“But they wouldn’t know where you kept it,” Tav objected.
I gave him a look. “If you had to search a woman’s place for her gun, where would you look first?”
“Bedside table.”
“Bingo.”
“Point taken.” His brows drew together as he thought. “So if someone went to the trouble of stealing your gun, then Rafael’s death was premeditated, not a crime of passion. Although . . . something was bothering Rafael.”
“I got that feeling, too,” I said, staring at him. “He didn’t used to worry about money, but recently he was obsessed by it, trying to cut costs at Graysin Motion, trying to talk me into having kids’ hip-hop and tap classes and an annual recital. What did he say when he called you?”
“Nothing specific.”
I eyed him, wondering if he was telling the truth. He had stretched his long legs out and let his head rest against the bench’s back so I couldn’t read his expression in profile. “So he just called up, told you he was making out his will in your favor, and hung up? And you said—what? ‘Have a nice day’?”
“Pretty much,” Tav said, turning his head slightly to face me, a slight smile quirking his lips as he took in my frustration.
“Liar.”
“I am wounded.” He put a hand to his heart, but his expression told me he was only making fun of me. “Actually,” he said as I jumped to my feet with an impatient exclamation, “I tried to get him to talk, but he said he had to go and hung up.”
“And you left it at that.”
“I did.” His expression grew somber, his sensuous lips folded into a thin line. “Now I wish I had pushed him harder, called him back.”
I could understand that. I didn’t feel I knew him well enough to offer any words of comfort or absolution, though, so I stayed silent. After a moment, he rose and said, “We should be getting back. I’ve got a meeting later to prepare for.”
“What do you do?” I asked, stuffing my lunch debris into a trash can. We headed back toward my house and I caught him examining the ornate doorways and cornices and wrought-iron fences on the row houses we passed.
“I’m in the import-export business.”
“Oh.” Part of me had hoped he’d say “I’m an internationally acclaimed ballroom dancer.” I knew that wasn’t even a possibility, though, because if he were that good I’d’ve heard of him.
“Do you dance?” I asked.
He looked down at me, a rueful smile curving his lips. “Not a step. Football is my game—what you call soccer.”
“Oh.”
“I am a huge disappointment to you, right?” He didn’t sound like it bothered him.
“No,” I said. “It’s not that. But if you’re not a dancer, inheriting Rafe’s share of Graysin Motion has got to be more of an inconvenience than anything, doesn’t it?” Which pretty much put him out of the running as the murderer, as far as I was concerned. Not that I really thought he’d traveled from Argentina to D.C. to put a bullet in Rafe in my ballroom.
He put a hand to my elbow to guide me away from a skateboarder careening down the sidewalk. “Not necessarily. Are you interested in owning the business outright?”
I didn’t know if he was asking me to make an offer or just sounding me out, but I said honestly, “I can’t afford it. We aren’t turning a profit yet—probably won’t be for another couple of years at the earliest—and even though it’s worth less now than before Rafe got killed—”
“Really?” Tav sounded interested.
“Definitely. A lot of a studio’s worth is in its reputation, its name, the success of its pros and students. Rafe was a big draw—a huge draw—for us. We’ll lose some students to other studios and pros now that he’s dead. Also, I need a new dance partner. I’ve got one tentatively lined up—on approval, you might say—but it’s unrealistic to expect that we’ll do as well at Blackpool after only a few weeks together as Rafe and I would have done.” I pushed a hand through my hair and sighed. “Frankly, the studio’d be in better shape if
I’d
gotten shot; a male pro brings in a lot more business than a female because the biggest student demographic is women.”
“I am sure you bring in more than your share of business,” Tav said, his tone more assessing than admiring.
We turned the corner on to my block as he spoke, and the sight of the black limousine hovering across the street from my house shocked an exclamation from me. The conviction that whoever was in the limo knew something about Rafe’s death grabbed hold of me and I broke into a run. The car idled at the curb like before, windows rolled up, wholly anonymous. My momentum almost carried me into the passenger side door, but I stopped in time. Knocking on the window, I called, “I need to talk to you about Rafe. Just tell me what you know about him. Please.”
