Quickstep to Murder (19 page)

“Goodness.” I wasn’t sure my father’s neighbors would recognize him on the street, never mind go out of their way to chat with him at a party. Maybe that was the difference between renting a suburban town house and owning a ranch. I watched enviously as Tav bit into a puff pastry that oozed chocolate and raspberry. The rest of his plate held other desserts, including a minicheesecake, a strawberry-kiwi tart, and sopapillas dusted with powdered sugar.

“How can you mainline sugar like that?” I asked, searching his plate in vain for a vegetable or any item that didn’t come from the “rot your teeth” food group.

“I have a sweet tooth,” he said, licking a trace of confectioner’s sugar from the corner of his mouth. “And, luckily, I have a fast metabolism.”

“You’d be easy to hate,” I informed him.

He laughed. I crunched ostentatiously and noisily into a carrot. A voice from behind Tav said, “Good evening, Acosta. What brings you to D.C.? I was surprised to see your name on the invitation list for tonight’s reception. Is Arturo in town?”

Tav turned to reveal Héctor Bazán standing there, even more intimidating up close. The men shook hands. “No, my father is at home. I am here to make arrangements for Rafael’s body to be returned for burial. You will have heard about his death?”

“Indeed,” Bazán said, his gaze panning me from my upswept hair, to the shoulders bared by my strapless emerald dress, to the red-painted toenails peeping from my high-heeled, bronze-colored sandals. “I read the reports and have discussed the case with the detective in charge. Even though Rafael opted for American citizenship, I took an interest for your father’s sake.”

“That was kind of you,” Tav said.

“The police seem to think Rafael’s business partner did it.”

With an amused glance at me, Tav said, “I do not believe you have met Stacy Graysin, Héctor. She was my brother’s dance partner and co-owned the studio with him.”

Irritation flickered in Bazán’s eyes for a moment before he took my hand and gracefully dropped a kiss on it. “I regret my unintentional rudeness, Señorita Graysin,” he said, smiling. “Obviously, you had nothing to do with Acosta’s death. The police are imbeciles.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I said, reclaiming my hand. The man had a certain rough charm and an intensity that I figured many women would find attractive. I was not completely immune to it myself, even after what Tav had told me about him. “And thank you for inviting me tonight. I’ve never been to an embassy party. It’s fascinating.”

“They pall after a very short time, believe me,” he said.

“I wanted to say hello to Victoria,” Tav said, “but I don’t see her. Is she here?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Bazán said smoothly. “She is visiting friends. She will be sorry to have missed you.”

“I will be in town for a while yet. Perhaps I will still get a chance to see her. When does she get back?” Tav’s expression was guileless, expressing only the casual interest of a neighbor. Being a good liar obviously ran in the family.

“Her plans are flexible,” Bazán said, after the briefest of hesitations. His narrowed gaze assessed the nature of Tav’s interest. “I’m not sure exactly when she’ll be home—a week? Ten days? But I’ll be sure to tell her you send your greetings.” Before Tav could respond, he turned to me. “Octavio said you dance?”

I nodded.

“Perhaps you would do me the honor?” He nodded toward the dance floor, where four or five couples chachaed with varying degrees of ability and enthusiasm. “You don’t mind, do you, Acosta?”

Taking Tav’s acquiescence for granted, Bazán led me toward the dance floor, a smooth expanse of parquet at the far end of the long room from the buffet tables. Bazán led me around the floor and had a brief word with the keyboard player. Within seconds, the band segued to a beat suitable for the Argentine tango. Unlike its American counterpart, the Argentine tango is largely improvisational and I was surprised that Bazán had apparently requested it. It’s much easier to do standard figures with a partner who you don’t know than to improvise. Bazán clasped my right hand in his left and settled his right hand just above my waist, pulling me into a close hold. There was something familiar about his scent, but I couldn’t place it.

“You are familiar with the Argentine tango?” he asked, leading me into a
paso basico
, the basic step. “It is not as predictable as your American version. You strike me as a woman who appreciates unpredictability.”

What the hell does he mean by that?
I wondered, following him easily. His timing was just a shade off the music’s beat, and he moved with more power than grace, but he was a better than average dancer.

