Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

“Come off it! I saw you get into the limo last week and I went down to check it out when I saw it lurking at the curb again.”

“You what?” Concern, maybe even fear, flickered in his dark eyes.

“I knocked on the window and asked for you.”

He forced a laugh, turning away from me to sort through a stack of CDs by the stereo. The jewel cases clacked. “This is sounding more and more like a jealous girlfriend trying to keep tabs on her lover. Did you expect to find me making love to an exotic woman on the backseat? What did she say?” His voice was casual, but I could tell by the way his eyes cut to me that he was interested in my answer.

“It wasn’t a she,” I said. “Not unless she likes cigars. And they didn’t tell me anything-just pulled away, almost knocking me into traffic.” I hesitated, trying to find a way to put my concern into words. “I’m not remotely jealous and if this is just a woman who’s hot for your bod, then great. But if it’s more than that, if you’re in trouble, or mixed up in something-”

He turned to face me and indecision played across his handsome face. For a moment I thought he was going to confide in me, but then he fixed a smile in place and said, “You are letting your imagination run away with you. You are under too much stress with the studio. If I promise not to cut class again, can we let this go and talk about how Graysin Motion can generate more income?” He made a big, mocking X over his heart with one finger.

I snorted with disgust. “If you say ‘recital,’ I swear I’m going to scream. If you want more money, sell the damn Lexus.”

“It’s leased.” His mouth tightened.

That took me aback. I might only get toaster ovens as gifts, but at least they were mine to keep. “Oh.” He strode toward me and stopped inches away. I caught the familiar scent of him, a hint of sweat and a whiff of musky cologne. “Are we going to argue or practice?”

“Sounds like trouble in paradise,” a sultry voice said from the threshold.

Solange Dubonnet lounged against the doorjamb, all voluptuous curves and tumbling auburn curls. Her green eyes tipped up at the corners, making her look like a cat. Of course, that might just have been her personality oozing through.

“This is a private practice, Solange,” I said. Since catching her in bed with Rafe, I’d found it hard to be civil to her. She’d injured her ankle not long after I caught her with Rafe and had left the studio where she’d been teaching. I didn’t know if she’d been fired or had chosen to leave. Her partner had found someone else to dance with while Solange healed and did rehab, and had told her earlier this week that he was sticking with his new partner permanently. It was almost-not quite-enough to make me feel sorry for her. I’d feel a whole lot sorrier except I figured she and Rafe would team up after Blackpool, assuming her ankle was sufficiently recovered.

“I wouldn’t dream of interrupting.” She strolled toward us, leaning up against Rafe to plant a kiss on his lips.

He turned his head so her lips glanced off his cheek. “I’m busy, Solange.”

Oo-ho. Was he bored with her already? The juvenile part of me wanted to taunt, “Nyah-nyah. You lasted only four months.” The mature part of me-I was about to turn thirty, after all-asked, “What did you need?”

Her cheeks had flushed at his rebuff, but she shrugged and headed for the stereo. “I just need to pick up my CD.” She flipped through the jewel cases, held one up in a manicured hand, and walked to the door, hips rolling provocatively under a silky green sarong. She looked over her shoulder when she reached the door. “Later?”

“Maybe.” Rafe didn’t meet her eyes. “Stacy and I need to talk business after practice.”

Solange narrowed her eyes and looked from me to Rafe and back again. “Sure. Call first, if you’re going to come over. I might be going out.” She flung her head, swishing her hair over her shoulders, and stalked away.

Before Rafe could resume his arguments about the business, I cued up our quickstep music and turned the volume high enough to make conversation difficult. A sweaty two hours later, we’d made solid progress on our new quickstep routine and added a nifty turn series to our foxtrot. Rafe had been checking his watch the last twenty minutes of our practice time and when we finally quit he said, “I’ve got an appointment I can’t miss. Let’s talk this evening, Stacy. Please? It’s important.”

“Sure,” I said, using much the same tone as Solange had earlier. I grabbed a small towel and blotted my forehead.

He caught my arm and I looked at him in surprise. His face was unusually serious. “I mean it. I’ll come over.”

“Call me and I’ll meet you in the office,” I agreed, not wanting him in my house, evoking memories of our good times, leaving a trace of his scent on the couch cushions. This would be a business meeting, not a cozy reunion. The thought crossed my mind that maybe he was looking for a reconciliation. If his relationship with Solange was over already, he might be having some regrets. I hardened my heart, letting my mind replay the moment I opened our bedroom door and found him with Solange. Skin, gasps, rumpled bedclothes. I threw those sheets away, even though they were almost new. I headed downstairs for a shower. It was too late for kissing and making up.

Refreshed from my shower and with new Band-Aids on my knees, I sat at my desk with a spreadsheet open on the computer, a Peggy Lee song lilting from my computer speakers. I’d only recently learned how to play radio stations from my computer and I was enjoying the novelty. I scowled at the spreadsheet. Rafe was the one with the business brain; now that he was playing leastin-sight, I had to spend a lot more time with the bookkeeping and it made my head hurt. The oldies station went to news-“Crucial House Armed Services Committee vote on acquisition of next-generation helicopters for… Lady Gaga appearing at… Cherry blossoms blooming at Tidal Basin…”-and I closed its window. The sounds of an altercation from the ballroom gave me an excuse to leave my desk and see what was going on.

A shaky soprano voice cried, “But it’s my turn! Maurice waltzed with you last week, Edwina. You can’t expect to have him to yourself-even if you do need the most instruction.”

“Ladies, please.”

I peeked into the room to see Maurice Goldberg, our other male instructor, holding up his hands to calm the two octogenarians glaring at each other. Two couples of similar vintage practiced a stiff waltz pattern around the combatants. A handsome Great Dane splotched with black and white snoozed under the window, heavy muzzle resting on his front legs, one ear twitching. Ballroom dancing apparently wasn’t as interesting as reminding cats who was boss or terrorizing the squirrels in the park. We didn’t really have a pet policy and sometimes women brought their Yorkies or Malteses tucked into tote bags, so I felt it was only fair to allow the Great Dane to observe classes. I didn’t want to be guilty of size discrimination. As long as the pets were well behaved, I didn’t mind having them around; in fact, I liked it.

Maurice, who admitted to being sixty but who I guessed was at least a decade older, had been a dance host on a cruise ship for many years before coming to work for Graysin Motion not long after we opened. His smoothed-back white hair, furrowed where the comb plowed through it, and perpetual tan reminded me a bit of George Hamilton. With his suave air, practiced charm, and natty double-breasted blazers, he brought in a ton of business from moneyed women of a certain age who were looking for a little tingle with their tango.

As I watched, the taller woman with thinning hair who probably remembered voting for FDR shoved a shorter, well-padded dowager who clung to Maurice’s arm. “You take back that snide remark about my needing more instruction, Mildred Kensington.”