Quickstep to Murder (29 page)

“And?” Anticipation lit his dark eyes.

“Someone had searched the place. Maybe a couple of someones.”

“My men found nothing when they went out there,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “In fact, I can hardly believe Victoria stayed there, if what my men said about the place is true. She’s what you Americans call ‘high maintenance.’ Wooden cabins with no electricity are not her style.”

I was disappointed with how easily he admitted to searching the cabin. He didn’t sound like a man with anything to hide. Something over my shoulder caught his attention and I turned to follow his gaze, hoping to see Tav. Bazán’s aide stood at the door, pointing to his watch.

“I must catch my flight,” Bazán said, shifting his weight to move past me.

“Wait!” I put a hand on his arm, feeling the slabs of muscle even through his suit. My mind revved as I sought desperately for some way to jolt him into betraying himself, into telling me the truth about the night Rafe died. “The police found Victoria’s fingerprints on the gun that killed Rafe,” I blurted.

He froze in place and I could feel the shock run through him, an involuntary tremor in his muscles. A split second later he surprised me with a bark of laughter. “Ha! So Victoria killed him? I could have told him not to turn his back on her. That woman would slip a knife between your ribs as soon as kiss you.” Shaking my hand off his arm, he straightened his sleeve. “I’ll have someone show her photo around Richmond, but she’s probably long gone from there. I can make it worth your while to let me know if Victoria tries to use your credit card again. Call me.” Without waiting for me to reply, he strode toward his assistant and they headed for the security checkpoint.

I immediately phoned Tav, but got his voice mail. Hoping he’d still show up, I browsed the books, trying to decide if I’d learned anything from Bazán. His shock when I told him about Victoria’s fingerprints on my gun almost convinced me he hadn’t killed Rafe. Or maybe he was surprised because he
had
killed Rafe without knowing Victoria had previously handled the gun. I tried to piece together a timeline.

If Victoria was telling the truth, Rafe tried to give her my gun the afternoon he died. She handled it, getting her prints on it. Bazán could have discovered she was gone that evening and guessed she was with Rafe, either because he’d had her followed or because he knew about their prior relationship. Heck, Victoria could even have told him—in a note?—that she was leaving him for Rafe. He confronted Rafe at the studio that night, I theorized. Rafe pulled out my gun, Bazán wrested it from him and shot him. Maybe his prints were on the gun, too, or maybe he’d had the foresight to wear gloves. Or maybe Bazán was right and Victoria really had done it. My head ached. I rested my forehead briefly on the book turned face out on the shelf in front of me. Straightening, I shined the cover guiltily with my shirttail, hoping I hadn’t gotten sweat or makeup on it. It was a mystery by someone named Brad Parks and the cover intrigued me. On impulse, I took it to the cashier. Paying for the book, I looked around one last time for Tav, and then headed for the Metro.

My phone rang just before I got on the escalator and I stepped away from it to answer. Tav greeted me with apologies, told me the Metro car he’d been on had stopped underground for no discernible reason, and he hadn’t been able to call me. He sounded frustrated. “Did you see Bazán?”

“Oh, yeah.” I gave him the
Reader’s Digest
version of our conversation.

“So we are no further forward then we were,” he said, sighing. “And if Bazán is leaving town, who knows when we will get the chance to speak with him again.”

A woman edged past me onto the escalator, pushing a stroller with a toddler in it, and juggling a slice of pizza on a paper tray, a can of soda, a diaper bag, and a rolling suitcase. “Let me help you,” I said. “Gotta go,” I told Tav when the woman smiled gratefully and passed me the diaper bag and pizza.

 

The Metro was crowded with late rush hour travelers and I had to stand all the way to my stop. I’d bobbled the pizza on the ride down the escalator and gotten a smear of pepperoni grease on my blouse so I smelled like a pizzeria. Trudging down the hot sidewalks to my house, I greeted my quiet entryway with relief and headed to the kitchen to sponge at the orangey stain on my shirt. I gave up and stripped it off, tossing it on the laundry room floor. Anxious to see if the refinisher had made more progress, I headed upstairs after grabbing a clean blouse out of the dryer. I had it halfway buttoned when I reached the top of the stairs and heard faint strains of quickstep music and a woman’s voice saying, “The lockstep should go like this.”