“Occasionally,” I agreed.

“That must have been part of what attracted you to Rafe Acosta,” he said. “His . . . unpredictability.”

I arched back slightly in his hold, trying to read his face. His eyes held a hint of mockery. “Actually, Rafe was pretty predictable,” I said. Up until the last few weeks. “He took dancing very seriously and trained hard.” And slept—predictably—with any woman who caught his fancy.

As we traveled counter-clockwise around the floor, I spotted Tav engaged in conversation with a handsome couple about his age. He seemed oblivious to Bazán and me. I felt a bit piqued at his indifference, but quickly squelched the feeling. Tav was Rafe’s half brother and would be returning to Argentina in a few days. Letting myself be attracted to him spelled “disaster” in at least eight languages.

“I, too, am a hard worker,” Bazán said, reclaiming my attention. “Perhaps I could be a competitive dancer.” He laughed, as if the idea were preposterous, but I got the sense of an ego that believed it could excel at any challenge. “I could take lessons at your studio.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Drop in when your wife gets back from her trip.”

His hand tightened painfully on mine. “What do you know about Victoria?”

I gave him a startled look. “Nothing! I’ve never met her.” I tugged at my hand and his grip loosened.

Steering me around an elderly couple who moved like they’d been dancing together for fifty years, he studied my face. “So who do you think killed Acosta?” he asked. “Perhaps it was a random thing—he surprised a thief or some such?”

His tension communicated itself to me through the stiffness in his shoulders and a certain immobility in his jaw. “I have no idea,” I said truthfully. “Although I can’t think why a thief would be in our ballroom. Hopefully, the police will realize I had nothing to do with his death and get on with finding the real killer.”

“Indeed,” Bazán said with a tight smile. I got the feeling he was going to say more, but something behind me caught his attention.

“The ambassador needs me,” he said. “I’m afraid I must cut our dance short, Miss Graysin. May I call you Stacy? Perhaps we can finish this another time.”

“Of course,” I murmured as he escorted me to Tav’s side, nodded, and strode off toward the beckoning ambassador. The disturbance in the air caused by his movement brought a whiff of his scent back to me and this time I identified it: cigar.

“He’s the one,” I whispered to Tav as we moved away from the couple he’d been speaking to. “The man from the limo.”

“What were you talking about?” Tav nodded sideways toward the dance floor.

“I’m not quite sure,” I admitted, filling him in on our conversation.

“I would really like to talk to Victoria,” Tav said.

“Did you believe Bazán about her traveling?”

Tav’s gaze followed the diplomat as he exited the room. “No, I do not think I did.”

“Maybe Rafe knew where she was. You said they were engaged once. Maybe they were running off together.” My stomach felt hollow and I had to force the words out. Maybe Rafe had never loved me. Maybe our whole time together was a sham. When he thought Victoria was unavailable, he settled for me, but when he found out she was here, nearby, they rekindled their romance. I blew out a sigh as if expelling the idea. It completely left Solange and his other brief flings out of the equation.

Tav and I batted around a few ideas about how Victoria might tie in to Rafe’s murder. I suggested she might have killed him and was now in hiding, and Tav countered with Bazán as the murderer, having found out that his wife and Rafe were carrying on a torrid affair. He had killed Victoria, too, Tav theorized, and hidden her body. Both our theories foundered on logistics: neither Bazán nor Victoria was likely to know I had a gun, never mind have the opportunity to sneak into my bedroom to steal it.

The band struck up “Fly Me to the Moon,” perfect foxtrot music, and I looked up at Tav. “Let’s dance.”

He shook his head, a rueful smile playing across his handsome face. “You forget—I do not dance.”

“I’m a teacher.” I took a step toward the dance floor. Teaching Tav to dance would be fun, and I had to admit that the thought of him pulling me close had more appeal than it should.

He grabbed my hand to restrain me, his hand callused and hard against mine. “This”—he gestured to the crowded room—“is not the ideal location for a first lesson.”

“There’s a dance floor and music.” I tugged at his hand. “Come on.”

“I do not choose to look like a fool in front of so many people,” he said, standing as if rooted to the floor. “Would you want to learn how to play soccer with a hundred people looking on?”

