Quickstep to Murder (17 page)

“It’s what Rafe would have wanted me to do,” she said.

Gag me. I went over the schedule with her, assigning her the Tuesday-afternoon youth class and the Thursday-evening ballroom cardio, an exercise class that drew a mostly female crowd. Solange slanted me a sideways glance out of her long-lashed blue eyes. “Making sure I don’t have a chance to steal any of your competitive clients?” she asked acidly.

“Absolutely,” I said. I wasn’t about to set her up with Mark Downey or the other men who competed with me in pro-am competitions. Talented, well-off male amateurs were rarer than blue diamonds and twice as valuable to the studio.

My candidness surprised a wry smile out of her. “That’s honest, at least.” She tossed her auburn mane over her shoulder. “You know I could walk out of here with any man I wanted to.”

“I remember.”

That threw her off balance and while she stuttered for an answer, I said, “You were close to Rafe these last few months, Solange. Do you know what was worrying him, why he needed money?” Walking ahead of her to the bathroom, I grabbed a bottled water from the fridge, pushing aside Vitaly’s six-pack of bottled grapefruit juice. “Want one?”

“Diet Coke?”

I handed her a cold can. We stood awkwardly in the hall, not moving to the office or back into the ballroom.

“You know,” she said, “I might be willing to teach here on a more permanent basis.” One long nail tapped against the aluminum can:
ting, ting, ting
.

Was she offering to trade information for a job? I’d give her a permanent job when a donkey won the Kentucky Derby. Having Solange around all the time would be like Han Solo asking Darth Vader to be first mate of the
Millennium Falcon
. “We’ll have to wait and see how things settle out,” I hedged. “I don’t know what Tav’s plans are and I don’t know how stable our client base will be now that Rafe’s not here. But I’ll certainly keep you in mind.”

Her face twisted with dissatisfaction, but then she said, “Rafe got a call almost a month ago, early—before six.”

She just had to work that in so I’d know she’d spent the night. I kept silent, sipping my water.

“A woman. I could tell by the way he was talking to her.” Her nostrils flared and I could see the idea of Rafe having a relationship of any kind with another woman rubbed her the wrong way. “When he got off the phone, he told me he had to go out.”

“Did he say who she was or why he was meeting her?”

She shook her head. “No. When I asked, he jumped down my throat, said we didn’t own each other.” From her expression, the memory was clearly still raw. She regretted sharing it with me immediately, though, adding airily, “Of course, we made up—he took me to Atlantic City for the weekend. That’s when he asked me to marry him.”

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and I thought maybe she’d really loved him, even though I didn’t for a moment believe he’d proposed. “It must be hard.”

She looked at me with only half the usual hostility. “The worst. And I don’t suppose I’ll get my money back, either.”

“What money?”

“The three thousand dollars I loaned him. It’s all I had in my savings account. He told me he’d pay me back, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen now, does it?”

“Did he say why he needed it? Did it have anything to do with the woman who called?”

“If I thought for a moment he spent it on that—” The cords in her neck stood out and she looked like she’d have happily plunged a dagger into the unknown woman.

Question was: Would she have been angry enough to put a bullet into Rafe?

 

Solange left and I heard voices on the landing outside as she exchanged greetings with someone. I wasn’t surprised, then, when the door pushed open almost immediately. The figure that came through the door, though, surprised me: Taryn Hall. She was wan and her hair and her step both had less spring than usual. She still held herself with that perfect posture that made her such an elegant dancer and she managed a smile when I gasped, “Taryn.”

“The ghost of Taryn past,” she said, lowering a tote bag from her shoulder.

“Are you okay? Your dad—”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Making it, anyway. I’ve already been home and talked with my dad. I’m sorry I landed you in it yesterday by telling him I was here. I didn’t expect to be gone so long, but the car broke down and we just got back this morning.”

“ ‘We’? You and Sawyer?”

She nodded.

“Why didn’t you call your dad?”

She gave me a look, one hundred percent teenage girl. “You’ve seen what he’s like. Sometimes it’s just easier not to tell him things.”

“But you told him about the pregnancy.”