Solange.

Maurice must have let her in; he’d had a private session scheduled for earlier this afternoon. Furious that she had the nerve—the gall!—to waltz in and use my studio after all that had happened, I banged through the door and stomped to the small studio. The door stood open and I reached down and unplugged the stereo. The couple stuttered to a stop when the music died, Solange facing me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I spat. “Out. Now.”

“My partner and I are getting in some rehearsal time,” she said, not one whit embarrassed by my appearance. “And since we’re—I’m—going to be part-owner of the studio soon, it seemed foolish to wait on all that paperwork. That look’s a little blatant, don’t you think?” She nodded at my partially buttoned shirt, which, I saw, was displaying way too much cleavage and half of my sheer, flesh-colored bra.

My fingers fumbled with the buttons as my stomach roiled at the thought of sharing the studio with Solange. I couldn’t do it. If Tav sold out to her I’d start over again, change the name . . . anything rather than work with the scheming bitch.

Solange’s partner turned around and I gasped. “Mark?” My hands dropped to my sides.

Mark Downey’s gaze grazed my chest and then he tilted his chin up as if daring me to say something. “Now that Solange’s ankle is doing better, she and I have entered the Emerald Ball in LA next month—too bad it’s too late for an invitation to Blackpool this year—and we need a place to practice. Surely you wouldn’t be so petty—”

Oh, yes I would. I was prepared to scale new heights of pettiness, not that I thought it was petty to kick this conniving couple out of my dance studio. My mind snagged on something Solange had said. “What did you mean ‘we’ are going to be part-owners of the studio?”

For the first time she looked flustered, her eyes darting from me to Mark. “I just meant that we—you and I—were going to be partners.”

“No, you didn’t.” I advanced on her.

“We might as well tell her,” Mark said, stepping into my path. He looked smug. “I’m Solange’s financial backer. We’re going in together to buy Rafe’s share. We weren’t going to say anything until after it was a done deal—I was afraid you’d try to put a wrench in it since you didn’t seem to want me involved—but what can you do, after all? Solange got a list of all your students and their contact info—you really ought to practice better computer security—and we’ve already talked to some of them.”

“That’s what you were doing in my office?” I asked Solange. “Stealing our client list?”

She looked furious with Mark for mentioning it, but nodded curtly.

Another thought came to me. “You went to Rafe’s, too, didn’t you, to search his laptop? The day after he died?” I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that he’d given her a key.

Her eyes narrowed. “That was you that came in? Shit, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

Mark tossed a lock of limp hair out of his eyes, reclaiming my attention. I couldn’t believe I’d danced with him, taught him for three years, and I hadn’t seen what he was really like. This was turning into a nightmare. “You’ll be sorry you passed up the chance to partner with me,” he said in a low voice.

Something in his eyes made me back up a step and a horrifying thought came to me. “I’m only sorry I ever accepted you as a student. You can do better, Solange,” I said.

“I’ve been out of action too long with my damned ankle,” she said, rotating it. “The established male pros are already committed to other partners. I think Mark is worth taking a chance on.” She sent him a smile.

“You’ll be taking a chance, all right,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “He shot Rafe and poisoned Vitaly in order to become my partner. Now he’s using you to—”

“You’re insane,” Mark said. “Don’t listen to her, Solange. She’s losing it.”

He sounded confident, but a furtive look in his eyes convinced me I was on the right track. “Did the police check your alibi for the night Rafe was shot? Probably not, because they were convinced I did it. And I’ll bet they find your fingerprints on the grapefruit juice bottles—”

“I got rid—” Mark stopped himself, but it was too late.

I think my mind had made the connection between Vitaly’s sudden illness and the missing grapefruit bottles subconsciously. Someone—Mark—had deliberately removed them after Vitaly fell ill. “You did . . . you killed Rafe.”

