Ella Barrick - Quickstep to Murder

“At your age, you should be grateful you can still walk. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in not being able to waltz any better than Hoover.” The pseudosweet words came with an equally false smile.

The Great Dane raised his head and cocked it at the sound of the quarreling voices.

“Hoover? The president? What are you going on about, Mildred?” Edwina flapped her hand dismissively, a multicarat diamond on her gnarled finger catching the sunlight. “You’re gaga. Your grandchildren should have insisted you stay in that home they found for you last year. Of course, being incontinent does get you kicked out of some-”

“Hoover, my Great Dane,” Mildred said, nodding toward the massive dog.

There was a gasp from the other couples who had abandoned all pretense of dancing and were watching the Edwina and Mildred show as avidly as if they were sitting in Ford’s Theater.

“Ladies, please,” Maurice said again, stepping between them as Edwina wound up to throw a punch at the smug Mildred. No genteel slaps for her, apparently.

The dog lowered his head to his legs again, apparently deciding his intervention wasn’t necessary, that Maurice had things under control.

“Did you need me to help demonstrate?” I asked, deciding it was time to break it up. Visions of our insurance skyrocketing if one of the old dears broke a hip moved me forward.

“Thank you, my dear Anastasia,” Maurice said.

No matter how many times I asked him to call me Stacy, he insisted on using my full name and treated me like I was deposed Russian royalty.

“We were just about to embark on a waltz.”

He used the remote to cue up the music and took my hand. We circled the floor several times-I enjoyed waltzing with Maurice because of his gliding step and strong lead-and finished with a flourish.

“Thank you,” Maurice said, kissing my hand with oldfashioned gallantry.

“Let’s talk when you’re done here,” I said with a meaningful look.

I struggled with the accounts for another half hour before I heard Maurice call, “Au revoir, ladies. Until next time.” Moments later he stood in the doorway.

I had hired Maurice almost two years ago, and we’d developed a relationship that seemed more like greatuncle with favorite niece than employee-employer, despite the fact we never socialized outside the studio. I didn’t know much about his personal life other than that his wife had died of an aneurysm in her early fifties. He’d never remarried, although I was certain he’d had plenty of opportunities, if the women in his classes were anything to go by. Speaking of which…

I gestured for him to sit. “Maurice, what is it with those women? We need to find a way to keep interactions more… more amicable. We can’t have students mistaking your class for a boxing match and breaking their osteoporotic bones. Plus, we can’t let a couple of scrappy senior citizens make the atmosphere so bitter that we lose clients. Lord knows, we can’t afford that.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Anastasia.” He cocked his head a bit to one side, clearly asking me how to fix the problem. One ankle rested on the opposite knee and his hands lay on his thighs.

“What did you do when these sorts of problems arose on your cruise ships?”

“Threw them overboard,” he said, straight-faced.

His deadpan humor never failed to catch me off guard and I gaped at him for a moment. Then I started laughing. His mouth twitched at the corner, and he leaned across the desk to hand me a pristine handkerchief as tears leaked from my eyes.

“Wouldn’t work here,” I finally said. “No ocean. Although the Potomac’s not that far…” I mused.

His blue eyes twinkled.

Damn, if I were fifty years older-make that thirty-I’d probably be fighting Edwina and Mildred for him.

“If it concerns you, Anastasia, I will fix the problem.” He opened his hands like a magician performing a trick. “I shall recruit two gentlemen of my acquaintance to attend the classes-perhaps I may tell them the classes are complimentary?”

“Absolutely,” I said, relieved to have such an elegant solution to the dilemma. “Thank you, Maurice. The real problem, you know, is that you’re much too charming. Do you think you could dial back the sex appeal a notch?” I smiled at him as he rose.

“Impossible, my dear Anastasia.” A look of mischief lit his face. “It’s a curse.”

Moments after Maurice left the office, I heard the outside door open and the click of high heels stop at my doorway. I looked over to see a woman posed in the opening. In that nebulous range between fifty and sixty, she had a flawlessly made-up face that had probably been lifted at least once. Her hair was an ashy blond cut to jaw length and expensively styled. A pink raw-silk suit clung to her lean curves and she wore matching stilettos that undoubtedly said Blahnik or Choo on the label. If her long neck was a bit scraggy and the skin on her hands a tad mottled, she was still a very attractive woman. Sherry Indrebo, the Republican congresswoman from Minnesota. And a talented amateur ballroom dancer who paid Rafe to dance with her at competitions, like Mark Downey did with me. I’d heard rumors that maybe she got more than dancing for her money, but I’d never believed them.

“Stacy,” she said with a tight smile. “Tell Rafe I’ll just be a minute, would you? I need to change. Thanks.”

Uh-oh. “Rafe’s not here, Sherry.”

Her perfectly arched and penciled brows snapped together. “He’s not? Well, I’m sure he’ll get here any minute. He wouldn’t forget. Not with the Capitol Festival so close.”

I didn’t tell her Rafe had been forgetting a lot of things recently.

“He’d better not forget.” The corners of her mouth tightened. “I had to completely rearrange my schedule and miss a floor vote to get here on time.”

“If he said he’ll be here, he’ll be here,” I lied. “He probably got caught in traffic somewhere.”

With a dubious look, she sailed into the bathroom to change. I was back at my computer when she poked her head in ten minutes later, dressed in a few strips of orange fluff that passed for a salsa dress and showed off her excellent legs.

“Is he here?”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“I’ll give him precisely five more minutes and then I’m out of here.”

I’d hoped she’d do her waiting in the studio, maybe stretch to warm up, but no such luck. She sat in the wing chair by the window-the better to watch for Rafe, I guessed-and crossed her legs. “I’d kill for a cigarette,” she said, swinging one foot.

I didn’t respond to the hint. This was a strictly nosmoking building. Smoking killed your wind. And it stank. “I didn’t know you smoked,” I finally blurted.

The corner of her mouth crooked up in a wry smile. “Never where my constituents can see me.” She popped a piece of gum into her mouth.

I wondered what else she indulged in out of the voters’ sight. I tried to think of something to say to Sherry as the seconds ticked past and the tension grew thicker. Nothing came to me. Truth to tell, Sherry intimidated me. With money (from a rich defense contractor husband who spent at least half his time in St. Paul), looks, and power, she was a formidable woman. Even Rafe had mentioned once, half joking, that she scared him. At five minutes to the second, she rose to her feet and fluffed her orange feathers.

“I can’t wait any longer,” she said, her voice dripping ice. “My husband and I are attending a thousand-dollara-plate fund-raiser tonight and I can’t be late. Please tell Rafe that I was here for our practice.” Her anger was way out of proportion to being stood up for dance practice, and I wondered uneasily about their relationship. “I’ll expect him to call me with an explanation. And it had better be good.”