Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

“I’ve got the money sorted,” Solange said, unperturbed. “Did you want to purchase any of the products?”

I grudgingly bought an eyebrow pencil for three times what a similar product would have cost me at Target, and said good-bye, wondering about the self-satisfied smile on Solange’s face. As I exited the store, I noticed a couple of older women giving me sidelong looks and felt like telling them it wasn’t that weird for a young woman of employable age to be spending the afternoon in the mall. I wandered the mall, casually window-shopping, reluctant to leave the air-conditioned halls for the sweltering heat outdoors and equally reluctant to return home and confront the ruined studio. A teenage couple passed me and the boy nudged the girl, who glanced at me and sniggered. I looked at my blouse, worried I had splashed ketchup on it when eating lunch or something. Nada. Giving way to the inevitable, I made my feet point toward the garage exit. Two storefronts from the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in a boutique’s mirror.

Gaah! Solange had made me up to look like a hag, or a cross-dressing hooker with no mirror. The foundation she’d used was two shades too dark for my skin and orangey, contrasting strangely with my pale neck. The “concealer” she’d used had actually darkened the circles under my eyes, aging me dreadfully. Liner winged in a wavy line toward my temples, and harshly drawn brows arched in half-moons over eyelids coated a metallic aqua. The garish blush burned in clownlike circles on the apples of my cheeks. No wonder people were giving me strange looks. Wishing I had a scarf in my purse, I loosened my hair from its ponytail so it fell curtainlike across my cheeks and then hurried to my car, grateful for the garage’s dimness. Solange would get half my studio over my dead body. I’d go to Uncle Nico and beg him to buy Tav’s share, promise him unlimited favors, before I let her set foot in my studio again.

I arrived home to find Maurice leaving a note on my back door. He waited while I parked the car and looked at me with concern when I approached.

“I’m not sure that’s a good look for you, Anastasia,” he said. “I can understand you need a change of pace after this past week, but perhaps something less… colorful?”

“Solange,” I explained as I unlocked the door. “Just let me wash this off and I’ll be right with you.” Leaving him chuckling in the kitchen, I hurried to my bathroom and cold creamed the makeup off, leaving my cheeks scrubbed red and my eyes irritated. Too tired to care, I rejoined Maurice. He’d made tea and was seated at the kitchen table.

“You’re a god,” I told him, sinking into a chair and sipping the steaming tea. I choked and coughed, unprepared for the healthy slug of bourbon he’d doctored it with.

“You looked like you could use a pick-me-up.”

“And how.” I took a more cautious sip and looked at him. Calm and debonair as ever, he leaned back in his chair, long fingers wrapped around the warm mug.

“I stopped by to see how you are doing. It looks like they’re making good progress on the studio.” He tipped his chin toward the ceiling.

“Are they? I haven’t been up there. I just couldn’t face it. I saw it last night, after the firemen put the fire out, and looking at the floor, all crackled and blackened, I felt like someone had flayed me.”

Concern lit Maurice’s eyes. “It’s ugly and frightening,” he said. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”

“Lissy seems to think it might’ve been me, despite the fact I’ve got an alibi.”

“The man’s an utter fool. Do you think this is tied in with what happened last week?”

I snorted lightly, almost amused by the delicate way he referred to Rafe’s death. “I don’t see how.”

“Maybe someone is set on forcing you out of business,” Maurice said. “A competitor or someone with a grudge.”

“Come on,” I objected, pushing my empty mug aside.

“The arson, maybe. But killing Rafe? It’d take a psycho ballroom dancer to think that was the best way to up his-or her-odds at a competition.”

“I’ve met more than one psycho in my years on the ballroom circuit,” Maurice said half-jokingly, “and people have killed for less understandable reasons. But that’s not what I mean. What if someone has a grudge against you, personally, and is doing whatever he can to hurt you.”

“Why not kill me , then?” A shiver tickled down my spine as I said it.

“It was a stupid idea,” Maurice said, collecting the mugs and taking them to the sink. “I’d be happy to sleep here for a couple of nights, despite the smell”-he forced air noisily out of his large nose-“if you would feel more comfortable.”

I was touched. “Thanks, Maurice,” I said, rising to hug him. “If I get nervous, I can go to Danielle’s or my mom’s. But I appreciate the offer.”

“I’ll be back first thing tomorrow,” he said, “and we can talk about where we’re going to hold classes in the interim. The YMCA may have space we can use, and one of my ladies mentioned that her church would be happy to let us use their basement.”

“You’re approaching this a lot more intelligently than I am,” I told him ruefully. “I don’t suppose you’d like to buy Rafe’s share and be my new partner?”

“Alas, dear Anastasia,” he said, “but no. I’m past the age of wanting the responsibilities that come with owning a business. Dancing and teaching-yes. Billing and recruiting students and worrying about insurance and taxes and payrolls-definitely no.”

“It was just a thought.”

I closed the door behind him.

The doorbell dinged at a ridiculously early hour the next morning-six thirty, I saw when I cracked an eye open. I pulled the sheets up over my head, ostrichlike, hoping whoever it was would go away. Ding-dong! Ding-dong! With a sigh, I flung my legs over the side of the bed, thrust my arms into the sleeves of my ratty green terrycloth robe, and shambled toward the door. Peering through the peephole, I was surprised to see Taryn Hall and Sawyer Iverson standing there.

I pulled open the door. “Is anything wrong?” I asked. The fresh breath of morning wafted in.

“We came to say good-bye,” Taryn said, and Sawyer nodded. “You’ve been so kind to us… well, we didn’t want to disappear and not have you know what’s going on.”

“Come in.”

They crossed the threshold and Sawyer looked around curiously.

“Coffee?” I offered. “It will only take me a moment to make some.”

“No, thanks,” Taryn said, patting her abdomen. “I’m off caffeine.”

Remind me never to get pregnant if you have to give up coffee.

“Do you have a soda maybe?” Sawyer asked. “Mountain Dew?”

“Didn’t you have some in the fridge upstairs?” I asked. When he nodded, I said, “Let’s go up and get some.”

I led the way up the staircase to the locked door leading to the studio. Undoing the dead bolt, I pushed it open. The smell of charred wood overlaid with cleaning solvents and sawdust smacked us.

“Shit!” Sawyer blurted. “Uh, sorry, Miss Stacy. What’s that smell?”

“You didn’t hear?” I told them about the fire. “The only thing damaged was the ballroom floor, so it’s perfectly safe to be up here.” I ducked into the bathroom and opened the fridge. It seemed less crowded than usual and I stared into it for a moment, the cool air chilling my bare feet, and realized all Vitaly’s grapefruit juice was gone. Huh . I tried to remember if he’d taken them with him when he got sick. I didn’t think so. I sighed. It must be time to post a little reminder about the honor system. Pulling out the lone Mountain Dew, I crossed the hall to where Taryn and Sawyer hovered on the ballroom’s threshold, looking at the floor stripped mostly bare by the refinisher. It looked naked, defenseless without its shiny coats of polyurethane, and I hugged my robe more tightly around myself.