Dead on the Dance Floor (10 page)

Lopez nodded and stood. “Well, back to business. Welcome, Mr. O'Casey.” He cocked his head, smiling. “Are you a cop, too? With your brother and his friends around now, we feel safe all the time.”

Quinn shook his head. “No, sorry, I'm not a cop. I'm into boats. Charters, diving, fishing,” Quinn said. Absolutely true, just not the whole story.

“Ah, I see. Well, then, you're a lucky man, too. There's nothing in the world like the sea.”

“Nothing like it,” Quinn agreed.

“Enjoy your night,” Lopez said.

“See you, Gabe,” Gordon said.

Lopez walked away, toward the kitchen.

“He's a great guy,” Gordon said.

“Seems to be,” Quinn agreed.

“Hey, you want to see your brother really look good?” Gordon asked. There was a note of pride in his voice.

Quinn looked back to the floor. The couples had all switched around. Doug was dancing with Shannon Mackay, and there were only a few people on the floor now. The music had changed, as had the dance. It was sweeping and incredibly graceful.

“Bolero,” Gordon told him briefly.

The dance was beautiful. And Doug
was
good, made all the better by the elegance of his partner.

“I don't think I've ever seen anyone move so…”

“You mean your brother?” Gordon teased.

Quinn shook his head, grinning. “Ms. Mackay.”

“She's the best,” Gordon said.

“Hey, Quinn, can we slip back in?”

His head jerked up. Bobby and Giselle had returned. Panting. Quinn hadn't realized he had been almost transfixed, watching the dancers.

“You're not doing the bolero?” he asked the pair.

Bobby snorted. “Every time we try it together, we trip each other. I'm actually kind of hopeless.”

“You're not!” Giselle protested.

Bobby made a face at Quinn. “You should see her in group class. She subtly—lovingly—tries to make sure she's in front of some other guy all the time.”

“I do not. I would never.” She shrugged sheepishly at Quinn. “We change partners every few minutes anyway. What good would it do?”

Doug came up to the table, drawing Shannon by the hand. “Well?” he asked Quinn. It was strange. Doug had been totally serious about his suspicions regarding Lara Trudeau's death, but right now, he was like the anxious little kid brother Quinn had known all his life, wanting his approval.

“You two blew me away,” he said.

Doug was pleased. “Now it's your turn.”

“You're out of your mind,” Quinn said, laughing.

“No, no, you'll be fine,” Bobby encouraged. “It's a merengue. You can't mess it up.”

“Trust me, I can.”

“Come on, Mr. O'Casey,” Shannon said to him. “It's step, step, step. March, march, march. I know you can do it.”

She was extending her elegant hand to him, those eyes of hers directly on his, challenging. It was as if she didn't believe for a second that he had really come for dance lessons.

He shrugged. “All right. If you're all absolutely determined to make me look like a fool…”

“You'll never look like a fool—not with Shannon,” Gordon said.

“Doesn't look like they're just doing march, march, march to me,” he told her ruefully as they stepped onto the dance floor.

“They are—they're just adding turns.”

She was in his arms, showing him the hold. “Just follow my movements. Men always—always—lead in dance,” she told him, “but since you haven't done this yet…left, right, left, right…feel the beat?”

He did feel the beat. And more. The searing touch of her eyes, probing his. The subtle movement of her body, erotic along with the music.

“March, march,” he said.

“You're doing fine.”

“Thanks. And how about you?”

Her brows hiked. “I'm impressed. You really do have a sense of rhythm. We can try some of those arm movements if you want. Just lift them…and I'll turn, then you turn. Merengue is a favorite, because no matter what, it's march, march.”

“I'm not wiggling like those guys.”

“Because you don't have your Cuban motion yet. You'll get it.”

Cuban motion, huh? She certainly had it. The way her hips moved was unbelievable.

He lifted his arms as she had instructed. He was a little too jerky, but she could deal with it.