A British-accented voice from behind me said, “I don’t know anyone named Rafe, but I’d like to get to know you, luv.”
I whirled to find myself facing a cadaverous-looking man in his late sixties being escorted out of the spa, someone I vaguely recognized as a seventies rock star having a successful comeback tour. Resurrection tour was more like it, I thought, scanning his gaunt face. Wearing leather pants and with highlighted hair sticking out at all angles, he gave me a rakish grin as the chauffeur came around to open the door for him. “Whaddaya say?” The rocker gestured toward the interior of the limo.
I stepped back, appalled by my mistake. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were—”
Suddenly, Tav was at my side, his hand on my shoulder. “Stacy?”
The rocker gave us a knowing smile, raised a hand, and said “Ta, then,” as he slid into the limo. It glided away from the curb and I saw the license plate: Virginia. Not diplomatic plates.
My face blazed with heat, and I scuttled across the street to my house, weaving my way between cars stopped at the light. Reaching the other side, I realized Tav had followed me. I felt like an utter fool and was doubly embarrassed to think that he had witnessed what must have looked like my frenzied pursuit of a musician old enough to be my grandfather.
“I’m not really a rock groupie,” I said.
“I did not think you were.” He studied my face. “What was that all about?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said wearily.
“Try me.”
What did I have to lose? He probably already thought I was mentally unstable and, really, was it any more humiliating to confess to spying on Rafe’s trysts or meetings or whatever they were in the suspicious limo than to have Tav think I lusted after Sir Whoever, the hasbeen rock star? I unlocked my door. “Come on in.”
As I pushed my door open, a voice called my name from half a block away. “Stacy!”
I looked around to see Mark Downey hustling toward us, dance bag in hand. His sandy hair flopped across his forehead and he slowed as he came up to us, his brow wrinkling as he studied Tav.
Glancing guiltily at my watch, I told Tav, “We’ll have to talk later. I’ve got a practice session scheduled with Mark. Mark Downey, Tav Acosta.”
“I thought you might be related to Rafe,” Mark said, offering his hand. “Your brother? What an awful thing. My condolences.”
“My half brother,” Tav said. “Thank you.” He looked at me. “We will continue our conversation later, then?”
“Rafe was your brother?” I asked, confused that he hadn’t clarified the relationship earlier.
“Half.” Tav’s face closed off.
Mark glanced from me to Tav. “I didn’t mean to interrupt . . .”
I detected a slightly huffy note, which was justified since I’d already canceled on him once and almost missed this practice. “You didn’t, Mark,” I said. “Let’s get started.” I smiled apologetically at Tav and started up the stairs to the studio, Mark behind me.
An hour into our ninety-minute session, we paused for a water break. “So,” Mark said, “that guy is Rafe’s brother? I suppose he’s here to make arrangements about the body and stuff?”
“That, and to check out the studio,” I said, draping a towel across the back of my neck. I used the end to blot sweat off my face.
“The studio?” Mark asked.
“He inherited Rafe’s share.”
“What!” Seeming to realize he’d practically shouted the word, he asked more quietly, “I thought the studio must be all yours now?”
“Nope.” I shrugged like it didn’t matter to me.
“So what will happen?”
“That’s what we need to discuss.”
“Do you think he’ll sell? I’ve got some money saved and I’ve been thinking it might be a good time to go pro.” He screwed and unscrewed the cap on his water bottle as he talked, his words rushed. “I’d have to keep my day job for a while, to make ends meet, but if I bought into the studio—”
“Oh, no,” I said involuntarily. Mark was a good amateur, but he was never going to be a top-flight pro. He didn’t have the pizzazz, the sizzle, the certain sort of something, as my mom would say. And although I liked him okay, I couldn’t see being business partners with him.
“No?” His water bottle crinkled in protest where he gripped it.
“I mean, no, I don’t think Tav is planning to sell,” I improvised. “He said something about wanting to expand his business interests to the States.” I wasn’t exactly lying, just being disingenuous. I crossed my fingers behind my back for good measure.
Mark’s shoulders lost some of their tenseness. “Oh, well, maybe he’ll change his mind if he gets the right offer.”
