Phineas Drake’s face turned serious. “This morning was all about frightening a confession out of you, Ms. Graysin.”
“Stacy,” I said, finishing my champagne. “And they certainly succeeded with the ‘frightening’ part of their agenda. I was good and scared. Still am. What’s a GSR and how did you know about it?”
“A gunshot residue test. Did they swab your hands the night of the murder?” At my nod, he said, “Standard procedure. I knew the results were negative or I’d’ve been rescuing you from the city lockup, not a cozy interview room.”
His definition of “cozy” was a long ways away from mine, but I didn’t argue the point. “What do we do now?”
Drake set his champagne flute on the burled wood table beside him. “We give the police another suspect, someone besides you.”
I crinkled my brow. “You mean we find the real murderer?”
“In the best of all possible worlds. Failing that, we make sure they see the value in focusing on someone else. Who would you like to see go down for it?”
His tone was casual, but the look in his eyes gave me pause. Was it possible he was talking about framing someone else for the murder? Surely not. Some of the rumors and family whispers I’d heard about Uncle Nico popped into my head and I decided to play it cautiously. Even though part of me longed to give him Solange’s name, I said, “The only person I want to have arrested is the real murderer.”
Chuckling, Drake poured the last of the champagne into his glass and downed it. “Mr. Papadakis told me you were a sweet girl—‘not a vicious bone in her body,’ he said. Don’t worry, Stacy. When Mr. Papadakis wants something fixed, it gets fixed.” He settled back against the seat, arms spread across the top of it, an inscrutable smile on his face. If Mona Lisa had been a bear, this is what she’d have looked like.
Calls to Maurice and Mom thanked them for their part in springing me from Lissy’s clutches and let them know I was home again. A shower washed the imaginary stink of the police department off me, and two aspirin put a dent in the champagne headache. In my steamy little bathroom, I flipped my head over to blow-dry my long, blond hair and thought about Rafe’s murder, Tav’s appearance, and Phineas Drake’s jovial assurances. Even though all I wanted to do was concentrate on my dancing, the students, and the upcoming Capitol Festival, I reluctantly accepted the fact that I was going to have to see if I could figure out who killed Rafe. If I didn’t, either I was going to end up in prison (not an acceptable outcome), or some random bystander set up by Uncle Nico and his legal eagle was going to take the fall (also unacceptable, especially if it was someone I liked, such as Maurice or one of my students).
I stood, flinging my hair back, and watched in the foggy mirror as it settled in a golden cloud on my shoulders. I decided to leave it loose and quickly donned a pair of striped capris and a slim-fitting teal shirt that made the most of my assets. I’d never been much of one for mystery novels or TV cop shows, but it seemed to me like I should start my investigation by talking to a few people: Taryn Hall and/or her dad, Tav Acosta, and Solange for starters. As I was mentally flipping a coin to decide who to start with, the phone rang.
“Have you got it?” Sherry Indrebo asked when I said hello.
I started guiltily. So much had happened, I’d completely forgotten about returning the thumb drive to Sherry.
“Sorry I didn’t get back to you,” I said. “Yes, I’ve got it.”
Her sigh of relief wafted through the phone. “Thank goodness. Look, I’m tied up today, but I’ll stop by this evening to get it from you.” Her tone grew sharper. “We also need to talk about my partner situation. I already gave Rafe a check for the Capitol Festival and I expect you to find me an equally accomplished partner to compete with. And no excuses about it being too last minute.”
“I already lined someone up,” I said, thinking that her gratitude hadn’t lasted long.
When she hung up, I started to dial Taryn Hall’s number, hoping to catch the girl while her parents were still at work, but put the phone down before it connected. I’d probably learn more from her in person. I dug her address out of our computer files, Mapquested it, and was on the road within ten minutes.
The Halls’ house wasn’t far—a few miles south on Route 1 on the other side of I-495. Probably built in the 1950s or ’60s, the house had pale blue aluminum siding, small windows, and a beautifully landscaped yard brimming with salmon-, white- and fuchsia-colored azaleas and spring bulbs by the dozen. Leaving my car at the curb, I strode up the pebbled walkway and knocked on the front door.
