Quickstep to Murder (24 page)

 

Halfway back to the house, my cell phone rang. Tav Acosta.

“How did the competition go this weekend?” he asked.

His voice, rich and dark and lightly accented, sent a little tingle through me. I stomped it down. Business. This was only business.

I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “Some wins, some losses. Better than I thought it would, actually, without Rafe.”

We were silent for a moment, thinking about Rafe; then Tav said, “The police have released his body. I can take him back to Argentina.”

“Oh.” I was surprised by how sad I felt at the thought of him leaving. “When?”

“As soon as I can make arrangements with the airlines—probably two or three days.”

“Oh. Well, it was nice meeting you. I hope you have a good trip back.” The inanities were a defense against the surprisingly strong stab of disappointment I felt at the news he was leaving.

“That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh?” If I said “oh” one more time, I was going to slap myself. The limo jolted into a pothole and I bobbled the phone, missing what Tav was saying. “Sorry,” I said. “What did you say?”

“I said I have had a couple offers for my share of Graysin Motion and I need to talk to you about them.”

“Oh!” I slapped my face lightly and the chauffeur eyed me doubtfully in the rearview mirror. “Who from?”

“I’d rather talk about it in person. Do you have plans for this afternoon?”

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

“Good. Would you mind if I played tourist while we talked? I have not had the chance to see anything of your nation’s capital—too busy working. I would really like to see the Air and Space Museum before I go back.”

His tone was half-sheepish, as if wanting to visit one of the world’s great museums was embarrassing in some way. With rare exceptions, every man I knew preferred the Air and Space Museum to any other museum on the Mall. I laughed. “You shouldn’t miss it. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

A flowered halter top, denim shorts, low-heeled espadrilles, my yellow sunhat, and copious quantities of sunblock and I was ready to play tourist in downtown D.C. Yes, the Air and Space Museum was inside, but I bet Tav would want to stroll down the Mall and see a couple of the monuments while we were down there and since today was forecast to be record-breaking hot, I didn’t want to end up sunburned.

Tav stood near the museum entrance, long, muscled legs displayed by olive-colored shorts. A sprinkling of crisp black hair curled from the open neck of his white polo shirt, and sunglasses hung around his neck. He greeted me with a kiss on the cheek and a smile. “Thanks for humoring me, Stacy. I know this is not the standard venue for a business meeting.”

I returned his smile. “Much better than a stuffy office or conference room.” We moved into the air-conditioned building with its megahigh ceilings hung with planes, and joined the clumps of people looking upward. I’d visited the museum several times over the years—no schoolchild in the greater D.C. area graduates without at least one field trip to the Air and Space Museum—but I had to admit that the history of flight and space travel pretty much left me cold. Planes were transportation, pure and simple, and I couldn’t get excited about a Pratt & Whitney engine the size of my car, even though Tav seemed fascinated. His enthusiasm was engaging and it kept a long afternoon of studying the Wright Flyer, an Apollo capsule, and various other artifacts of flight from being tedious. The museum wasn’t too crowded on a Monday afternoon in April, which made it possible to move freely and linger as long as we wanted—or longer—in front of exhibits.

“I wanted to be a pilot,” Tav confided as we stood beside a plane labeled MESSERSCHMITT ME 262.

“Why aren’t you?”

“I have always admired the American idea that you can be whatever you want to be,” he said, studying the plaque that described the plane. “It is not always that simple. Family expectations, financial realities . . . sometimes dreams take a backseat. Besides”—he looked at me and grinned—“I wanted to be a professional football player, too, but so far La Selección has not come calling.”

“My dad wanted me to study accounting,” I said. “He thought it would be a more stable career than ballroom dancing. I’m sure he was right, but I don’t regret being a dancer. It makes me happy—most of the time.”

Tav touched my elbow to move me toward another gallery and a group gathered around a docent giving a talk about an Apollo capsule. “I cannot see you as an accountant, Stacy. Such a job would quench your joie de vivre.”

His smile warmed me and I was pleased that he saw me as a happy person because I was, basically, except when my ex-fiancé got murdered in my dance studio and the police thought I did it. “It’s funny you should say that,” I said. “Just today someone suggested I should be a lawyer.” I went on to tell him about meeting with Phineas Drake and the weekend’s many surprises.