She was shaking her head before I finished. “No way! He found the EPT box in the trash. He does things like that,” she added bitterly. “Goes through my trash.” She swayed and I caught her arm.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not since—I don’t know—eleven last night or so?”

“Let’s get some food into you. Come on.” I guided her down the hall to the interior door that led to my living quarters. She followed me downstairs and stood gazing out the back window into my tiny courtyard.

“It’s pretty,” she offered as I pulled eggs from the fridge. “Peaceful.” She sounded wistful, as if peace were beyond her grasp.

“Sit,” I commanded, putting a glass of cranberry juice on the table. “I’ll scramble some eggs.”

Sitting, she leaned her elbows on the table to support her chin. “I’ve never been down here before.” Her gaze swept the kitchen with its dated maple cabinets that needed refinishing, the newer but mismatched appliances—black stove, white fridge, stainless-steel microwave—the deep porcelain sink with a mixing bowl and a plate in the dish drainer beside it. “Where’s the dishwasher?”

I laughed. “My great-aunt Laurinda lived alone. I guess she didn’t think it was worthwhile installing one.” And I couldn’t afford one.

The eggs sizzled on the griddle and I slid them onto a plate, added a piece of toast, and plunked it in front of her. I made a similar plate for myself.

“Thanks,” she mumbled as I sat.

“What are you doing here?” I asked when she’d had a chance to eat a little. I’d cleared my plate in record time, ravenous after my trip to D.C. and my talk with Solange.

“I thought I’d get in a little more practice before we leave for the competition tomorrow. Sawyer should be here in a few minutes.”

“You’re still going?”
Your dad’s letting you?
I thought but didn’t say.

“I talked my dad into letting me compete this one last time. He hates to waste money and I told him it was too late for our entry fees to be refunded. He’s coming with me, though,” she added glumly.

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” She didn’t look well to me and since eating a mere three bites had turned a pale greenish color.

“I’m pregnant, not terminal. It’ll be my last competition for at least a year. Maybe I’ll never dance again.”

Despite the melodramatic utterance, I wasn’t tempted to laugh or even smile. Having a baby would change her life forever. She’d dance again, of course, if she wanted to, but I guessed she was probably thinking about all the things it was unlikely she’d ever do if she kept the baby: attend her senior prom, enjoy spring break in Cancun, date casually, go to college. It wasn’t that she
couldn’t
do those things, but it would be much harder. My heart ached for her.

“What’s your mom think about all this?” It struck me that I hadn’t seen Mrs. Hall around in a while. I used to see her when she dropped Taryn off for lessons, but since Taryn had turned sixteen and started driving herself, I hadn’t run into her mother.

Shoving a curd of egg around her plate with a fork, Taryn mumbled, “She left. Last year.”

“Oh.” Not knowing what to say and not wanting to pry, I stacked our plates and carried them to the sink.

“She ran off with someone,” Taryn said in a louder voice. “Just walked out on me and my dad. No ‘good-bye,’ no ‘keep in touch,’ just gone.” She flung her arm out on the last word, tipping the glass so cranberry juice washed over the table and dripped to the floor. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Taryn jumped to her feet.

I lobbed a roll of paper towels toward her and she caught them, beginning to blot up the juice. “I’m sorry to hear about your mom,” I said, grabbing a sponge and joining her.

“ ’sokay,” she said, not looking at me as she tossed a sodden mass of paper towels into the trash can and pulled more off the roll. “That’s why I’m giving the baby up for adoption. Better to abandon it now when it doesn’t know the difference than to wait. That’s where Sawyer and I were yesterday—South Carolina, interviewing a couple who want to adopt the baby.”

“Is Sawyer the baby’s father?” I asked gently.

She didn’t answer directly. “I shouldn’t have said what I did about Rafe. I wasn’t thinking straight. My dad—It’s no excuse, but Rafe always seemed like he could cope with anything, that he could deal with my dad or anyone else.”

Her sixteen-year-old’s perspective on Rafe’s invincibility was touching. On the dance floor, he could cope with anything. Off it . . . Well, given our breakup, his scramble for money, and the bullet in his head, I didn’t think he rated an A-plus in coping. “Surely you knew that the truth would come out, that Rafe would deny being the father?”

