Quickstep to Murder

Chapter 18

After dropping Danielle at home in the early afternoon so she could change and go into work, having made a miraculous recovery, I sat at a stoplight and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. I should go home and see what progress the floor refinisher and the cleaners were making, but the idea had little appeal. I decided now was as good a time as any to have a heart-to-heart with Solange about her interest in the studio. Accordingly, I flipped a U-ey at the light, to the accompaniment of honking horns, and headed to Pentagon City, the upscale mall just up Route 1 from Old Town, where Solange worked part-time at a department store makeup counter. I hoped she wouldn’t be too busy to talk on a Tuesday afternoon.

I was in luck. When I got to the counter, Solange, wearing a pale pink smock and looking as disgustingly gorgeous as ever, was organizing makeup boxes in a bored way. She started when she saw me, then plastered a smile to her face. “Stacy! What are you doing here? Don’t you need to be scrubbing smoke stains off the studio’s walls or something? Such a shame!” Her sympathy was as fake as her smile.

“Cleaning service,” I said briefly. “We’ll be back in business late next week. And speaking of the business, where the hell do you get off trying to buy Rafe’s half of it from Tav?”

Solange leaned forward and indicated an older woman at a nearby cosmetics counter. “That’s my boss. I really can’t stand here and chitchat. If you want to have a conversation, it has to look like I’m selling you something. I could give you a makeover. Heaven knows you could use one. You look like you’ve been digging ditches.” She wrinkled her nose at my makeup-free face, tousled ponytail, and rumpled skirt.

“Oh, all right,” I said, hitching myself up onto the black and chrome stool she indicated.

“We’ll start with a cleansing routine,” she said a bit louder, for the benefit of her boss, I assumed. Nudging a countertop mirror out of the way with her elbow, she set out a variety of bottles, pots, compacts, and pencils.

“Let’s start with why you want to buy into the studio,” I said from the corner of my mouth as she swabbed my skin with a soaked cotton ball. The chill was refreshing.

“Since I’ve been out of action with my ankle, I need a built-in client base to get me back on track,” she said. “Graysin Motion’s got it. And it’s time I got my own place instead of playing second fiddle at someone else’s studio. This way, I feel like I’m carrying on Rafe’s legacy.”

Gag me.

“Look up.” After smoothing foundation over my face, she dotted concealer under my eyes and blended with a wedge-shaped sponge. “Quite the under-eye circles,” she commented.

“It’s been a rough week. You know Graysin Motion-”

“We’d have to change the name, of course.”

Fury shimmered through me. She must have felt it, because she took a quick half step back. “But not right away. There is some name recognition for the studio in the ballroom dance world.”

“You know Graysin Motion needs a male pro. Two women could never make a go of it.”

“I’ve never had trouble attracting men,” Solange said with a smirk, “and that includes male students.”

“You know women make up at least three-quarters of a studio’s client base and income,” I insisted.

“So we’ll hire a couple of male pros. I’ve got someone in mind.”

“Graysin Motion barely supports the current staff. We can’t both take enough salary to live off of and also pay for another male instructor on top of Maurice. My arrangement with Vitaly is stretching the studio’s finances to the limit.”

“Maybe you should get a part-time job,” Solange said, gesturing with an eye shadow brush to the expanse of cosmetics counters with a shoe display peeking up behind the Chanel counter and lingerie visible just past Lancôme’s GIFT WITH PURCHASE poster. “It’s not the end of the world.”

The idea caught me like a fist in the stomach. “I’m a ballroom dancer, not a store clerk,” I blurted.

Solange’s lips thinned and I thought hurt flickered in her eyes before she turned away to select a mascara wand.

“I’m sorry, Solange; I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that I’ve worked too hard at making a go of Graysin Motion to go back to waiting tables”-been there, done that-“or walking dogs.” Ditto.

“Close your eyes.” She slicked liquid liner at the base of my lashes and swept shadow across my lid. “I’m sorry you’re so negative about the idea of being partners. That’s going to make things much more awkward.”

I snapped my eyes open. “Awkward? How can you expect it to be anything but awkward, under the circumstances?”

