Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I said, reclaiming my hand. The man had a certain rough charm and an intensity that I figured many women would find attractive. I was not completely immune to it myself, even after what Tav had told me about him. “And thank you for inviting me tonight. I’ve never been to an embassy party. It’s fascinating.”

“They pall after a very short time, believe me,” he said.

“I wanted to say hello to Victoria,” Tav said, “but I don’t see her. Is she here?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Bazán said smoothly. “She is visiting friends. She will be sorry to have missed you.”

“I will be in town for a while yet. Perhaps I will still get a chance to see her. When does she get back?” Tav’s expression was guileless, expressing only the casual interest of a neighbor. Being a good liar obviously ran in the family.

“Her plans are flexible,” Bazán said, after the briefest of hesitations. His narrowed gaze assessed the nature of Tav’s interest. “I’m not sure exactly when she’ll be home-a week? Ten days? But I’ll be sure to tell her you send your greetings.” Before Tav could respond, he turned to me. “Octavio said you dance?”

I nodded.

“Perhaps you would do me the honor?” He nodded toward the dance floor, where four or five couples chachaed with varying degrees of ability and enthusiasm. “You don’t mind, do you, Acosta?”

Taking Tav’s acquiescence for granted, Bazán led me toward the dance floor, a smooth expanse of parquet at the far end of the long room from the buffet tables. Bazán led me around the floor and had a brief word with the keyboard player. Within seconds, the band segued to a beat suitable for the Argentine tango. Unlike its American counterpart, the Argentine tango is largely improvisational and I was surprised that Bazán had apparently requested it. It’s much easier to do standard figures with a partner who you don’t know than to improvise. Bazán clasped my right hand in his left and settled his right hand just above my waist, pulling me into a close hold. There was something familiar about his scent, but I couldn’t place it.

“You are familiar with the Argentine tango?” he asked, leading me into a paso basico , the basic step. “It is not as predictable as your American version. You strike me as a woman who appreciates unpredictability.”

What the hell does he mean by that? I wondered, following him easily. His timing was just a shade off the music’s beat, and he moved with more power than grace, but he was a better than average dancer.

“Occasionally,” I agreed.

“That must have been part of what attracted you to Rafe Acosta,” he said. “His… unpredictability.”

I arched back slightly in his hold, trying to read his face. His eyes held a hint of mockery. “Actually, Rafe was pretty predictable,” I said. Up until the last few weeks. “He took dancing very seriously and trained hard.” And slept-predictably-with any woman who caught his fancy.

As we traveled counter-clockwise around the floor, I spotted Tav engaged in conversation with a handsome couple about his age. He seemed oblivious to Bazán and me. I felt a bit piqued at his indifference, but quickly squelched the feeling. Tav was Rafe’s half brother and would be returning to Argentina in a few days. Letting myself be attracted to him spelled “disaster” in at least eight languages.

“I, too, am a hard worker,” Bazán said, reclaiming my attention. “Perhaps I could be a competitive dancer.” He laughed, as if the idea were preposterous, but I got the sense of an ego that believed it could excel at any challenge. “I could take lessons at your studio.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Drop in when your wife gets back from her trip.”

His hand tightened painfully on mine. “What do you know about Victoria?”

I gave him a startled look. “Nothing! I’ve never met her.” I tugged at my hand and his grip loosened.

Steering me around an elderly couple who moved like they’d been dancing together for fifty years, he studied my face. “So who do you think killed Acosta?” he asked. “Perhaps it was a random thing-he surprised a thief or some such?”

His tension communicated itself to me through the stiffness in his shoulders and a certain immobility in his jaw. “I have no idea,” I said truthfully. “Although I can’t think why a thief would be in our ballroom. Hopefully, the police will realize I had nothing to do with his death and get on with finding the real killer.”

“Indeed,” Bazán said with a tight smile. I got the feeling he was going to say more, but something behind me caught his attention.

“The ambassador needs me,” he said. “I’m afraid I must cut our dance short, Miss Graysin. May I call you Stacy? Perhaps we can finish this another time.”

“Of course,” I murmured as he escorted me to Tav’s side, nodded, and strode off toward the beckoning ambassador. The disturbance in the air caused by his movement brought a whiff of his scent back to me and this time I identified it: cigar.

“He’s the one,” I whispered to Tav as we moved away from the couple he’d been speaking to. “The man from the limo.”

“What were you talking about?” Tav nodded sideways toward the dance floor.

“I’m not quite sure,” I admitted, filling him in on our conversation.

“I would really like to talk to Victoria,” Tav said.

“Did you believe Bazán about her traveling?”

Tav’s gaze followed the diplomat as he exited the room. “No, I do not think I did.”

“Maybe Rafe knew where she was. You said they were engaged once. Maybe they were running off together.” My stomach felt hollow and I had to force the words out. Maybe Rafe had never loved me. Maybe our whole time together was a sham. When he thought Victoria was unavailable, he settled for me, but when he found out she was here, nearby, they rekindled their romance. I blew out a sigh as if expelling the idea. It completely left Solange and his other brief flings out of the equation.

Tav and I batted around a few ideas about how Victoria might tie in to Rafe’s murder. I suggested she might have killed him and was now in hiding, and Tav countered with Bazán as the murderer, having found out that his wife and Rafe were carrying on a torrid affair. He had killed Victoria, too, Tav theorized, and hidden her body. Both our theories foundered on logistics: neither Bazán nor Victoria was likely to know I had a gun, never mind have the opportunity to sneak into my bedroom to steal it.

The band struck up “Fly Me to the Moon,” perfect foxtrot music, and I looked up at Tav. “Let’s dance.”

He shook his head, a rueful smile playing across his handsome face. “You forget-I do not dance.”

“I’m a teacher.” I took a step toward the dance floor. Teaching Tav to dance would be fun, and I had to admit that the thought of him pulling me close had more appeal than it should.

He grabbed my hand to restrain me, his hand callused and hard against mine. “This”-he gestured to the crowded room-“is not the ideal location for a first lesson.”

“There’s a dance floor and music.” I tugged at his hand. “Come on.”

“I do not choose to look like a fool in front of so many people,” he said, standing as if rooted to the floor. “Would you want to learn how to play soccer with a hundred people looking on?”

He had a point. “I don’t want to learn to play soccer under any circumstances,” I said, letting go of his hand.

He grinned, crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes and looking so dangerously attractive that I caught my breath. “But turnabout is fair play, no? If you are to teach me to dance, than I must also teach you something.”