheet with the names of everyone who had attended the competition, and there were hundreds of names on it. Many, of course, he had come to know.

He had started a list himself. Similarities, dissimilarities. The death of Nell Durken, the death of Lara Trudeau. Nell, her death classified a homicide. Lara, her death classified an accident, an overdose, self-inflicted.

Two different physicians, both of them respected in their fields, their prescriptions for the tranquilizers perfectly legitimate, proper dosages duly specified. Nell's husband had been caught cheating. His fingerprints had been all over her bottle of pills.

Lara had been drinking as well as pill popping. She had still managed to go out on the dance floor and perform perfectly—until she had dropped. Nell had taken classes at the studio but had quit six months before her death. There had to be a connection, but what? Nell's husband was in jail. And even if someone had killed Lara because she was competition, why would they have killed Nell? Say Ben Trudeau was the one who'd done Lara in—what on earth would be his connection with Nell? Teachers didn't just off students and make it appear that their husbands had done the deed.

He groaned, having spent the afternoon on a paper chase that went in circles. He glanced at the clock, wishing Gordon Henson and Ben Trudeau hadn't chosen to make their after-service get-together a private one. Someone had a key to this. And it was someone associated with the studio, he was certain.

Water lapped against the boat. He glanced at his watch and noted that the day had gone to dark.

Laughter filtered to him from the restaurant and bar.

Hell, he needed a beer. And maybe his brother or some of the other guys were at Nick's.

His brother, who had gotten him into this.

Impatiently he rose.

He was getting obsessive again.

Doug had better be there, he thought. His brother owed him. Leaving things as they lay, he left the boat.

 

Shannon stared out the window as time ticked by. Then, at last, she gritted her teeth and arched her back, unknotting her shoulders.

“This is so ridiculous,” she said aloud to herself. “Why would anyone run around my yard night after night, staring in?”

If someone really wanted to break in, they would have done so already.

And yet…

She could have sworn that, last night, she had left the porch light on. How had it gotten off?

“Right. Someone broke into my house, touched nothing at all, but turned the porch light off. Sure,” she muttered, her words seeming ridiculously loud in the quiet of the house.

She suddenly, and desperately, wanted to get out. She didn't want to be alone, which was absurd. She loved her house, loved her quiet time. Loved nights alone when she worked on steps on her own little dance floor. And, sad as it might seem, she did like those moments when she threw a bag of microwave popcorn in, then caught up on a movie on DVD, since it seemed she never quite made it to a theater.

But not tonight.

On a sudden whim, she raced into the bedroom and quickly changed into more casual attire. She didn't know where she was going, or at least didn't realize where until she got out to her car.

She could have gone to the club. Gabriel would always find her a place, and she might find her friends there. But she wasn't going to the club. A strange idea had actually been brewing in her mind throughout the past several minutes.

There had been so many questions that day. And suppositions. So…

Exactly what was the real story with Quinn O'Casey?

He wasn't a drug lord. She couldn't believe that. Way too far-fetched.

But…

Neither was he what he claimed to be. She was sure of that.

She started to drive, not even sure where Nick's was.

 

“Wouldn't happen. Would never happen. You can just tell,” Doug was saying.

He was sitting across from Bobby. The two of them were alone at the table, remnants of the fish and chips they had eaten pushed to one corner. Doug had an iced tea; Bobby had a beer.

“I don't see why not,” Bobby said. “The guy needs a partner.” Bobby looked up and saw Quinn coming toward them. “Hey. Are you joining us?”

“Yep.” Quinn sat down. A girl named Mollie was working the patio that night. She waved to him. “Miller, please,” he called to her. “You're buying,” he told Doug.

Doug grimaced. “Sure.”

Quinn looked at Bobby. “What wouldn't happen?”

“Shannon. She'd never dance with Ben Trudeau.”

“She dances with him at the studio, doesn't she?” Quinn asked.

“Bobby is talking professionally,” Doug said.

“She doesn't compete at all, does she?” Quinn asked. Mollie brought his beer, and he gave her a thanks, then stared at the other two.

“No. She did once, though. And according to a few of the conversations I overheard at the wake, she was great. Maybe better than Lara,” Bobby told him.

“I watched the tape,” Quinn said. “I saw Sam and Jane out there, but no one else from the studio.”

“Ben hasn't competed since his last partner got married and decided to have a baby,” Doug said. “He's been looking for a new partner for about two years.”

“But he's been back at the studio working for a while, too, right?” Quinn asked.

“About a year, I believe,” Bobby said.

“So why would Shannon suddenly dance with him now? He wasn't with Lara anymore, anyway,” Quinn said.

Bobby looked at Doug. “You never filled him in on Shannon's past, huh?”

“No, he didn't,” Quinn said, irritated as he stared at his brother. Doug had gotten him involved. He shouldn't have left out any information that might have been pertinent.

“When she was younger, Shannon was nuts about Ben,” Bobby said. “He's the one who found her. She was working some small professional gigs and teaching in a little mom-and-pop place up in the Orlando area. He saw her potential, and whether they started an affair and he brought her down, or he brought her down and then they started an affair, I'm not sure. What we know is really gossip, of course, because I only went for lessons about six months ago—getting ready for Randy's wedding and of course my own—and then I dragged your brother in right after that. But anyway, some of the people there have been taking lessons for years, and they talk. Anyway, one night when I was watching Ben and Shannon do a waltz together, I said something about how incredible they looked together. It was old Mr. Clinton, I think, who said, ‘Well hell, they should look great together. They competed together for two years.' Then Shannon had broken her ankle. Lara had been hanging around, and the next thing you knew…well, Shannon needed a lot of therapy, and Ben wasn't about to wait around for her to get better. He started working with Lara. Then…”

“Then they wound up married,” Doug said flatly.