“You mean me and Rafe?”

I nodded. “Are you going to use that?” The blush in her hand was a virulent shade of fuchsia.

“It goes on sheer. Trust me.” She swirled the fat brush in the compact and leaned in to dust it across my cheeks. “Don’t you think it’s time for you to get past it, Stacy? I mean, it’s the oldest story in the book: Boy meets girl, boy gets girl, boy moves on when girl doesn’t meet his needs. In this day and age, with people living into their eighties, for God’s sake, the whole concept of monogamy is slightly ridiculous, don’t you think?”

“No.”

She heaved a put-upon sigh. “That’s the kind of attitude that’s going to make it tough for us to run the studio together.”

“We’re not going to be running the studio together,” I said, sliding off the stool. I didn’t care if she was done with the “makeover” or not. “It’s my studio. Where are you going to get the money to buy Tav out, anyway? Didn’t you say you were broke, that you loaned your last couple thousand to Rafe?”

“I’ve got the money sorted,” Solange said, unperturbed. “Did you want to purchase any of the products?”

I grudgingly bought an eyebrow pencil for three times what a similar product would have cost me at Target, and said good-bye, wondering about the self-satisfied smile on Solange’s face. As I exited the store, I noticed a couple of older women giving me sidelong looks and felt like telling them it wasn’t that weird for a young woman of employable age to be spending the afternoon in the mall. I wandered the mall, casually window-shopping, reluctant to leave the air-conditioned halls for the sweltering heat outdoors and equally reluctant to return home and confront the ruined studio. A teenage couple passed me and the boy nudged the girl, who glanced at me and sniggered. I looked at my blouse, worried I had splashed ketchup on it when eating lunch or something. Nada. Giving way to the inevitable, I made my feet point toward the garage exit. Two storefronts from the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in a boutique’s mirror.

Gaah! Solange had made me up to look like a hag, or a cross-dressing hooker with no mirror. The foundation she’d used was two shades too dark for my skin and orangey, contrasting strangely with my pale neck. The “concealer” she’d used had actually darkened the circles under my eyes, aging me dreadfully. Liner winged in a wavy line toward my temples, and harshly drawn brows arched in half-moons over eyelids coated a metallic aqua. The garish blush burned in clownlike circles on the apples of my cheeks. No wonder people were giving me strange looks. Wishing I had a scarf in my purse, I loosened my hair from its ponytail so it fell curtainlike across my cheeks and then hurried to my car, grateful for the garage’s dimness. Solange would get half my studio over my dead body. I’d go to Uncle Nico and beg him to buy Tav’s share, promise him unlimited favors, before I let her set foot in my studio again.

I arrived home to find Maurice leaving a note on my back door. He waited while I parked the car and looked at me with concern when I approached.

“I’m not sure that’s a good look for you, Anastasia,” he said. “I can understand you need a change of pace after this past week, but perhaps something less… colorful?”

“Solange,” I explained as I unlocked the door. “Just let me wash this off and I’ll be right with you.” Leaving him chuckling in the kitchen, I hurried to my bathroom and cold creamed the makeup off, leaving my cheeks scrubbed red and my eyes irritated. Too tired to care, I rejoined Maurice. He’d made tea and was seated at the kitchen table.

“You’re a god,” I told him, sinking into a chair and sipping the steaming tea. I choked and coughed, unprepared for the healthy slug of bourbon he’d doctored it with.

“You looked like you could use a pick-me-up.”

“And how.” I took a more cautious sip and looked at him. Calm and debonair as ever, he leaned back in his chair, long fingers wrapped around the warm mug.

“I stopped by to see how you are doing. It looks like they’re making good progress on the studio.” He tipped his chin toward the ceiling.

“Are they? I haven’t been up there. I just couldn’t face it. I saw it last night, after the firemen put the fire out, and looking at the floor, all crackled and blackened, I felt like someone had flayed me.”

Concern lit Maurice’s eyes. “It’s ugly and frightening,” he said. “Do the police have any idea who did it?”