He had a point. “I don’t want to learn to play soccer under any circumstances,” I said, letting go of his hand.

He grinned, crinkling the skin at the corners of his eyes and looking so dangerously attractive that I caught my breath. “But turnabout is fair play, no? If you are to teach me to dance, than I must also teach you something.”

I returned his smile, thinking that he could teach me anything he wanted to, although I’d prefer that the activity not involve a ball, teammates, or onlookers.

The excitement of the competition swirled around me Friday morning as I descended in the hotel elevator from my twelfth-floor room in downtown D.C. Dressed in a short scarlet dress with narrow horizontal panels of flesh-colored mesh and thousands of stones twinkling across the bodice and skirt, I was ready for the Latin rounds that kicked off at seven o’clock. I’d been up since four, doing my makeup—including false eyelashes—and hair. I had pulled it back into a complicated twist, securing it with rhinestoned clips and gel. The getup was probably more appropriate for a nightclub than a hotel, and the businessman who got on at the fourth floor had trouble not staring. The lobby, though, bustled with similarly dressed women, some wearing silk robes over their brief Latin costumes and others shuffling around in flip-flops or slippers. Temperatures in the ballroom were generally kept at levels a penguin would find chilly and Latin costumes especially tended to be skimpy, so robes or other cover-ups were useful for preventing frostbite. A student in a tux did relèvés to warm up as he chatted with a friend by the registration desk.

It was a familiar scene and I let a smile burst over my face. I loved this. The competitive spirit that electrified the air, the fit bodies, the glitz of costumes, and the female students feeling glamorous with their fake lashes and cat’s-eye black liner, moving with an ease and sensuality that they normally hid behind tailored suits or mom jeans in the cubicles or minivans that defined their usual existence. Nondancers, a minority of the hotel’s clientele this weekend, eyed us surreptitiously, disconcerted, curious, or envious of the gathering that looked and sounded like a convocation of noisy tropical birds. I didn’t imagine their dental conventions or library association meetings looked much like this.

I grabbed a coffee, a yogurt, and a hard-boiled egg from a cart in the hall by the ballroom, needing fuel for the dancing, but keeping it light because the sleek contours of my dress would be unforgiving of a large meal. Entering the large ballroom, I spotted the event organizer on a dais that stretched the width of the room and waved. Graysin Motion’s table—each studio competing in the event had a floor-side table at which competitors could relax between heats—was midway down the dance floor on the far side and I made my way to it, exchanging greetings with pros I hadn’t seen since the last competition. Vitaly was already at the table chatting with a student. He’d called me last night and said his tummy troubles were under control and he’d be able to compete.

“Vitaly is never saying die,” he had told me over the phone, sounding as energetic as a soggy string mop.

The dark blue silk robe he wore with VOLOSHIN embroidered across the back gave his skin the pallor of a day-old corpse, but he managed a smile when I got to the table. Maurice showed up moments later, an elderly student on each arm. They were the pair I’d heard arguing the day Rafe died. The lanky one wore a stunning silver gown I suspected was vintage Valentino and the plumper one had on a hot-pink number with enough ruffles to make it fit in at the Copacabana. At her side walked the harlequin Great Dane, a green vest around his middle that read SERVICE DOG. His cropped ears were pricked forward and he sniffed interestedly at everyone who crossed his path. The threesome sat at the table and the dog rested his chin on it, his nostrils working as if trying to figure out where the food was.

“Service dog, my eye,” the woman in silver said. “You’re not blind or crippled, Mildred, even if your knees creak like a rusty gate when you dance.”

Mildred patted the dog’s head and he lolled his tongue happily. “Hoover is a service dog. He keeps away people who annoy me, don’t you Hoover-love?” She made kissy noises at the dog and he licked her face. “Give Edwina a little sugar. Sweeten up her sour attitude.”

The dog obligingly moved toward Edwina, who rolled her chair backward and swept her skirts out of the way of his huge paws. “Don’t let him drool on my gown. It’s Valentino!”

“See, it works,” Mildred said triumphantly, patting her thigh so the dog lumbered back to her.