Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

“That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh?” If I said “oh” one more time, I was going to slap myself. The limo jolted into a pothole and I bobbled the phone, missing what Tav was saying. “Sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”

“I said I have had a couple offers for my share of Graysin Motion and I need to talk to you about them.”

“Oh!” I slapped my face lightly and the chauffeur eyed me doubtfully in the rearview mirror. “Who from?”

“I’d rather talk about it in person. Do you have plans for this afternoon?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

“Good. Would you mind if I played tourist while we talked? I have not had the chance to see anything of your nation’s capital-too busy working. I would really like to see the Air and Space Museum before I go back.”

His tone was half-sheepish, as if wanting to visit one of the world’s great museums was embarrassing in some way. With rare exceptions, every man I knew preferred the Air and Space Museum to any other museum on the Mall. I laughed. “You shouldn’t miss it. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

A flowered halter top, denim shorts, low-heeled espadrilles, my yellow sunhat, and copious quantities of sunblock and I was ready to play tourist in downtown D.C. Yes, the Air and Space Museum was inside, but I bet Tav would want to stroll down the Mall and see a couple of the monuments while we were down there and since today was forecast to be record-breaking hot, I didn’t want to end up sunburned.

Tav stood near the museum entrance, long, muscled legs displayed by olive-colored shorts. A sprinkling of crisp black hair curled from the open neck of his white polo shirt, and sunglasses hung around his neck. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a smile. “Thanks for humoring me, Stacy. I know this is not the standard venue for a business meeting.”

I returned his smile. “Much better than a stuffy office or conference room.” We moved into the air-conditioned building with its megahigh ceilings hung with planes, and joined the clumps of people looking upward. I’d visited the museum several times over the years-no schoolchild in the greater D.C. area graduates without at least one field trip to the Air and Space Museum-but I had to admit that the history of flight and space travel pretty much left me cold. Planes were transportation, pure and simple, and I couldn’t get excited about a Pratt & Whitney engine the size of my car, even though Tav seemed fascinated. His enthusiasm was engaging and it kept a long afternoon of studying the Wright Flyer, an Apollo capsule, and various other artifacts of flight from being tedious. The museum wasn’t too crowded on a Monday afternoon in April, which made it possible to move freely and linger as long as we wanted-or longer-in front of exhibits.

“I wanted to be a pilot,” Tav confided as we stood beside a plane labeled MESSERSCHMITT ME 262.

“Why aren’t you?”

“I have always admired the American idea that you can be whatever you want to be,” he said, studying the plaque that described the plane. “It is not always that simple. Family expectations, financial realities… sometimes dreams take a backseat. Besides”-he looked at me and grinned-“I wanted to be a professional football player, too, but so far La Selección has not come calling.”

“My dad wanted me to study accounting,” I said. “He thought it would be a more stable career than ballroom dancing. I’m sure he was right, but I don’t regret being a dancer. It makes me happy-most of the time.”

Tav touched my elbow to move me toward another gallery and a group gathered around a docent giving a talk about an Apollo capsule. “I cannot see you as an accountant, Stacy. Such a job would quench your joie de vivre.”

His smile warmed me and I was pleased that he saw me as a happy person because I was, basically, except when my ex-fiancé got murdered in my dance studio and the police thought I did it. “It’s funny you should say that,” I said. “Just today someone suggested I should be a lawyer.” I went on to tell him about meeting with Phineas Drake and the weekend’s many surprises.

“Héctor Bazán attacked you in your home?” His eyes narrowed with a cold rage I hadn’t seen in him before.

“‘Attacked’ is maybe too strong,” I said, pleased by his reaction. Finally someone was taking me seriously. “He didn’t have a gun, although he slapped me a couple of times.”

Tav cupped my chin in his hand and turned my face from side to side to see what injuries I’d suffered. I’d inspected my face closely this morning, but there was no hint of bruising. He ran a finger down my cheek, stopping at the corner of my mouth.

“I’ll live.” I laughed it off, disconcerted by the flush of heat that shot through me at his touch.

“I will pay a call on Bazán before I leave,” Tav promised grimly.

“Detective Lissy said he’d question him, but I can tell he thinks I made the whole thing up.”

From the set of Tav’s mouth, I thought his approach was going to be more physical in nature. He confirmed that by saying, “If Bazán is responsible for my brother’s murder-” He cut himself off, forced a smile on his face, and said, “Come on. You have had enough of things with wings. Do you mind if we walk to the World War II memorial? My grandfather flew Hawker Typhoons with the RAF’s 164th Squadron and was part of the Normandy invasion.”

“Really? I didn’t know Argentina fought in World War II.”

Tav ushered me out the door into the brutal heat and humidity outside. Who sucked all the oxygen out of the air and replaced it with water? It was way too early in the year for me to feel like I needed a scuba tank to breathe outside. Grateful for my hat, I led Tav down the wide, pebbly path toward the World War II memorial. It was past five now and most of the tourists had drifted off to refreshing hotel pools or cocktail lounges, while D.C. workers clogged the outbound roads with their air-conditioned cars. I was just as happy to spend a little more time on the Mall and not have to get on a crowded Metro car during rush hour.

“About four thousand Argentine volunteers fought in the war, some with British, Canadian, and South African air forces. Our government at the time was a bunch of cowardly fence-sitters, but eventually they declared war on the Axis, sometime in the spring of 1945, I think. Volunteers, though, joined the fighting much earlier. My grandfather-my mother’s father-still had family in the UK, cousins and such, so it was natural that he would go there. He didn’t come back from the war, which is one of the reasons my mother did not want me to join the air force.”

“Who can blame her?”

He shrugged, stepping between me and a gardener letting his leaf blower drift off target as he eyed a couple of attractive joggers. I appreciated Tav’s instinctive courtesy. Rafe had not been so sensitive to his environment, to those around him. I needed to stop comparing the two men. Almost brusquely, I asked, “So you’ve had some offers for Rafe’s half of the studio?”

“Feelers, let us say. It is too soon to have formal offers. Until we are able to assess the value of-”

“From who?” I wanted to cut to the quick.

“From a Solange Dubonnet-”

“Damn!”

“-and a Nicolaos Papadakis.”

“Uncle Nico?” Double damn. I nibbled on my lower lip. I wasn’t sure which prospect disturbed me more-working with Solange or with Uncle Nico. Solange would undoubtedly want to be involved in the day-today operations and compete with me for the male amateur dancers. Uncle Nico’s motives were a little murkier. Maybe he was just trying to be helpful to his niece? Not likely.