Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’ ” Drake said good-humoredly. “Clearly, the gun was stolen and someone else used it to murder the unfortunate Mr. Acosta. Even a first-year law student could trump that argument, Detective. She had no GSR on her hands that night and no motive for killing Mr. Acosta.”

“No motive?” Lissy laughed a slight heh-heh . “I’d call becoming sole owner of the business a fine motive.”

“But I didn’t,” I said, glad for the first time that Rafe had changed his will. All three men looked at me. “His… A relative gets Rafe’s half of Graysin Motion.”

Lissy flushed an ugly puce shade. “You gave us a copy of his will, Miss Graysin, that named you as the beneficiary.”

“It was an old one,” I said airily.

“There you have it,” Phineas Drake said with an approving nod at me. “Let’s go, Ms. Graysin.”

“Jenkins was checking to make sure the will was the most current one,” Troy told Lissy. From the look on Lissy’s face, I felt sorry for Jenkins for not coming up with the more recent will.

“His name is Octavio Acosta,” I supplied helpfully. “He said he talked to you.”

“He didn’t mention inheriting the dance studio,” Troy put in as Lissy’s color deepened.

“Perhaps you forgot to ask,” I said sweetly, rising with as much self-possession as was possible in the tangerine leggings and sweaty tank top I’d worn to dance with Vitaly.

Phineas Drake held out a peremptory hand and escorted me from the room before I could antagonize the detectives further. He said nothing as he ushered me through the police department and out the doors into a day that had clouded over and was sticky with humidity. A white limo idled at the curb and he gestured me to it, climbing in after me.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Drake,” I said as he settled his bulk on the rear seat and reached for a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket. The limo was so big I was surprised it didn’t come with a steward. Drake popped the cork silently, releasing a faint aroma of pear to mix with the scent of expensive leather perfuming the limo’s interior. I accepted the glass he handed me, watching the bubbles ascend through the cut crystal.

“Thank your uncle.”

“Uncle Nico?” I stared at him in astonishment. “How did he know I was here?”

“As I understand it, a Mr. Maurice Goldberg called your mother and she called Mr. Papadakis at his vacation home in Spain. He asked me to wander over and liberate you.”

“Do you work for Uncle Nico?” I asked.

The big man smiled. “From time to time.”

“You look expensive,” I said frankly, taking a gulp of champagne. The beverage might be meant for sipping, but I’d had a morning that required swigging. “I probably can’t afford you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Your uncle is taking care of my fees. As a favor.” He smiled, crinkling his cheeks below his eyes.

I knew what that meant. Uncle Nico was all about tit for tat. I’d owe him one. A big one. The thought gave me a moment of unease, but I was so glad Phineas Drake had gotten me out of the police station that I let it drift away. Time enough to worry when Uncle Nico showed up to claim his favor.

Phineas Drake’s face turned serious. “This morning was all about frightening a confession out of you, Ms. Graysin.”

“Stacy,” I said, finishing my champagne. “And they certainly succeeded with the ‘frightening’ part of their agenda. I was good and scared. Still am. What’s a GSR and how did you know about it?”

“A gunshot residue test. Did they swab your hands the night of the murder?” At my nod, he said, “Standard procedure. I knew the results were negative or I’d’ve been rescuing you from the city lockup, not a cozy interview room.”

His definition of “cozy” was a long ways away from mine, but I didn’t argue the point. “What do we do now?”

Drake set his champagne flute on the burled wood table beside him. “We give the police another suspect, someone besides you.”

I crinkled my brow. “You mean we find the real murderer?”

“In the best of all possible worlds. Failing that, we make sure they see the value in focusing on someone else. Who would you like to see go down for it?”

His tone was casual, but the look in his eyes gave me pause. Was it possible he was talking about framing someone else for the murder? Surely not. Some of the rumors and family whispers I’d heard about Uncle Nico popped into my head and I decided to play it cautiously. Even though part of me longed to give him Solange’s name, I said, “The only person I want to have arrested is the real murderer.”

Chuckling, Drake poured the last of the champagne into his glass and downed it. “Mr. Papadakis told me you were a sweet girl-‘not a vicious bone in her body,’ he said. Don’t worry, Stacy. When Mr. Papadakis wants something fixed, it gets fixed.” He settled back against the seat, arms spread across the top of it, an inscrutable smile on his face. If Mona Lisa had been a bear, this is what she’d have looked like.

Calls to Maurice and Mom thanked them for their part in springing me from Lissy’s clutches and let them know I was home again. A shower washed the imaginary stink of the police department off me, and two aspirin put a dent in the champagne headache. In my steamy little bathroom, I flipped my head over to blow-dry my long, blond hair and thought about Rafe’s murder, Tav’s appearance, and Phineas Drake’s jovial assurances. Even though all I wanted to do was concentrate on my dancing, the students, and the upcoming Capitol Festival, I reluctantly accepted the fact that I was going to have to see if I could figure out who killed Rafe. If I didn’t, either I was going to end up in prison (not an acceptable outcome), or some random bystander set up by Uncle Nico and his legal eagle was going to take the fall (also unacceptable, especially if it was someone I liked, such as Maurice or one of my students).

I stood, flinging my hair back, and watched in the foggy mirror as it settled in a golden cloud on my shoulders. I decided to leave it loose and quickly donned a pair of striped capris and a slim-fitting teal shirt that made the most of my assets. I’d never been much of one for mystery novels or TV cop shows, but it seemed to me like I should start my investigation by talking to a few people: Taryn Hall and/or her dad, Tav Acosta, and Solange for starters. As I was mentally flipping a coin to decide who to start with, the phone rang.

“Have you got it?” Sherry Indrebo asked when I said hello.

I started guiltily. So much had happened, I’d completely forgotten about returning the thumb drive to Sherry.

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you,” I said. “Yes, I’ve got it.”

Her sigh of relief wafted through the phone. “Thank goodness. Look, I’m tied up today, but I’ll stop by this evening to get it from you.” Her tone grew sharper. “We also need to talk about my partner situation. I already gave Rafe a check for the Capitol Festival and I expect you to find me an equally accomplished partner to compete with. And no excuses about it being too last minute.”

“I already lined someone up,” I said, thinking that her gratitude hadn’t lasted long.

When she hung up, I started to dial Taryn Hall’s number, hoping to catch the girl while her parents were still at work, but put the phone down before it connected. I’d probably learn more from her in person. I dug her address out of our computer files, Mapquested it, and was on the road within ten minutes.

The Halls’ house wasn’t far-a few miles south on Route 1 on the other side of I-495. Probably built in the 1950s or ’60s, the house had pale blue aluminum siding, small windows, and a beautifully landscaped yard brimming with salmon-, white- and fuchsia-colored azaleas and spring bulbs by the dozen. Leaving my car at the curb, I strode up the pebbled walkway and knocked on the front door.