Quinn stared at Doug. “Suppose,” he said evenly, “something involving foul play did happen to Lara Trudeau. Shannon Mackay might be a prime suspect. Jealousy, passion, anger—the motives are all there.”

Doug shook his head. “All you have to do is meet Shannon, speak to her once, and you know she's not a killer.”

“The right motives are there, Doug,” Quinn said irritably. He didn't think Shannon Mackay could be a killer, either. If she were, she also had to be the best actress in the universe. But then again, murder often proved that all things were possible.

“Hell, everybody had a motive. We all know that,” Doug said, sounding a little defensive. “Most women hated Lara—she was gorgeous.”

“Wait a minute,” Bobby protested. “All women do not hate all other women who are gorgeous.”

“You sure?” Doug asked. A slow smile was curving his lips.

“Yes, I'm sure,” Bobby said.

“Did Giselle teach you to say that?”

“Bite me,” Bobby told him.

“Hey,” Quinn protested.

“Okay, seriously?” Bobby said. “She was competition, sure. But they're all competition for each other. Most people don't kill people just because they're in competition with them.”

“Ah, but let's see, Jane has gone up against her dozens of times—and lost,” Doug said. “Half of the professional dancers out there have gone up against Lara—and lost. That creates hundreds of suspects.”

Quinn shook his head. “Whoever did it had to be there that night.”

“True,” Doug agreed. “And they would have had to figure out how to force all that stuff into her without her protesting, saying anything to anyone…ah, hell. Maybe she did just take too much stuff. I keep thinking that I knew her. Maybe I didn't.”

“What about Gordon Henson?” Quinn asked, taking a swig of his beer.

“Lara was kind of a cash cow for Gordon. A prize—even if she could be just as bitchy to him as she was to everyone else,” Bobby said.

“Ben could easily have had a motive,” Quinn said.

“You bet,” Doug agreed, and it sounded as if he was growing angry. “In fact, they argued a lot.”

“Really?” Bobby said. “I've never seen
any
of them argue.”

“They're not allowed to argue in the studio. But I went back to get coffee one day, and they were both there. Though they shut up when they saw me, I heard him speaking really sharply to her, and she said something like, ‘In your dreams, asshole,' to him.”

Quinn's chair was facing the pathway that led around to the patio from the parking lot. Glancing up, he was amazed to see Shannon Mackay—in form-hugging jeans, a tube top and an overshirt—walking tentatively along the trail to the back tables. “I don't believe it,” he breathed.

“Why don't you believe it? I'm telling you the truth,” Doug said irritably.

He glared at his brother. “No. I don't believe that Shannon Mackay is here. Now.”

Both Bobby and Doug swung around. At the same time, she saw them. She looked startled at first, then waved. Bobby waved back, beckoning her over.

She approached the table, smiling. She kissed Doug and Bobby on the cheek, then got to Quinn. Her fingers felt cold and tense on his shoulders. Her lips brushed his face with less than affection. Her smile, he thought, was insincere. Yet her scent, and the way she felt, brushing against him…

“This is a surprise,” he said. “A real surprise. I thought your group was all tied up with itself this evening.”

She looked intently at him, then shrugged. “I needed to get away. I know too many people on the beach, though, and I'd heard everybody talk about this place, so…”

“So here you are. Running into us,” Quinn said flatly.

“Uh, yeah,” she murmured.

“Quinn, man, that was rude,” Doug said, glaring at him. “Sit down, join us. I mean, I know you're not supposed to hang around with students, but hell you're the boss. And this is definitely a strange occasion, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess it's a strange occasion,” she agreed, taking the fourth chair at the table.

“Are you hungry?” Bobby asked her. “The fish is as fresh as it gets. And the burgers are good, too. Or are you a vegetarian? Jane is, right?”

“Jane is a vegetarian. I'm a carnivore. I think a burger sounds great,” she said.

“Hey, Mollie!” Bobby started to turn around, but Mollie was already there.

“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “What can I get you?”

“Iced tea, please,” Shannon said, smiling. “And a hamburger.”

“Cheese?”

“Plain, thanks.”

“Fries okay? Or would you prefer slaw.”

“The fries are wonderful here, too,” Doug said.

“Fries.”

“You sure you want tea?” Bobby asked her. “You look as if you could use a drink.”

She smiled. “I think I could use a lot of drinks. But I drove.”

Quinn leaned forward. “Have a drink. You can leave your car here. I can drive you home and get you tomorrow so you can pick it back up.”

She was going to say no, he was certain. That would constitute much more than an accidental meeting between a teacher and some students at a restaurant.

“We won't have to talk while I drive,” he teased. “I swear, I won't fraternize. Well, unless you fraternize first.”

“I can't, I mean I really shouldn't.”

“Oh, have the damn beer,” Mollie piped in, then grinned. “Sorry, I guess I've worked here too long. I just thought I should solve this thing. Honey, I don't know the situation, but you do look like you need a drink. This one here…” She paused, pointing at Bobby. “He's a newlywed, not dangerous in the least. I'd swear it on a stack of Bibles. And these two…well, if they say they'll get you home safe and sound, they'll do it.”