“Héctor Bazán attacked you in your home?” His eyes narrowed with a cold rage I hadn’t seen in him before.

“‘Attacked’ is maybe too strong,” I said, pleased by his reaction. Finally someone was taking me seriously. “He didn’t have a gun, although he slapped me a couple of times.”

Tav cupped my chin in his hand and turned my face from side to side to see what injuries I’d suffered. I’d inspected my face closely this morning, but there was no hint of bruising. He ran a finger down my cheek, stopping at the corner of my mouth.

“I’ll live.” I laughed it off, disconcerted by the flush of heat that shot through me at his touch.

“I will pay a call on Bazán before I leave,” Tav promised grimly.

“Detective Lissy said he’d question him, but I can tell he thinks I made the whole thing up.”

From the set of Tav’s mouth, I thought his approach was going to be more physical in nature. He confirmed that by saying, “If Bazán is responsible for my brother’s murder—” He cut himself off, forced a smile on his face, and said, “Come on. You have had enough of things with wings. Do you mind if we walk to the World War II memorial? My grandfather flew Hawker Typhoons with the RAF’s 164th Squadron and was part of the Normandy invasion.”

“Really? I didn’t know Argentina fought in World War II.”

Tav ushered me out the door into the brutal heat and humidity outside. Who sucked all the oxygen out of the air and replaced it with water? It was way too early in the year for me to feel like I needed a scuba tank to breathe outside. Grateful for my hat, I led Tav down the wide, pebbly path toward the World War II memorial. It was past five now and most of the tourists had drifted off to refreshing hotel pools or cocktail lounges, while D.C. workers clogged the outbound roads with their air-conditioned cars. I was just as happy to spend a little more time on the Mall and not have to get on a crowded Metro car during rush hour.

“About four thousand Argentine volunteers fought in the war, some with British, Canadian, and South African air forces. Our government at the time was a bunch of cowardly fence-sitters, but eventually they declared war on the Axis, sometime in the spring of 1945, I think. Volunteers, though, joined the fighting much earlier. My grandfather—my mother’s father—still had family in the UK, cousins and such, so it was natural that he would go there. He didn’t come back from the war, which is one of the reasons my mother did not want me to join the air force.”

“Who can blame her?”

He shrugged, stepping between me and a gardener letting his leaf blower drift off target as he eyed a couple of attractive joggers. I appreciated Tav’s instinctive courtesy. Rafe had not been so sensitive to his environment, to those around him. I needed to stop comparing the two men. Almost brusquely, I asked, “So you’ve had some offers for Rafe’s half of the studio?”

“Feelers, let us say. It is too soon to have formal offers. Until we are able to assess the value of—”

“From who?” I wanted to cut to the quick.

“From a Solange Dubonnet—”

“Damn!”

“—and a Nicolaos Papadakis.”

“Uncle Nico?” Double damn. I nibbled on my lower lip. I wasn’t sure which prospect disturbed me more—working with Solange or with Uncle Nico. Solange would undoubtedly want to be involved in the day-today operations and compete with me for the male amateur dancers. Uncle Nico’s motives were a little murkier. Maybe he was just trying to be helpful to his niece? Not likely.

“I can’t believe Solange made you an offer without even talking to me first. When did she first contact you?”

“Yesterday,” Tav said with a lifted brow. “And she sounded very interested. Who is she?”

I explained about Solange, leaving out the part about finding her in bed with Rafe. I didn’t want to tarnish Tav’s memories of his brother. “And Uncle Nico—” How did I explain about Uncle Nico? “Uncle Nico’s an operator,” I said weakly. “He has many business interests. I’m not sure where a ballroom dance studio fits into his business empire.”

“So you don’t want me to accept either of the offers?” Tav asked.

I was silent, realizing it was totally unreasonable of me to ask him not to sell Rafe’s share—his share—of Graysin Motion to either of two qualified buyers. At least, I assumed Solange could afford it, and I knew Uncle Nico could. We had reached the World War II memorial and stayed silent as we walked through the Atlantic Pavilion and into the huge granite oval surrounded by columns. Even though the memorial was rigidly symmetrical, something about the stone pillars set in semicircles at either end made me think of Stonehenge. Fountains splashed in the central pool and a little girl escaped from her parents’ grip to dash into the water, shoes and all. Tav laughed at the sight, but sobered as he read some of the plaques on the wall. Heat radiated from the granite, even as dusk laid long shadows across the ground. As we made our way counterclockwise around the memorial, I said, “I hope someone else wants to buy your share. I have to say that neither Solange nor Uncle Nico would be my first choice of partners.”