“Maybe.” I made a mental note to find out from my lawyer or from Tav if there was some way I could have approval over a buyer if Tav decided to sell his share of Graysin Motion. I hadn’t thought about it previously, but I realized now that the wrong partner would make me want to give up the studio entirely. One more thing to worry about. I sighed and strode to the middle of the floor. “Let’s try the waltz again from the reverse corte.”
After Mark left, I spent the afternoon trying to sort out the studio’s finances. I’d already had calls from three students—all well-off women—who said they wouldn’t be returning now that Rafe was dead. “You know, it wasn’t ballroom dance I liked so much as Rafe,” one of them admitted. “I hope they catch the witch who shot him,” she added.
“You think it was a woman?” I asked, curious.
“Bound to be,” the caller said with a short laugh. “A woman or a jealous husband. Husbands always know more than we think they do, don’t they? Oh, I’m sorry—you used to be engaged, didn’t you?”
She knew full well we’d been planning to marry. I managed a civil good-bye and hung up, thinking about her comment. Unfortunately, I didn’t get very far. Literally dozens of women filed through the studio on a weekly basis and who knew how many other women he met on his own time. Danielle had always contended that Rafe was cheating on me long before I caught him with Solange, and I began to realize she was right. Monogamy was not a concept Rafe had ever gotten his head around.
Shutting down my computer, I wandered into the ballroom to turn off the lights and sound system. We didn’t have a class tonight and I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home—take-out sushi for dinner, followed by a DVD.
Four Weddings and a Funeral
, maybe, or
My Best Friend’s Wedding
. Something to make me laugh. I was headed toward the outer door to lock it, when it opened and Sherry Indrebo stepped in, svelte in a royal blue suit with satin lapels and turned-back rhinestone-crusted cuffs. A ruffled blouse mostly disguised the crepey skin on her neck. Swanky. I had to admit the woman dressed well.
“There you are,” she said as if I were an hour late for an appointment. “Where’s the thumb drive? And I want to hear all about the new pro. He’d better be in Rafe’s league, and not some second-stringer who’s available because no one else wants him.” She shot me a “you can’t put one over on me” look and walked into my office uninvited.
Reminding myself that I couldn’t afford to lose any more students, then counting to twenty, I followed her. She sat in the chair in front of my desk, legs crossed at the ankles, as comfortable and in charge as if it were her House office. I told her about Vitaly and she was finally impressed.
“Vitaly Voloshin? That’s excellent. I thought he lived in Ukraine or in Russia.”
“He recently moved here,” I said. “Your practice times will be the same as they were with Rafe. I know your schedule is tight.”
“It certainly is,” she said with a thin smile. “Being a public servant is a twenty-four–seven occupation. Some might say prison term. Speaking of which . . .” She glanced meaningfully at the platinum watch on her bony wrist. “If you could just give me the thumb drive, I’ve got a function to attend tonight. Ruben—my husband—is waiting in the car.”
That explained the suit. “I don’t think I’ve ever met your husband, Sherry. Does he dance?”
She looked pensive. “You know, he did when we were younger. I first got interested in ballroom dance because of him. He was so smooth. But he broke his ankle skiing eight years ago and it didn’t heal right. So now he just works. This dinner tonight is an opportunity to network with some movers and shakers who can help his company land an important military avionics contract. I really can’t complain,” she said with a forced laugh, “because I’m a workaholic, too.”
Anxious to be rid of her and get on with my sushi and movie plans, I reached into my desk drawer and extracted the thumb drive. “Here.” I slid it across the desk to her.
I knew better than to expect profuse thanks, but I wasn’t expecting the rage that tightened the skin around her eyes and drew down the corners of her mouth. “Are you kidding? Is this a joke? This isn’t my thumb drive! Mine is red. I distinctly remember telling you it was red.”
“You didn’t—”
“Oh, dear God.” She must have paled because age spots suddenly seemed more noticeable at her temples and the bridge of her nose.
She was taking this mix-up much harder than it seemed to warrant and I wondered what was really on the thumb drive.
“You’ll have to go back,” she announced.