“Lissy seems to think it might’ve been me, despite the fact I’ve got an alibi.”

“The man’s an utter fool. Do you think this is tied in with what happened last week?”

I snorted lightly, almost amused by the delicate way he referred to Rafe’s death. “I don’t see how.”

“Maybe someone is set on forcing you out of business,” Maurice said. “A competitor or someone with a grudge.”

“Come on,” I objected, pushing my empty mug aside.

“The arson, maybe. But killing Rafe? It’d take a psycho ballroom dancer to think that was the best way to up his-or her-odds at a competition.”

“I’ve met more than one psycho in my years on the ballroom circuit,” Maurice said half-jokingly, “and people have killed for less understandable reasons. But that’s not what I mean. What if someone has a grudge against you, personally, and is doing whatever he can to hurt you.”

“Why not kill me, then?” A shiver tickled down my spine as I said it.

“It was a stupid idea,” Maurice said, collecting the mugs and taking them to the sink. “I’d be happy to sleep here for a couple of nights, despite the smell”-he forced air noisily out of his large nose-“if you would feel more comfortable.”

I was touched. “Thanks, Maurice,” I said, rising to hug him. “If I get nervous, I can go to Danielle’s or my mom’s. But I appreciate the offer.”

“I’ll be back first thing tomorrow,” he said, “and we can talk about where we’re going to hold classes in the interim. The YMCA may have space we can use, and one of my ladies mentioned that her church would be happy to let us use their basement.”

“You’re approaching this a lot more intelligently than I am,” I told him ruefully. “I don’t suppose you’d like to buy Rafe’s share and be my new partner?”

“Alas, dear Anastasia,” he said, “but no. I’m past the age of wanting the responsibilities that come with owning a business. Dancing and teaching-yes. Billing and recruiting students and worrying about insurance and taxes and payrolls-definitely no.”

“It was just a thought.”

I closed the door behind him.

The doorbell dinged at a ridiculously early hour the next morning-six thirty, I saw when I cracked an eye open. I pulled the sheets up over my head, ostrichlike, hoping whoever it was would go away. Ding-dong! Ding-dong! With a sigh, I flung my legs over the side of the bed, thrust my arms into the sleeves of my ratty green terrycloth robe, and shambled toward the door. Peering through the peephole, I was surprised to see Taryn Hall and Sawyer Iverson standing there.

I pulled open the door. “Is anything wrong?” I asked. The fresh breath of morning wafted in.

“We came to say good-bye,” Taryn said, and Sawyer nodded. “You’ve been so kind to us… well, we didn’t want to disappear and not have you know what’s going on.”

“Come in.”

They crossed the threshold and Sawyer looked around curiously.

“Coffee?” I offered. “It will only take me a moment to make some.”

“No, thanks,” Taryn said, patting her abdomen. “I’m off caffeine.”

Remind me never to get pregnant if you have to give up coffee.

“Do you have a soda maybe?” Sawyer asked. “Mountain Dew?”

“Didn’t you have some in the fridge upstairs?” I asked. When he nodded, I said, “Let’s go up and get some.”

I led the way up the staircase to the locked door leading to the studio. Undoing the dead bolt, I pushed it open. The smell of charred wood overlaid with cleaning solvents and sawdust smacked us.

“Shit!” Sawyer blurted. “Uh, sorry, Miss Stacy. What’s that smell?”

“You didn’t hear?” I told them about the fire. “The only thing damaged was the ballroom floor, so it’s perfectly safe to be up here.” I ducked into the bathroom and opened the fridge. It seemed less crowded than usual and I stared into it for a moment, the cool air chilling my bare feet, and realized all Vitaly’s grapefruit juice was gone. Huh. I tried to remember if he’d taken them with him when he got sick. I didn’t think so. I sighed. It must be time to post a little reminder about the honor system. Pulling out the lone Mountain Dew, I crossed the hall to where Taryn and Sawyer hovered on the ballroom’s threshold, looking at the floor stripped mostly bare by the refinisher. It looked naked, defenseless without its shiny coats of polyurethane, and I hugged my robe more tightly around myself.

