Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

Solange wasn’t at the studio when I got back, so I called her. She was surprised to hear from me, but when I told her I needed to talk about her teaching schedule for Graysin Motion, she agreed to meet me. Her notion of twenty minutes was considerably longer than mine and I had given up on her and was pushing the dust mop around the ballroom, working up a gritty sweat, when she finally showed. Doing the cleaning ourselves to save the cost of janitorial services had been one of Rafe’s cost-cutting ideas. In a gold lamé halter top and cream linen shorts, Solange looked like a model ready to saunter down the runway and I looked like Cinderella, prefairy godmother.

The comparison put me in a crabby mood, but I refrained from griping about her lateness. You catch more lions with zebra meat, Great-aunt Laurinda always said. Whatever that meant. “Thanks for coming,” I said. “I appreciate your being willing to help with the classes.”

“It’s what Rafe would have wanted me to do,” she said.

Gag me. I went over the schedule with her, assigning her the Tuesday-afternoon youth class and the Thursday-evening ballroom cardio, an exercise class that drew a mostly female crowd. Solange slanted me a sideways glance out of her long-lashed blue eyes. “Making sure I don’t have a chance to steal any of your competitive clients?” she asked acidly.

“Absolutely,” I said. I wasn’t about to set her up with Mark Downey or the other men who competed with me in pro-am competitions. Talented, well-off male amateurs were rarer than blue diamonds and twice as valuable to the studio.

My candidness surprised a wry smile out of her. “That’s honest, at least.” She tossed her auburn mane over her shoulder. “You know I could walk out of here with any man I wanted to.”

“I remember.”

That threw her off balance and while she stuttered for an answer, I said, “You were close to Rafe these last few months, Solange. Do you know what was worrying him, why he needed money?” Walking ahead of her to the bathroom, I grabbed a bottled water from the fridge, pushing aside Vitaly’s six-pack of bottled grapefruit juice. “Want one?”

“Diet Coke?”

I handed her a cold can. We stood awkwardly in the hall, not moving to the office or back into the ballroom.

“You know,” she said, “I might be willing to teach here on a more permanent basis.” One long nail tapped against the aluminum can: ting, ting, ting .

Was she offering to trade information for a job? I’d give her a permanent job when a donkey won the Kentucky Derby. Having Solange around all the time would be like Han Solo asking Darth Vader to be first mate of the Millennium Falcon . “We’ll have to wait and see how things settle out,” I hedged. “I don’t know what Tav’s plans are and I don’t know how stable our client base will be now that Rafe’s not here. But I’ll certainly keep you in mind.”

Her face twisted with dissatisfaction, but then she said, “Rafe got a call almost a month ago, early-before six.”

She just had to work that in so I’d know she’d spent the night. I kept silent, sipping my water.

“A woman. I could tell by the way he was talking to her.” Her nostrils flared and I could see the idea of Rafe having a relationship of any kind with another woman rubbed her the wrong way. “When he got off the phone, he told me he had to go out.”

“Did he say who she was or why he was meeting her?”

She shook her head. “No. When I asked, he jumped down my throat, said we didn’t own each other.” From her expression, the memory was clearly still raw. She regretted sharing it with me immediately, though, adding airily, “Of course, we made up-he took me to Atlantic City for the weekend. That’s when he asked me to marry him.”

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and I thought maybe she’d really loved him, even though I didn’t for a moment believe he’d proposed. “It must be hard.”

She looked at me with only half the usual hostility. “The worst. And I don’t suppose I’ll get my money back, either.”

“What money?”

“The three thousand dollars I loaned him. It’s all I had in my savings account. He told me he’d pay me back, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen now, does it?”

“Did he say why he needed it? Did it have anything to do with the woman who called?”

“If I thought for a moment he spent it on that-” The cords in her neck stood out and she looked like she’d have happily plunged a dagger into the unknown woman.

Question was: Would she have been angry enough to put a bullet into Rafe?

Solange left and I heard voices on the landing outside as she exchanged greetings with someone. I wasn’t surprised, then, when the door pushed open almost immediately. The figure that came through the door, though, surprised me: Taryn Hall. She was wan and her hair and her step both had less spring than usual. She still held herself with that perfect posture that made her such an elegant dancer and she managed a smile when I gasped, “Taryn.”

“The ghost of Taryn past,” she said, lowering a tote bag from her shoulder.

“Are you okay? Your dad-”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Making it, anyway. I’ve already been home and talked with my dad. I’m sorry I landed you in it yesterday by telling him I was here. I didn’t expect to be gone so long, but the car broke down and we just got back this morning.”

“ ‘We’? You and Sawyer?”

She nodded.

“Why didn’t you call your dad?”

She gave me a look, one hundred percent teenage girl. “You’ve seen what he’s like. Sometimes it’s just easier not to tell him things.”

“But you told him about the pregnancy.”

She was shaking her head before I finished. “No way! He found the EPT box in the trash. He does things like that,” she added bitterly. “Goes through my trash.” She swayed and I caught her arm.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not since-I don’t know-eleven last night or so?”

“Let’s get some food into you. Come on.” I guided her down the hall to the interior door that led to my living quarters. She followed me downstairs and stood gazing out the back window into my tiny courtyard.

“It’s pretty,” she offered as I pulled eggs from the fridge. “Peaceful.” She sounded wistful, as if peace were beyond her grasp.

“Sit,” I commanded, putting a glass of cranberry juice on the table. “I’ll scramble some eggs.”

Sitting, she leaned her elbows on the table to support her chin. “I’ve never been down here before.” Her gaze swept the kitchen with its dated maple cabinets that needed refinishing, the newer but mismatched appliances-black stove, white fridge, stainless-steel microwave-the deep porcelain sink with a mixing bowl and a plate in the dish drainer beside it. “Where’s the dishwasher?”

I laughed. “My great-aunt Laurinda lived alone. I guess she didn’t think it was worthwhile installing one.” And I couldn’t afford one.

The eggs sizzled on the griddle and I slid them onto a plate, added a piece of toast, and plunked it in front of her. I made a similar plate for myself.

“Thanks,” she mumbled as I sat.

“What are you doing here?” I asked when she’d had a chance to eat a little. I’d cleared my plate in record time, ravenous after my trip to D.C. and my talk with Solange.

“I thought I’d get in a little more practice before we leave for the competition tomorrow. Sawyer should be here in a few minutes.”

“You’re still going?” Your dad’s letting you? I thought but didn’t say.

“I talked my dad into letting me compete this one last time. He hates to waste money and I told him it was too late for our entry fees to be refunded. He’s coming with me, though,” she added glumly.