Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

“I can’t believe Solange made you an offer without even talking to me first. When did she first contact you?”

“Yesterday,” Tav said with a lifted brow. “And she sounded very interested. Who is she?”

I explained about Solange, leaving out the part about finding her in bed with Rafe. I didn’t want to tarnish Tav’s memories of his brother. “And Uncle Nico-” How did I explain about Uncle Nico? “Uncle Nico’s an operator,” I said weakly. “He has many business interests. I’m not sure where a ballroom dance studio fits into his business empire.”

“So you don’t want me to accept either of the offers?” Tav asked.

I was silent, realizing it was totally unreasonable of me to ask him not to sell Rafe’s share-his share-of Graysin Motion to either of two qualified buyers. At least, I assumed Solange could afford it, and I knew Uncle Nico could. We had reached the World War II memorial and stayed silent as we walked through the Atlantic Pavilion and into the huge granite oval surrounded by columns. Even though the memorial was rigidly symmetrical, something about the stone pillars set in semicircles at either end made me think of Stonehenge. Fountains splashed in the central pool and a little girl escaped from her parents’ grip to dash into the water, shoes and all. Tav laughed at the sight, but sobered as he read some of the plaques on the wall. Heat radiated from the granite, even as dusk laid long shadows across the ground. As we made our way counterclockwise around the memorial, I said, “I hope someone else wants to buy your share. I have to say that neither Solange nor Uncle Nico would be my first choice of partners.”

“Who would be?”

I considered. Vitaly came to mind, but I had no idea what his financial situation was. And I really didn’t know him that well. “I don’t know,” I finally said. “How does one find buyers for a business? Do you advertise?”

“You can,” he said, “although I would think word of mouth would be the best method for a small, specialized business like the studio. You mention it at competitions, tell friends to spread the word.”

“How long?”

He looked at me quizzically.

“How long do you have before you have to make a decision?”

“There is no hard-and-fast deadline,” he said slowly. “Although buyers will not hang around waiting for a decision forever.” We approached a cluster of pigeons that waddled lazily out of our path.

A light breeze stirred my hair and I lifted it from my neck. The scent of hot dogs drifted over from a cart where the vendor was closing down for the day. I was about to verbalize an idea that was burbling in my brain, but Tav spoke up.

“Are you hungry?” At my nod, he said, “Let us get dinner-unless you have other plans?”

“Dinner would be nice, although I’m not dressed for anyplace fancy.”

“Nor am I.” He gestured to his shorts with a laugh. “I am sure we can find something.”

We found a casual Peruvian place a short Metro ride away in the lively Adams Morgan section of town and enjoyed a savory meal with a bottle of wine before reboarding the Metro to return to Old Town. I tried to tell Tav he didn’t need to escort me home, but he would have none of it. “I am not putting you on a train by yourself at this hour,” he said, although it was just past ten, not two in the morning. Strolling from the Metro stop to my house in near silence, our arms brushing occasionally as we walked, I found myself feeling more content than I had in a long time. The thought jolted me and I tripped on the uneven walkway half a block from my house. Tav caught my arm and asked, “Are you okay?”

His dark eyes searched my face. His hand was warm on my arm and I blamed the wine for heightening my senses and making me ultra-aware of his cedary scent, the warmth that drifted off his body, the dark stubble hazing his jawline. “Fine.”

His gaze lingered on my lips and I swayed toward him, a completely involuntary movement, like breathing or blinking. Over his shoulder, I noticed a light flickering strangely in the upper windows of a house down the block. My house! There shouldn’t be anyone in the studio at this hour. Straightening, I grabbed Tav’s hand. “Come on.”

“Wha-?”

“Someone’s broken into my house.”

Tav’s gaze followed my pointing finger. His face set in grim lines. “That is not an intruder,” he said. “It is fire.”

Before he could stop me, I was pounding down the sidewalk in my flimsy espadrilles, desperate to reach my house. I vaguely heard him talking to the 911 operator, and then calling at me to stop, but I didn’t wait. I could see that the light was flames, now, dancing at the windows of the ballroom, an eerie interplay of red and yellow and shadow. As I got closer, I could smell the smoke. It caught in my nose and throat, making me cough. I stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house, not foolish enough to try to enter. What could I do? Water from the garden hose wouldn’t reach high enough to tickle the flames, much less extinguish them. Thank God I didn’t have children or pets to rescue.

Tav trotted up beside me and slid an arm around my waist, pulling me in close to his side, as if to ensure I wouldn’t go dashing into the house. I let my head fall onto his strong chest for a moment, comforted by his presence and solidity, before pushing away as the fire trucks came screaming down the street in a swirl of lights. Firefighters piled out and Tav tugged at me, walking me across the street where we could watch the scene without being in the way.

“It is just the upstairs,” he said comfortingly.

I’d already noticed that and had been racking my brain to figure out what might have caught fire up there. Maybe there’d been a short in the stereo system or my computer? The firefighters had dragged a hose up the side stairs and kicked in the door before I could think to offer them a key. The wrinkly, cement-colored hose swelled as water pumped through it and the flames began to falter as the firefighters disappeared inside. A cop car arrived and a crowd began to gather, late diners or moviegoers drawn by the activity and strobing lights. It was only twenty minutes or so before the firefighters emerged, sweaty and smoke-stained, giving a thumbs-up to the firefighters still with the truck. I was about to join them and ask what had happened when an official-looking car pulled up and Detective Lissy stepped out. Great. Just great.

Detective Lissy and Tav and I sat in my front parlor half an hour later. Lissy wore his usual expression of sour suspicion as he dusted the base of a lamp with a hanky, Tav looked alert and relaxed, and I perched beside him on the edge of the uncomfortable love seat, clenching and unclenching my hand on its scratchy arm. The room smelled like someone had lit a campfire in it and doused it with dirty water.

“But who would want to set my studio on fire?” I asked for the third time since the fire captain had told us the fire had been caused by an accelerant on the ballroom floor and had been largely confined to that one room, due to Tav’s and my timely return. “You got lucky,” the captain summed up, scratching her cheek. “The floor’s toast, but the old boards are still sound. You’ve got some smoke and water damage, but the place is habitable. A floor refinisher and a good cleaning team will have you back in business in a couple of weeks.” She smiled, crinkling the skin around her eyes. “You got lucky.”

“You tell me,” Detective Lissy suggested. “If I was a superstitious man, I’d think you were jinxed, what with finding a dead body upstairs, being attacked-allegedly-by an Argentine diplomat, and having your place set on fire.” He ticked each item off on an upheld finger. “Since I’m not superstitious, I have to ask myself what else could be going on. Where were you this evening, Ms. Graysin?”