“Now you,” she told him, and he repeated her motion.

Step, step, march, march. Okay…

“Was something wrong earlier tonight?” he asked her.

“What?” She frowned.

“I saw you coming down the steps. You looked…uneasy,” he said.

“You saw me? You were watching me?” Her tone was level, but he heard a note of outrage. “Are you following me or something, Mr. O'Casey?”

He laughed, keeping the sound light. “No, sorry, and I didn't mean to imply such a thing. I went over to the place across the street for a hamburger before coming here,” he said. Okay, so the hamburger was a lie.

“Oh.” She flushed. “Sorry. I just…It's an uncomfortable feeling, to think you're being watched.”

“No, no…sorry. It's just that…you looked scared.”

Maybe women weren't supposed to lead, but she pressed his arms up and moved herself into a turn, shielding her eyes from his for a moment. Facing him again, she said, “Gordon was already down here. I was locking up alone. One of the books fell or something right before I walked out. It startled me.”

His hamburger story was a lie, and her falling book story was a lie, as well. Something much bigger had definitely frightened her.

“Unfortunately, Miami deserves its reputation for crime. You do need to be careful if you're locking up alone,” he told her.

“The club is open every night. There's a doorman on Thursday through Sunday. We park in the lot in the back, but it's right across from a convenience store. There probably couldn't be a safer place. And there are only three of us in the building—the club, the studio and the design shop. I know everyone.”

“But you can't know everyone who comes into the club,” he said.

“No, of course not. But still I've always felt safe. Not only that, but I'm tougher than I look.”

“Really?” He had to smile.

“Don't doubt it,” she told him, and there was definitely a warning in her voice. “Trust me. I can be tough.”

“A tough dancer,” he mused.

“That's right. I love the studio—and I hate lies.”

“Do you, now?” he demanded. He thought that he saw the slightest hint of a flush touch her cheeks before she drew away from him.

“The music has changed. You're not ready for a mambo,” she told him.

And turning, she walked away, leaving him on the floor.

S
hannon made a point of getting to the studio by nine the following morning. She had agreed to coach Sam and Jane at ten, and at eleven, Gordon wanted to go over more of the Gator Gala figures and plans.

Reaching the studio wasn't difficult—she walked fifty percent of the time. Her house was just a few blocks away—thanks to Gordon.

Years ago, he had found the old place for sale. At that time, the block had been very run-down, and her house had come with horrible plumbing, no central air and the ugliest wallpaper known to man. The carpet could actually cause one to gag.

But the house had been the deal of the century. Small—there were only two bedrooms, and the yard was the size of a postage stamp—but she lived three blocks from the beach, and in the years since she had owned the house, the value had quadrupled. And it was hers. There weren't that many private homes in the area, and she knew she was very lucky to have the space. And she wouldn't have it, if it weren't for Gordon. He'd loaned her the down payment.

Sometimes, when she realized that she'd been in the studio for probably eighty hours in one week, she liked to tell him that he'd gotten his investment back from her in blood and sweat. He told her that of course he had, he wasn't a stupid man.

This morning, though, she was anxious to be in the studio—by the light of day. She was determined to convince herself that she was either overwrought or a little bit crazy—or both.

She climbed the stairs to the front door and waited, then inserted the key in the lock. Hesitantly she pushed the door open, then paused, listening.

Not a thing.

She entered the studio slowly, scoping out the polished wood floor and gazing around the room. Two sides were composed of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Facing the street, giant picture windows looked out on the day. The “conference room” was to the front, while the reception area and offices lined part of the wall nearest the door. Toward the rear were four doors, the first opening to the instructors' room, the next opening to the men's room, the third to the ladies', and the fourth—with a counter section next to it—leading to the mini-kitchen. A small hallway between the bathrooms led to the rear door, where, just outside, there was a little patio shared by both upstairs establishments. To the left of the rear door was an expanse of wall with a door that led to the storage space. There was also access from the outside, since originally the storage space hadn't come with the studio. Now, all of them had keys to it. Katarina kept a few costume dummies and supplies there, the dance studio kept records and various other items at different times, and while the club actually had much greater space downstairs, they sometimes needed a little extra now and then. There had never been any problems over sharing.