Taryn answered so quickly she must have been standing in the front hall. “I’ve been waiting—Oh! Miss Stacy.” She peered over my shoulder. “What—? I mean, I—What are you doing here?”
“I thought we should talk,” I said, noting the purse slung over her shoulder and her flustered manner. Clearly, she was on her way out and I was an inconvenience. “Were you expecting someone?”
“No. No! Well, I mean, yes. Just Sawyer.”
“May I come in?”
“No. That is—My dad doesn’t let me have anyone over when he’s not home,” she said, running her hand through her black hair. It fell silkily to the pale shoulders bared by layered cotton camis in lime and lavender. “This isn’t really a good—”
“Why don’t you come out, then?” I interrupted her. With my nascent detecting skill I had figured out this wasn’t a good time, but it struck me that talking to her while she was a bit off-balance might be a good thing.
“Oh. Okay.” She joined me on the concrete stoop and closed the door.
“You heard about Rafe?”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, yes. It’s just horrible. And now my dad says I can’t come back to the studio.”
“Because Rafe was murdered there or because of the pregnancy?”
Her brown eyes widened until she looked like a startled fawn. “I’m not—How did you know?”
“Your father came by the studio,” I said. “Didn’t he tell you?”
She shook her head.
“He seemed to think Rafe was the father.” I eyed her sternly. “I find that hard to believe, Taryn.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” the girl said in a trembling voice. “He was so nice to me. I didn’t mean to tell—It just came out and my dad was so mad. And—” Sobs overpowered her words. Not that it made much difference—I couldn’t piece together her half sentences into a sensible narrative.
Questions sparked by her incoherence tumbled in my head. She didn’t mean to have sex? To get pregnant? To tell her parents she was expecting? Rafe was nice to her and so they had sex? She told Rafe something—that she was having a baby?—and he was nice to her? The only part that made sense was her dad’s anger, and I already knew about that. Before I could probe further, a car door slammed, jerking both our heads toward the street.
Sawyer Iverson strode toward us, baggy jeans riding low on his pelvic bones, cheap black T-shirt outlining his thin frame, hair gelled and spiky. Not exactly the look he sported on the dance floor. “Whassup?” he asked as he drew nearer. His gaze was on Taryn, who had jumped to her feet at his approach. “How’re you doing?”
“Okay,” Taryn whispered. Their gazes met and something passed between them.
“Hi, Sawyer,” I said, wondering what was going on.
“Uh, hi, Miss Stacy.” He shuffled his feet, glanced at me for a second, then turned his gaze back to Taryn’s flushed face.
“She knows,” Taryn said, “about—”
“What! You told her?”
“About the
pregnancy
.”
Taryn’s emphasis on the last word shut Sawyer up and I again wondered what I was missing. Somehow, they were carrying on a whole conversation I wasn’t in on, despite standing practically between them.
“My dad told her.”
“When he came to beat up Rafe,” I added helpfully.
Sawyer paled. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Taryn.” He reached for her hand and held it tightly. “It’s all because—Does he have a good lawyer?”
Taryn wrinkled her brow; then understanding hit her and she pulled her hand away. “My dad didn’t kill Rafe!”
Sawyer looked from her to me. “I thought you said—”
“Mr. Hall came yesterday morning, after Rafe was already dead. He was looking for Rafe, having somehow gotten the idea that Rafe was the father of Taryn’s baby.” I looked pointedly from Sawyer to Taryn and back again, having my own thoughts about who had fathered the baby.
Neither teen met my eyes. Taryn inched closer to Sawyer, who threw a comforting arm around her shoulders. “We’ve gotta go,” he told me. “C’mon, Taryn, or we’ll be late.”
With an apologetic look at me, Taryn let Sawyer steer her toward his Honda Accord. I watched as he opened the door for her—not too many of the grown men I knew bothered with that courtesy—and clunked it shut once she had pulled her legs in. I had a vague feeling that I should stop them, but I had no right. And no real reason, either. Maybe they were meeting friends at Starbucks or going to a movie. Just because the tension between them was tighter than a piano wire didn’t mean anything ominous. I hoped.
Chapter 8
Tav Acosta was sitting in my office when I returned from Taryn’s house. I stopped on the threshold and stared at him where he sat on the love seat, tapping away on a laptop. “What are you doing here?”
