Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

“And you,” Sherry said, a note of petulance in her voice. She shrugged off her husband’s hand.

I tried to remember his name. Ruben? Rudy?

He seemed unperturbed by her pettishness, letting his hand drop to the table. A heavy gold ring set with a dark red stone winked dully from his ring finger, drawing attention to a large-knuckled hand more suited to farming or blacksmithing than steering a Fortune 500 company. “We’ll be living in the governor’s mansion before we’re through.”

“Or the White House?” I suggested, half joking.

“Never say never,” he agreed.

“Ruben.” Sherry frowned at her husband like he’d said something indiscreet.

A flicker of movement from the far end of the ballroom caught my eye and I looked up to see a slim, dark-haired woman staring at me. Wearing jeans and a denim jacket, she turned away when she saw me looking her way and hurried out of the room. My brows drew together; she looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Obviously not a dancer-probably just a fan, or a relative of a dancer trying to figure out where to sit. It could be confusing. I dismissed her from my thoughts and rose to join my student as our next heat was called.

The day progressed pretty much as usual, although I found myself missing Rafe more than I’d realized I would. I kept looking for him to share a glance or a raised brow about a judging result or a misstep by one of our fellow pros, but he wasn’t there. Vitaly’s ongoing commentary was more trenchant, and occasionally amusing-“He is looking like the hunching back of Notre Dame with that weak frame”-but I didn’t have the connection with him I’d had with Rafe. Having to break the news of his death to the few pros and friends who hadn’t heard about it put a damper on my day, too. Our students did well in the day’s heats, though, and came off the floor glowing when the judges handed them ribbons during the rapid-fire announcement of winners at the end of each division.

Late that afternoon, as the day’s competition was wrapping up so dancers could grab a quick meal before the evening’s heats started at seven, I finished a conversation with the woman selling off-the-rack ball gowns and Latin costumes and cut through a darkened conference room that adjoined the main ballroom via one of those folding walls. A shuffling sound in the corner made me realize it wasn’t empty and I found myself gazing at Sawyer and Taryn, locked in the kind of clinch that convinced me Taryn’s baby would probably sport Sawyer’s strong nose and high forehead. I took a surreptitious step backward, planning to ease myself out of the room before they came up for air, but halted when I caught sight of another figure staring at the oblivious couple, his rage visible even across the shadowy room. Leon Hall.

“Taryn Adrienne Hall!” he bellowed, charging toward the couple, who split apart guiltily. “Why are you kissing that… that poofter?”

Sawyer straightened his spine and took a half step to shield Taryn from her father’s wrath. He looked young and spindly, and I knew Hall could mow him down in half a second. “Sir, I-”

The clue-bird landed on Hall with the heavy weight of a vulture and his expression of astonishment was almost ludicrous. “You’re not queer, are you? Taryn lied to me! You told me he was light in the loafers.” Hall growled at Taryn, caught midway between confusion and fury. “That’s the only reason I let you do this ballroom dancing thing and spend all that time practicing with him. Why did you lie to me?”

I thought he’d just answered his own question, so I kept my mouth shut, moving forward quietly so I could intervene if necessary.

“Daddy, I-”

With the inevitability of the sun rising in the east, the rest of the truth dawned on Hall. “You’re the father! You’re the bastard who knocked up my baby!” With a roar, he charged toward Sawyer, who held his ground for a split second and then scrambled toward the door.

I wished I had my cell phone so I could call hotel security, but there was nowhere to put it in my Latin costume so it sat uselessly on the table in the ballroom. “This way,” I called to Sawyer, hoping to direct him out the door I’d come in, but apparently he didn’t hear me because he dodged around a couple of chairs and vaulted onto the conference table, sliding across it on his hip before Hall could change direction. Sawyer dashed through the door into the main ballroom as Taryn called, “Don’t kill him, Daddy. I love him!”

Her words added fuel to Hall’s fire and he ran after Sawyer with Taryn and me following, hoping to prevent a maiming. Dancers floated across the floor to the strains of a Viennese waltz and Sawyer plowed through them, knocking a woman in yellow chiffon aside as the rest of the dancers stuttered to a halt. One pro I knew slightly, a tall man in his thirties, stepped in front of Hall, holding his hands out to stop him. “Hey, buddy, this is a dance-”

Hall knocked the pro aside and the man windmilled his arms to keep his balance. Several people pulled out cell phones and began to take photos or video of the chase. I hoped some of them were calling the police because I had no doubt Hall meant to inflict serious damage on Sawyer if he caught up with him. Sawyer had made it to the far side of the ballroom and was headed for an emergency exit when he caught his foot on a table leg. The table, laden with glasses and pitchers of ice water for thirsty dancers, tilted and its contents splashed to the ground, strewing broken glass and ice cubes across a twelve-foot radius. Stumbling forward, Sawyer recovered without hitting the ground, but it gave Hall the necessary seconds to catch up with him. With a huge lunge, Hall flung himself toward the younger man, catching the tails of his tux.

The fabric made a ripping sound but didn’t totally give way, and Sawyer crashed against the emergency door, triggering a loud alarm that added to the general chaos. He fell, half in and half out of the door, with Hall clutching at his feet. Daylight and a fresh breeze swept into the room.

A quavery voice yelled, “Sic ’em, Hoover,” and suddenly the Great Dane was there, unclear on the concept of “siccing” but happy to join in this fun game that involved people rolling on the floor. He nosed first Sawyer and then Hall, who turned his head aside with a gagging noise.

“Woof,” Hoover barked, bowing over his outstretched forelegs, his rump in the air with his tail whipping back and forth. Skirting the tail, which had already knocked a soda can from a nearby table, I flung myself onto Hall and grabbed for one of his legs as he tried to simultaneously climb his way up Sawyer’s legs and pound at him. Kicking at the heavier man, Sawyer struggled to claw his way out the door to safety. Hall had maneuvered his way up Sawyer’s torso and had one hand around his neck when Taryn joined me and latched on to her father’s other leg. Together, we leaned backward, bracing our thighs and hauling on Hall’s legs. My shoulder muscles burned as he twisted and kicked. My hands slipped and I was reduced to clutching at the hem of his jeans, unable to get a good grip.

“Daddy!” Taryn cried, tears in her voice and her eyes. “Stop it!”

Just as my grip gave way, Hoover bounded over again, planting one saucer-sized paw onto Hall’s back, making the man grunt and look over his shoulder, which allowed Sawyer to wiggle forward another couple of inches. Mildred appeared in her ruffly pink dress, a supersized Milk-Bone in her hand, and commanded, “Sit, Hoover.”

Hoover sat, planting his rear end firmly on Hall’s back, and disposed of his treat with two crunching bites. Five men hurried up-finally!-and two of them grabbed Hall’s arms while another two secured his legs. The fifth took his cue from Hoover and sat on Hall’s back. Immobilized, Hall hurled names and threats at Sawyer, who had struggled to his feet and limped over to where Taryn sobbed into her hands. He glared at Hall, his face rigid and white.