Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

“It is beautiful,” Tav said, quiet appreciation in his voice.

A handful of boats glided past, sails bellied by the wind. Tourists milled about with cameras and melting ice-cream treats, reddened shoulders and noses testifying to a morning spent at Mount Vernon or wandering the streets of Old Town. Two mallards swam near the pier, hoping for handouts. Being near the river always lifted my spirits and I smiled as I headed for a food cart, letting the past days’ sadness and anxiety drop away for a moment. Sandwiches and bottled waters in hand, Tav and I wandered a hundred yards up the river and settled on a river-facing bench to eat.

“Look,” Tav said, crumpling the sandwich wrapping and shoving it into his pocket. “I don’t think you killed Rafe.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said around a mouthful of turkey sandwich. Despite my sarcastic response, I was a teensy bit pleased by his words.

“The police said your gun was the murder weapon, though, so how do you explain that?”

“I don’t. I can’t. Someone stole it.”

“Who knew you had a gun?”

I’d already been thinking about that. “Dozens of people,” I said gloomily.

He looked startled. “Really? How is that?”

“Six or eight weeks ago, at one of our social dances-that’s where we invite students from all the classes, and people from the community, too, to come on a Friday night and dance for fun-one of the women mentioned how unsafe she feels going out at night. She was nervous just walking the two blocks from the parking garage to Graysin Motion. Someone said she should get a gun and carry it in her purse. Rafe went downstairs and got my gun to show her, even demonstrating how easily it would fit in her purse. So,” I said gloomily, “lots of people knew I had a gun.”

“But they wouldn’t know where you kept it,” Tav objected.

I gave him a look. “If you had to search a woman’s place for her gun, where would you look first?”

“Bedside table.”

“Bingo.”

“Point taken.” His brows drew together as he thought. “So if someone went to the trouble of stealing your gun, then Rafael’s death was premeditated, not a crime of passion. Although… something was bothering Rafael.”

“I got that feeling, too,” I said, staring at him. “He didn’t used to worry about money, but recently he was obsessed by it, trying to cut costs at Graysin Motion, trying to talk me into having kids’ hip-hop and tap classes and an annual recital. What did he say when he called you?”

“Nothing specific.”

I eyed him, wondering if he was telling the truth. He had stretched his long legs out and let his head rest against the bench’s back so I couldn’t read his expression in profile. “So he just called up, told you he was making out his will in your favor, and hung up? And you said-what? ‘Have a nice day’?”

“Pretty much,” Tav said, turning his head slightly to face me, a slight smile quirking his lips as he took in my frustration.

“Liar.”

“I am wounded.” He put a hand to his heart, but his expression told me he was only making fun of me. “Actually,” he said as I jumped to my feet with an impatient exclamation, “I tried to get him to talk, but he said he had to go and hung up.”

“And you left it at that.”

“I did.” His expression grew somber, his sensuous lips folded into a thin line. “Now I wish I had pushed him harder, called him back.”

I could understand that. I didn’t feel I knew him well enough to offer any words of comfort or absolution, though, so I stayed silent. After a moment, he rose and said, “We should be getting back. I’ve got a meeting later to prepare for.”

“What do you do?” I asked, stuffing my lunch debris into a trash can. We headed back toward my house and I caught him examining the ornate doorways and cornices and wrought-iron fences on the row houses we passed.

“I’m in the import-export business.”

“Oh.” Part of me had hoped he’d say “I’m an internationally acclaimed ballroom dancer.” I knew that wasn’t even a possibility, though, because if he were that good I’d’ve heard of him.

“Do you dance?” I asked.

He looked down at me, a rueful smile curving his lips. “Not a step. Football is my game-what you call soccer.”

“Oh.”

“I am a huge disappointment to you, right?” He didn’t sound like it bothered him.

“No,” I said. “It’s not that. But if you’re not a dancer, inheriting Rafe’s share of Graysin Motion has got to be more of an inconvenience than anything, doesn’t it?” Which pretty much put him out of the running as the murderer, as far as I was concerned. Not that I really thought he’d traveled from Argentina to D.C. to put a bullet in Rafe in my ballroom.

He put a hand to my elbow to guide me away from a skateboarder careening down the sidewalk. “Not necessarily. Are you interested in owning the business outright?”

I didn’t know if he was asking me to make an offer or just sounding me out, but I said honestly, “I can’t afford it. We aren’t turning a profit yet-probably won’t be for another couple of years at the earliest-and even though it’s worth less now than before Rafe got killed-”

“Really?” Tav sounded interested.

“Definitely. A lot of a studio’s worth is in its reputation, its name, the success of its pros and students. Rafe was a big draw-a huge draw-for us. We’ll lose some students to other studios and pros now that he’s dead. Also, I need a new dance partner. I’ve got one tentatively lined up-on approval, you might say-but it’s unrealistic to expect that we’ll do as well at Blackpool after only a few weeks together as Rafe and I would have done.” I pushed a hand through my hair and sighed. “Frankly, the studio’d be in better shape if I’d gotten shot; a male pro brings in a lot more business than a female because the biggest student demographic is women.”

“I am sure you bring in more than your share of business,” Tav said, his tone more assessing than admiring.

We turned the corner on to my block as he spoke, and the sight of the black limousine hovering across the street from my house shocked an exclamation from me. The conviction that whoever was in the limo knew something about Rafe’s death grabbed hold of me and I broke into a run. The car idled at the curb like before, windows rolled up, wholly anonymous. My momentum almost carried me into the passenger side door, but I stopped in time. Knocking on the window, I called, “I need to talk to you about Rafe. Just tell me what you know about him. Please.”

A British-accented voice from behind me said, “I don’t know anyone named Rafe, but I’d like to get to know you, luv.”

I whirled to find myself facing a cadaverous-looking man in his late sixties being escorted out of the spa, someone I vaguely recognized as a seventies rock star having a successful comeback tour. Resurrection tour was more like it, I thought, scanning his gaunt face. Wearing leather pants and with highlighted hair sticking out at all angles, he gave me a rakish grin as the chauffeur came around to open the door for him. “Whaddaya say?” The rocker gestured toward the interior of the limo.

I stepped back, appalled by my mistake. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were-”

Suddenly, Tav was at my side, his hand on my shoulder. “Stacy?”

The rocker gave us a knowing smile, raised a hand, and said “Ta, then,” as he slid into the limo. It glided away from the curb and I saw the license plate: Virginia. Not diplomatic plates.

My face blazed with heat, and I scuttled across the street to my house, weaving my way between cars stopped at the light. Reaching the other side, I realized Tav had followed me. I felt like an utter fool and was doubly embarrassed to think that he had witnessed what must have looked like my frenzied pursuit of a musician old enough to be my grandfather.