“Geez,” Taryn said.

“You’re lucky you didn’t burn up in your sleep, Miss Stacy,” Sawyer said, pulling at the hoop in his ear.

“Sawyer!” Taryn punched his shoulder.

“What? All I said was-”

“Let’s go back down,” I said, interrupting the squabble and handing Sawyer his soda.

The teens sat side by side at the kitchen table, perched on the edges of their chairs, obviously ready to go. I busied myself dumping Kona coffee into the machine and adding water. When the strong scent began to filter through the room, I joined them and said, “So, what’s this about good-bye?”

“I’m taking Taryn down to South Carolina today,” Sawyer explained. “She’s going to live with the people who are adopting the baby until it’s born.”

“What’s your dad think of that?” I asked Taryn.

She shook her head and I wasn’t sure if she meant he didn’t know or he wasn’t in favor of the plan.

“He kicked her out,” Sawyer said, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“I think he was really hurt that I thought he might have killed Rafe,” Taryn said in a small voice. “When we got home from the competition, he marched me down to the Holborns’ house-they live down the block-and Mr. Holborn told me they were playing poker the night Rafe got killed, until past midnight. Daddy told me I was disloyal, and a liar. He called me an ‘ungrateful whore’ and… and-” She began to weep quietly and Sawyer stroked her hair.

I sighed inwardly, not knowing what to say. I looked at Sawyer. “And you?”

“I’ll come back and finish high school. I graduate in June, you know. Then I’ll get a summer job in Sumter-my folks are okay with that-and then we’ll see.”

“I need to finish high school; I’m hoping I can earn my GED over the summer,” Taryn said. “And then we both want to go to college, but I won’t have any money, so I may have to work awhile first.” The resolute look on her face made me think she’d carry through.

“We’re going to look into all the financial aid options,” Sawyer put in. “And my folks say they might be able to help Taryn some. They really like her and they’re pissed about the way her dad’s treated her.”

“Marriage?”

They both shook their heads. “Not now,” Taryn said, reaching up to squeeze Sawyer’s hand where it rested on her shoulder. “We’re too young. Maybe later.” She gave the youth a shy smile.

“Well, if you end up back in this area, you could always come teach at Graysin Motion,” I said.

“Really?” Taryn’s eyes sparkled. “Thanks, Miss Stacy.”

Sawyer rose and helped Taryn to her feet. A lump formed in my throat at the sight of his tenderness with her.

I walked them to the door. “Good luck.” I hugged Taryn tightly. Sawyer, looking teenage-boy awkward, leaned down to give me a hug. I waved from the portico as they climbed into Sawyer’s Honda and drove away. Somehow feeling both sad and inspired, I headed back into the house to get dressed, giving a cheery wave to a neighbor heading off to cubicle hell.

After showering, dressing, and breakfasting, I marched upstairs, determined to get some work done in my office. I had students to contact, arrangements to make for temporary lesson locations, calls to make related to Blackpool, and a host of other tasks I’d ditched yesterday for the abortive trip to West Virginia. Throwing open the windows in my office, I hesitated only briefly before crossing the sanded floor of the ballroom to open all the windows in there, too. At one window, the sheers were nothing but burned strips of fabric and I pulled them down easily, leaving them in an ashy pile on the floor. The familiar scents of Old Town-car exhaust, the Potomac, and the sweet fragrance of blooming fruit trees-began to chase away the odors of fire and restoration.

A clanging noise behind me made me whirl, but it was only the cleaning team clanking their metal buckets up the stairs. “You need to see about the lock,” the white-overalled supervisor said after we exchanged good mornings. “It doesn’t latch properly.”

“That’s because the fire department had to bust the door in,” I said. “I’ll call a locksmith today. Thanks.”

With a nod, she herded her team into the ballroom while I returned to my office and got to work. I took a break at noon to attend my ballet class-rarely had I needed to dance more-and was walking home, pleasantly tired and sore, when a familiar white limousine glided to the curb beside me. Phineas Drake. The rear window purred down and I was surprised to see not the lawyer, but Victoria Bazán.