Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

His smile froze, but then he restored the tickets to his pocket. “Yeah, it was kind of late notice. Maybe another time.”

I carefully avoided answering him as I dropped the juice-sodden tissue in the trash can.

“Are the police making any progress on Rafe’s case?” he asked as we moved into the hall.

“Not unless you consider arresting me progress,” I said.

“What!” He put a hand on my arm to stop me and scanned my face worriedly.

“Well, they didn’t really arrest me,” I conceded. “They hauled me down to the station for questioning, though, and scared me good.”

“They’re idiots,” he said, releasing my arm with a small laugh. “Give me a call if they lock you up-I bake a mean German chocolate cake and I’m sure I can slip a file into it, or maybe some plastic explosives.”

“You cook?” Maybe I needed to reconsider my rule about getting involved with students.

He shook his head. “Bake. And only German chocolate cake. It was my mom’s favorite and I baked one for her birthday every year. My dad didn’t know a measuring spoon from a garlic press and my sister was too busy memorizing words to bother-she was into spelling bees big-time-so I elected myself.”

“That’s nice.”

Shrugging, he pulled open the door to the outside landing and the wind ruffled his sandy hair. “Mom seemed to enjoy it. So, see you tomorrow?”

“You bet. You are going to walk away from the comp with the Top Student prize.”

“I’ll do my best to make you proud.” With a light kiss on my cheek and a grin, he descended the stairs two at a time.

Tav and I approached the historic building that housed the Argentine embassy on New Hampshire Avenue as a waning spring sun cast long shadows across the treelined street and rush-hour traffic clogged the roads. I was a little nervous, never having attended an embassy function of any kind before. Even though Tav had assured me that all the embassy personnel spoke flawless English, I worried that other guests might speak only Spanish. In his tuxedo, Tav looked like a movie star from the 1940s and I was too conscious of the hand he placed at the small of my back to guide me through the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the three-story white brick mansion. I craned my neck to see more wrought iron curving around toe-hold balconies on the second floor and a couple of window air-conditioning units jutting out like warts from windows on the top floor. Argentina’s blue-and-white-striped flag with the starburst sun in the middle undulated in the evening’s gentle breeze. Uniformed guards checked our IDs and invitation before nodding us toward social secretary types, who directed us into a receiving line.

We shook hands and murmured pleasantries to tuxedoed or military-uniformed men and stunning women in designer gowns. I wasn’t quite sure what the guest of honor, a rotund man with a luxuriant mustache and small hands, did, but he greeted me with a vigorous handshake and a huge grin. I smiled back and moved ahead of Tav into the reception rooms, the hem of my emerald-green dress whispering against my ankles.

Surveying the room, I noted more men than women, a buffet table clad in a tablecloth that echoed the blue of the Argentine flag, and a combo of six musicians playing big band tunes for a handful of dancers at the far end of the room. My foot tapped in time with the beat. Tav stood close behind me. I could feel his heat against my back and our faces were disturbingly close when I tilted my head back to ask softly, “Do you see him?”

Scanning the assembled guests, Tav urged me forward slightly so we weren’t blocking the entrance. “There,” he said, nodding discreetly toward the far corner of the room, where a clump of dark-haired men in formalwear carried on an animated discussion with raised voices, expansive gestures, and the occasional bark of laughter. “The one facing us with the blue bow tie and cummerbund.”

I studied Bazán surreptitiously. Probably no more than five-eight or five-nine, he still, in some indefinable way, seemed bigger than the taller men around him. Maybe it was the barrel chest or broad shoulders and bull neck. Or it could’ve been that he was much stiller than the other men, with an economy of motion that made his few gestures seem stronger. He had broad features, tanned skin, and dark eyes under droopy lids; I could totally see him on a horse riding the range or the steppes or the pampas-whatever they called open grassland in Argentina.

It took me a moment to realize he was studying me as closely as I was studying him. Our eyes met and I looked away, flustered. I chastised myself for being so obvious. I’d make a really bad spy. “Bazán caught me looking at him,” I confessed to Tav.

“What man would not be flattered by your interest?” he said, pivoting to impose his body between me and Bazán.

“He didn’t look flattered,” I said dubiously. “Maybe we should go talk to him and get it over with.”

Tav smiled and I felt a little jolt zing through my body. “It won’t be necessary. He’ll come to us before the evening is out.” As he talked, he nudged me toward a buffet table laden with goodies that made me want to forget dancing and eat until I qualified for a career as a plussize model. I helped myself to a handful of carrots, some strawberries, and a few barbecued shrimp.

“How can you know that?”

“He will have seen the guest list for tonight’s party and noted my name. I mentioned that our ranches shared a border, did I not? He will come over to greet us out of respect for my father.”

“Goodness.” I wasn’t sure my father’s neighbors would recognize him on the street, never mind go out of their way to chat with him at a party. Maybe that was the difference between renting a suburban town house and owning a ranch. I watched enviously as Tav bit into a puff pastry that oozed chocolate and raspberry. The rest of his plate held other desserts, including a minicheesecake, a strawberry-kiwi tart, and sopapillas dusted with powdered sugar.

“How can you mainline sugar like that?” I asked, searching his plate in vain for a vegetable or any item that didn’t come from the “rot your teeth” food group.

“I have a sweet tooth,” he said, licking a trace of confectioner’s sugar from the corner of his mouth. “And, luckily, I have a fast metabolism.”

“You’d be easy to hate,” I informed him.

He laughed. I crunched ostentatiously and noisily into a carrot. A voice from behind Tav said, “Good evening, Acosta. What brings you to D.C.? I was surprised to see your name on the invitation list for tonight’s reception. Is Arturo in town?”

Tav turned to reveal Héctor Bazán standing there, even more intimidating up close. The men shook hands. “No, my father is at home. I am here to make arrangements for Rafael’s body to be returned for burial. You will have heard about his death?”

“Indeed,” Bazán said, his gaze panning me from my upswept hair, to the shoulders bared by my strapless emerald dress, to the red-painted toenails peeping from my high-heeled, bronze-colored sandals. “I read the reports and have discussed the case with the detective in charge. Even though Rafael opted for American citizenship, I took an interest for your father’s sake.”

“That was kind of you,” Tav said.

“The police seem to think Rafael’s business partner did it.”

With an amused glance at me, Tav said, “I do not believe you have met Stacy Graysin, Héctor. She was my brother’s dance partner and co-owned the studio with him.”

Irritation flickered in Bazán’s eyes for a moment before he took my hand and gracefully dropped a kiss on it. “I regret my unintentional rudeness, Señorita Graysin,” he said, smiling. “Obviously, you had nothing to do with Acosta’s death. The police are imbeciles.”