Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

I didn’t see any police loitering on my doorstep, so I pulled into the narrow alley that ran behind the row houses and maneuvered my Beetle under the carport’s sagging roof. I’d barely made it through the rear door into the kitchen when the doorbell summoned me to the front of the house. “Coming,” I called, figuring it was Danielle with dinner. Good thing, too, because I was starving.

I flung the door open to see detectives Lissy and Troy and two uniformed officers. I felt myself flush red and then pale as little shivers vibrated through my body. Sherry Indrebo had been right-the police were here to arrest me. My mouth opened but no sounds came out. Detective Lissy held up some folded sheets of paper. His red lips glistened moistly and I stared at them, unable to refocus.

“We have a search warrant,” he said, slapping the pages into the hand I automatically extended. “For your personal quarters, your car, and the dance studio.” When I didn’t move, too shocked to make my feet work, he added, “You have to let us in.”

I stepped aside, and the four of them entered. Detective Lissy provided some low-voiced instructions and they split up. I finally found my voice as Lissy pulled on a pair of thin latex gloves, either because he was afraid of germs or because it was police procedure. “What are you looking for?”

“The gun,” he said. “The murder weapon. It’s all in there, Miss Graysin.” He nodded at the papers I clutched.

“Can I call a lawyer?” I asked with absolutely no idea who I would call. There were a couple of lawyers in my classes, but I thought one of them mostly did estate stuff and the other was legal counsel of some sort for the Department of Defense.

“You may call whomever you choose, but we still get to search your house.” His nose wrinkled and he sneezed, pulling a handkerchief out of a pocket just in time. Four more sneezes followed. When he quit sneezing, he sniffed the air suspiciously. “What is that smell?”

“Horse.”

“I’m allergic to horses.” He glared at me from watery eyes like I’d deliberately socialized with horses to trigger his allergies.

“There’s some Benadryl in the bathroom,” I said. “Feel free to help yourself while you’re rooting through the medicine cabinet.” I carried the papers into the kitchen, where I sat at my table and read them. The female cop went through all my drawers and cabinets methodically as I scanned the pages, which boiled down to what Lissy had already told me: The cops could search my premises and my car for a.22-caliber gun.

“How do you know what kind of gun you’re looking for?” I asked as the cop pawed through the cleaning supplies under my sink. All I could see was her broad rear end in unflattering uniform slacks.

“Autopsy results,” she said. She withdrew from the under-sink cabinet and turned to look at me, brushing a strand of brown hair out of her eyes.

An image of a saw cutting through Rafe’s skull flashed into my mind and I shook my head to clear it. “Oh,” I said in a small voice.

“You could call someone to be here with you,” the woman suggested. “It’s got to be hard having us invade your home like this.”

Her compassion surprised me and I smiled at her. “Thanks. I think I’ll do that.” I dialed Danielle’s number and learned she was only a couple of miles from the house, picking up deli salads at a grocery store. I explained about the search. “Get some ice cream, too,” I suggested, after she promised she’d hurry over.

“Ice cream?” Danielle’s astonishment came through loud and clear. “You never eat ice cream.”

“I do. Every time the police tear my house apart trying to prove I killed my fiancé,” I said.

“Ex-fiancé.”

“Triple Caramel Chunk.” I covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “Do you want some ice cream?” I asked the cop who was now shifting cans in my pantry to see if I’d squirreled a gun behind the bag of petrified marshmallows or in the rice canister.

“Can’t,” she said, “but thanks.” She shot me a half smile over her shoulder and then turned back to hefting my cereal boxes.

Danielle and I had finished dinner, half a bottle of Riesling, and most of our pints of Ben and Jerry’s when the police finished up. Lissy’s disgruntled expression told me they hadn’t found anything and I let out a huge sigh of relief. “Buh-bye,” I said cheerily as the four of them filed out the front door. Lissy sneezed as he passed me and grudgingly told me I could resume classes the next day.

I closed and locked the door behind them and turned to see Danielle surveying the mussed-up living room, hands on her hips. “You’d think they’d at least pick up after themselves,” she said.

“I’m just glad they’re gone and I’m not spending the night in jail,” I said, bending to shove the sofa cushions back into place. Danielle straightened books on the shelves near the fireplace.

We worked for some minutes in silence before Danielle said, “He asked me out again.” Her voice was muffled as she bent over to pick up a book.

I knew “he” was Danielle’s boss, a portly man in his early forties who was separated from his wife. He’d been after a date with Danielle since his wife moved out. I was actually grateful to be able to talk about something besides Rafe’s death and my status as chief suspect.

“Did you tell him about Coop like we talked about?”

“Yes, and I put a photo of Coop and me on my desk and everything, but Jonah doesn’t care.” She slotted a dictionary onto the shelf with more force than necessary.

“You need to talk to HR.” I’d suggested this at least six times since Jonah started coming on to her.

“I can’t.”

“What would you tell an administrative assistant who came to you with the same situation?”

“Talk to HR,” she admitted reluctantly, “and document everything.”

“Sooo…?”

“I need this job.” She’d recently bought a new Prius and the payments were killing her.

“How about a nanny cam, then?” The idea came to me in a flash of inspiration. “Set it up in your office and videotape Jonah the next time he suggests a romantic dinner for two.”

“Be serious,” Danielle said huffily. “You’ve never had a real job, so you don’t understand.”

“Ballroom dancing is a real job,” I said heatedly, turning to face her with my hands on my hips. “And running a small business of any kind takes more work than the average union employee puts in in a year. And there’s no one looking out for my interests, making sure I get health benefits and regular coffee breaks and safe working conditions.” She started to interrupt, but I talked over her. “ And I have to get students to toe the line while we’re rumba-ing romantically or while I’m shaking my assets in a costume that’s more fringe than fabric. So don’t tell me I don’t know about real jobs or workplace harassment.”

“Fine,” Danielle said, her lips a thin line.

“Fine.”

I thought she might walk out, leaving me to cope with the rest of the mess on my own, but she continued to help, moving with me into my bedroom once we’d finished straightening the living room.

“You could kick Jonah in the cojones,” I suggested after another ten minutes of “you pissed me off” silence.

She made a mrmph sound that might’ve been a stifled laugh.

“Or cut a photo out of Playgirl and leave it on his desk with a pair of scissors stabbed through the model’s Mr. Happy.”

She laughed aloud at that and flung a pillow at me. “You are warped.”

Grinning with satisfaction at having gotten her to laugh, I told her about Sherry Indrebo’s call and my visit to Rafe’s condo.