He looked up, an expression of mild surprise on his face. “Waiting for you.” He closed the laptop and rose. “Mr. Goldberg told me I could wait here.”
Music sounded from the ballroom and I heard the faint shufflings that indicated a dance class was taking place. “Oh. Well—”
“Perhaps I could buy you lunch to make up for running out on our breakfast earlier?” he said with a smile.
I suddenly realized I was famished. What with meeting Vitaly, getting hauled off to the police station, and tracking down Taryn, I hadn’t eaten anything today since the yogurt and English muffin I’d had for breakfast. “Lunch would be good,” I said. “Give me just a moment.” I crossed the hall to tell Maurice I’d be out for a while, but that we needed to talk about the Capitol Festival when I got back. He nodded his understanding in time with the music, never taking his eyes off the couples circling the floor. “Absolutely, Anastasia,” he said. “I trust you sorted things out with the police?”
“For the moment,” I said, hoping it was true. Ducking into the powder room, I washed my hands, ran a brush through my hair, and rubbed some sunblock on my arms. Rejoining Tav, I led him down the stairs and east toward the Potomac River. “Have you seen much of this area?” I asked him.
“I have only traveled in the United States a couple of times,” he said. “Most of my business is in South America and Europe, although, as I told Rafael, I am thinking about expanding to the United States. He invited me for a visit, but I was involved in delicate negotiations and couldn’t get away.” Regret sounded in his voice and when I shot a sideways glance at him his face was shuttered.
“So you talked recently?”
He looked down at me assessingly. “Ten days ago. Prior to that we had not spoken in over a year. He called to tell me he was making me the beneficiary in his will and invited me to come to D.C. on vacation.”
“So you knew about the will.” I said it neutrally, but my heartbeat had quickened.
“Yes.” His eyes told me he knew exactly what I was thinking. “But you did not know he had changed it, correct? You were still under the impression you would inherit his share of the business.”
“I didn’t kill Rafe,” I said hotly, responding to the unspoken accusation and causing a suited woman walking a Westie to cross the street abruptly, nearly upending the dog, who was busy marking a tree.
“The police questioned you this morning.”
We had reached the Torpedo Factory by this time, a three-story building that housed artist studios and shops. I pulled the door open without answering his question and cut through the ground level to the back door, which opened onto a plaza fronting the Potomac River. The glare from the sun-silvered water sliced into my vision and I blinked rapidly. The familiar scent of the river, a mix of fresh water, diesel fuel, and warm mud with a whiff of decay, anchored me as my eyes adjusted to the brightness. Tav’s warmth crowded me from behind and I stepped forward, dodging a seagull intent on carrying off a large french fry.
“It is beautiful,” Tav said, quiet appreciation in his voice.
A handful of boats glided past, sails bellied by the wind. Tourists milled about with cameras and melting ice-cream treats, reddened shoulders and noses testifying to a morning spent at Mount Vernon or wandering the streets of Old Town. Two mallards swam near the pier, hoping for handouts. Being near the river always lifted my spirits and I smiled as I headed for a food cart, letting the past days’ sadness and anxiety drop away for a moment. Sandwiches and bottled waters in hand, Tav and I wandered a hundred yards up the river and settled on a river-facing bench to eat.
“Look,” Tav said, crumpling the sandwich wrapping and shoving it into his pocket. “I don’t think you killed Rafe.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said around a mouthful of turkey sandwich. Despite my sarcastic response, I was a teensy bit pleased by his words.
“The police said your gun was the murder weapon, though, so how do you explain that?”
“I don’t. I can’t. Someone stole it.”
“Who knew you had a gun?”
I’d already been thinking about that. “Dozens of people,” I said gloomily.
He looked startled. “Really? How is that?”
“Six or eight weeks ago, at one of our social dances—that’s where we invite students from all the classes, and people from the community, too, to come on a Friday night and dance for fun—one of the women mentioned how unsafe she feels going out at night. She was nervous just walking the two blocks from the parking garage to Graysin Motion. Someone said she should get a gun and carry it in her purse. Rafe went downstairs and got my gun to show her, even demonstrating how easily it would fit in her purse. So,” I said gloomily, “lots of people knew I had a gun.”