“Who would be?”

I considered. Vitaly came to mind, but I had no idea what his financial situation was. And I really didn’t know him that well. “I don’t know,” I finally said. “How does one find buyers for a business? Do you advertise?”

“You can,” he said, “although I would think word of mouth would be the best method for a small, specialized business like the studio. You mention it at competitions, tell friends to spread the word.”

“How long?”

He looked at me quizzically.

“How long do you have before you have to make a decision?”

“There is no hard-and-fast deadline,” he said slowly. “Although buyers will not hang around waiting for a decision forever.” We approached a cluster of pigeons that waddled lazily out of our path.

A light breeze stirred my hair and I lifted it from my neck. The scent of hot dogs drifted over from a cart where the vendor was closing down for the day. I was about to verbalize an idea that was burbling in my brain, but Tav spoke up.

“Are you hungry?” At my nod, he said, “Let us get dinner—unless you have other plans?”

“Dinner would be nice, although I’m not dressed for anyplace fancy.”

“Nor am I.” He gestured to his shorts with a laugh. “I am sure we can find something.”

 

We found a casual Peruvian place a short Metro ride away in the lively Adams Morgan section of town and enjoyed a savory meal with a bottle of wine before reboarding the Metro to return to Old Town. I tried to tell Tav he didn’t need to escort me home, but he would have none of it. “I am not putting you on a train by yourself at this hour,” he said, although it was just past ten, not two in the morning. Strolling from the Metro stop to my house in near silence, our arms brushing occasionally as we walked, I found myself feeling more content than I had in a long time. The thought jolted me and I tripped on the uneven walkway half a block from my house. Tav caught my arm and asked, “Are you okay?”

His dark eyes searched my face. His hand was warm on my arm and I blamed the wine for heightening my senses and making me ultra-aware of his cedary scent, the warmth that drifted off his body, the dark stubble hazing his jawline. “Fine.”

His gaze lingered on my lips and I swayed toward him, a completely involuntary movement, like breathing or blinking. Over his shoulder, I noticed a light flickering strangely in the upper windows of a house down the block.
My
house! There shouldn’t be anyone in the studio at this hour. Straightening, I grabbed Tav’s hand. “Come on.”

“Wha—?”

“Someone’s broken into my house.”

Tav’s gaze followed my pointing finger. His face set in grim lines. “That is not an intruder,” he said. “It is fire.”

Before he could stop me, I was pounding down the sidewalk in my flimsy espadrilles, desperate to reach my house. I vaguely heard him talking to the 911 operator, and then calling at me to stop, but I didn’t wait. I could see that the light was flames, now, dancing at the windows of the ballroom, an eerie interplay of red and yellow and shadow. As I got closer, I could smell the smoke. It caught in my nose and throat, making me cough. I stopped on the sidewalk in front of the house, not foolish enough to try to enter. What could I do? Water from the garden hose wouldn’t reach high enough to tickle the flames, much less extinguish them. Thank God I didn’t have children or pets to rescue.

Tav trotted up beside me and slid an arm around my waist, pulling me in close to his side, as if to ensure I wouldn’t go dashing into the house. I let my head fall onto his strong chest for a moment, comforted by his presence and solidity, before pushing away as the fire trucks came screaming down the street in a swirl of lights. Firefighters piled out and Tav tugged at me, walking me across the street where we could watch the scene without being in the way.

“It is just the upstairs,” he said comfortingly.

I’d already noticed that and had been racking my brain to figure out what might have caught fire up there. Maybe there’d been a short in the stereo system or my computer? The firefighters had dragged a hose up the side stairs and kicked in the door before I could think to offer them a key. The wrinkly, cement-colored hose swelled as water pumped through it and the flames began to falter as the firefighters disappeared inside. A cop car arrived and a crowd began to gather, late diners or moviegoers drawn by the activity and strobing lights. It was only twenty minutes or so before the firefighters emerged, sweaty and smoke-stained, giving a thumbs-up to the firefighters still with the truck. I was about to join them and ask what had happened when an official-looking car pulled up and Detective Lissy stepped out. Great. Just great.