“I was thrilled when someone bumped him off, but it wasn’t me,” he said. “You should have turned to me then, let me help you through the rough time, taken me on as your partner. I wanted to be there for you. But, no. You paired up with Voloshin. So I put a little laxative in his juice. Big deal! I thought with him out of action, you’d surely ask me to fill in. But he didn’t stay down long enough. And then, with the fire, I thought you’d be forced to turn to me for help to keep the studio afloat. I was going to come to you in a couple of days and offer to pay for the repairs. I knew how happy you’d be. Stacy, I love you—just give me a chance.” He lunged forward and grasped my hands, a pleading look on his face. “We’ve had a good thing going for three years. Don’t throw it away because I made a little mistake.”

“We haven’t had anything going, Mark!” I exclaimed, trying to free my hands. “You were my student. That’s all.”

“I could feel more than that when we danced,” he insisted, drawing me closer. His warm breath fanned my cheek. “You deny it, but you felt something for me. The way you pressed against me, the way your hand clasped mine. If it hadn’t been for Acosta—”

“You’re totally delusional,” I said. “Let me go!” I struggled against him, but he was far stronger than I was and caught me in a bear hug with my hands trapped to my sides. I whipped my knee up, aiming for his groin, but only smacked his thigh because he held me too close. He let out a soft
uh
, and shifted position slightly. I stomped on his foot, but my espadrille made little impact.

“Don’t make fun of me,” he growled. His lips made a slimy trail up my neck. “You can love me back if you just try. I—” His grip suddenly loosened and he staggered back from me, then dropped to his knees. Blood dripped from the back of his head and he groggily reached a hand to his skull.

Solange stood behind him, dance pump gripped tightly in her hand, the heel bloodied from where she’d whacked it against Mark’s head.

“Thanks,” I said, gasping.

“The ick factor was just getting too high,” she said with a grimace. “Who knew he was a psychotic stalker? I guess now I’ll have to hold auditions for another partner.”

“Don’t think saving me means you get to keep dancing here,” I said, dialing 911, “because I have a hard-and-fast policy against client-stealing, fiancé-poaching sneaks, even when they save me from certifiable whackjobs.”

 

Uniformed police showed up quickly and seemed inclined to arrest Solange for assaulting Mark Downey. I told them she had hit him to save me and suggested that Mark had killed Rafe. That got them on the radio to summon Detective Lissy, who arrived as the EMTs were carting Mark off to the hospital for some stitches and observation. He looked even more annoyed than usual, and kept a hand pressed to his side as if he had a stitch. He talked to Solange first and finally let her go.

“If I’d known it was going to be this much hassle, I’d just have let the nutcase have her,” I heard her grumble as she descended the stairs barefoot, the police having confiscated her one shoe as evidence.

Detective Lissy approached me where I sat slumped against the hall wall, guarded by a policewoman assigned to make sure Solange and I didn’t confer about our stories. “Miss Graysin,” he said, looking down at me.

If he thought I was going to leap to my feet at his appearance, he had another think coming. I was too darned tired. I waited for him to continue.

“When I got to work today, I had one viable suspect for Rafe Acosta’s murder. You. Now I have three. How do you explain that?”

“Just lucky?”

He burped and rubbed at his side. “That’s not how I would characterize it. I’m not happy with this case. No, not happy at all. Fingerprint evidence appeared this morning, suggesting a certain Victoria Bazán was involved. Ms. Bazán, I’m subsequently informed, is uncontactable and untouchable for a variety of reasons I won’t bother you with. Despite not being happy with how this evidence turned up, I’m on the verge of closing the case when you call to say you’ve been attacked by Acosta’s real murderer. Miss Dubonnet supports your contention that Mark Downey attacked you and seemed to have a ‘bizarre fixation’ on you—one she was at a loss to explain since you’re, and I quote, ‘a passably pretty, thirdrate dancer’—that might have included trying to get rid of your dance partners.” He shook his head, bemused.

“He admitted he tried to poison Vitaly.” At his puzzled look, I clarified. “Voloshin. My new dance partner. Mark spiked his juice with something. And he set the fire. He said it was so I’d realize how much I needed him, but I think that was about revenge because I told him we weren’t going to be dance partners.”

Rubbing a hand down his face, Lissy said, “Did he cop to Acosta’s killing, too, while he was in confession mode? Or the gang killing near the airport two nights ago? Maybe the convenience store robbery on Prince? We’ve got plenty of open cases—he can have his pick.”