She hung her head. “I told you, I wasn’t thinking. I guess I was hoping my dad wouldn’t find out, that something would happen—”

She broke off, realizing that something
had
happened. Her expression warned me just in time and I lunged for the bowl in the drainer and thrust it toward her as she threw up.

She felt better almost immediately afterward and insisted on returning to the ballroom in case Sawyer had shown up. He wasn’t there yet, but Tav Acosta was and she gasped when she saw him, apparently struck by his resemblance to Rafe. I introduced them and Tav chatted with her politely for a moment before signaling that he wanted to talk to me privately. Sawyer came in as Tav and I headed for my office and I left Taryn in Sawyer’s care.

“What’s up?” I asked.

Before answering, Tav closed the office door and turned to face me. I arched my brows, surprised.

“I’ve just come from the embassy,” Tav said. He stood, formal and severe-looking, yet somehow very attractive, in a gray suit with a white shirt, his back against the door. “The license plate you gave me belongs to the limousine that the deputy ambassador uses. His name is Héctor Bazán.”

His dark eyes scanned my face as if expecting a reaction, but the name meant nothing to me. I shrugged.

“Bazán is a big-time player, a multimillionaire industrialist who contributes regularly to the right campaigns. There have been rumors that some of his money came from drugs, but he has never been indicted. The journalists and others who repeat those rumors tend to disappear.”

“Are you suggesting Rafe was involved with drugs in some way?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it. It might explain his money woes, but I hadn’t seen any physical signs that he was doing drugs—no bloodshot eyes or lassitude or runny nose.

“No.” He waved the idea away impatiently. “Bazán and my father have been business associates for years. His ranch shares a border with ours.”

“Oh. So you think Rafe was just catching up with a family friend.” The idea was a letdown. I’d been so convinced there was something sinister about the limo and its occupant.

“Hardly. Although he is my father’s contemporary, Héctor married the girl Rafael was engaged to.”

“Rafe was engaged before?”
Before me
? He’d never mentioned it. I was belatedly realizing that there were many, many things Rafe had never mentioned. What had we talked about besides ballroom dance, and judges, and other competitors, and the studio? I couldn’t think of much.

“Yes. When he was in college. Her name is Victoria. They dated in high school before Rafael and his mother returned to Texas. They must have kept in touch because she went to university in Texas and they got engaged. I remember my father talking about it and insisting that the wedding would take place in Argentina, on our ranch, despite the fact he hadn’t seen Rafael in several years by then. And then, next thing I knew, Bazán was introducing her around the neighborhood as his wife.”

“What happened?”

“I do not know.” Tav looked troubled. “Rafael never talked about it. But I find it concerning that you have seen Bazán’s limousine outside; I am not much of a believer in coincidence.”

“You think Rafe took up with Victoria again when he discovered she was in town? And that her husband found out?”

Tav’s silence answered me. “Bazán is a ruthless man,” he said after a moment. “One does not get to where he has gotten without playing what you call hardball. And Argentinean men can be very possessive about their women.”

After Rafe’s shenanigans with Solange, I didn’t find it all that hard to believe he had another woman on a string. But I didn’t see how Bazán, no matter how ruthless he might be, could’ve been the murderer, as Tav seemed to be hinting. “The killer used my gun,” I reminded Tav.

“I cannot explain it,” he said with a quintessentially Latin shrug. “All I know is that Bazán is capable of killing. One of his gauchos—cowboys—was found beaten to death three or four years ago. The police blamed it on a migrant worker who was never found and quickly closed the case. The other gauchos, they tell a different story. Very softly, it is true, but word has gotten around. They are afraid of him.”

I crossed to the window and looked out, half expecting to see the black limousine idling across the street. The space was open. I turned around. “Maybe it’s worth mentioning this Bazán to the police. You should do it since I’m sure you have more credibility with them than I do.” Which wasn’t saying much—Daffy Duck probably had more credibility with them than I did.

“He will have diplomatic immunity,” Tav said.