Across the patio were stairs leading up to a newly revamped third floor. Previously, it had pretty much been wasted space, but Gabriel Lopez had gotten permission from the corporate owners of the property to finish it and create an apartment. He and Gordon joked about it all the time—the apartment was terrific, and Gordon was jealous. He wished he'd come up with the idea. He had a great condo farther up on the beach—he just hated driving.

Shannon knew the studio and the building like the back of her hand. And that was why she had been so unnerved the night before.

With everyone else gone and the stereo silent, she had been in her own office, glancing over the student records. They all did their best to keep their students coming. The students were their livelihood. She had an excellent staff—dedicated professionals who were determined to really teach dance and give the clients their money's worth for every minute on the floor—and everyone took responsibility for keeping the students happy. Still, when a student with a regular schedule suddenly became a no-show, something was wrong, and as manager, it was her responsibility to call that person, chat with them and make sure they hadn't been offended in some way.

After Lara's death, she thought she might have to make a number of personal calls and give people the best reassurance she could.

And so she had sat there with the files. Though the building was old, it had been well maintained. The soundproofing down at the club was excellent, and noise from the street never seemed to filter into the studio.

She could have dropped a pin and heard it fall as she worked.

And that was when she'd heard the noise.

A grating.

It had sounded as if it were coming from inside the studio itself.

It was a quick sound. Like nails scraping against a blackboard. Eerie, creepy, quick—gone. Gone so quickly she might have imagined it. Except that she hadn't.

She'd jumped to her feet, dropped the books, and burst out of her office and into the main room. Maybe Gordon had forgotten to lock the doors when he'd left. Or maybe he hadn't forgotten but had just decided he didn't need to bother, since she would be coming down right behind him.

The dance floor was empty. When she walked to the front door, she'd found it locked. She'd wanted to walk through the bathrooms, kitchens, teachers' room and Gordon's office, but she hadn't. For some reason, the silence, and the strangeness of the noise that broke it, had unnerved her too badly. Grabbing her purse and overshirt, she'd sprinted out the door, not at all certain why the noise had made her feel as if she was in imminent danger. She'd been so anxious to get out, she'd nearly forgotten to lock the door and then had forced herself to go back. Silly.

Now she was slightly embarrassed by her reaction.

Especially since it had been seen. Quinn O'Casey had somehow just happened to be having a hamburger across the street. Mr. Twenty Questions, himself.

So what?

The idea made her feel on edge, just as the man himself did. Far too good-looking. Not pretty, though his features were aligned exceptionally well. Just arresting. Two left feet, too tall, arms like steel. He wasn't an ordinary man. He both compelled her and irritated her beyond reason.

He hadn't just happened to be across the street, she was certain.

Either that, or she was paranoid. She had never been paranoid before, but ever since Lara had died, everything seemed to have taken on a new and evil connotation.

You're next.

Those words, spoken when obviously someone would be going up next, should have been entirely innocent.

But she didn't believe they were. Okay, that had to be paranoia. Lara had died. In her warped little mind, she was taking the words to somehow mean that she was supposed to die next.

She gave herself a firm mental shake and walked purposely around the studio as she should have done the night before. Kitchen, bathrooms. Teachers' room, conference room, Gordon's office, her own. She found the books she had dropped and picked them up. Finally she opened the back door and went out, going so far as to check the lock on the outside storage-room door. On a whim, she went back inside, got her keys and opened the door to the storage room.

Everything was in order. Rows of shelves held all kinds of records, a few small appliances, lightbulbs, boxes of material. She moved among the shelves. In the back of the room, she started, freezing for a moment, suddenly convinced she was not alone.

She had merely come face-to-face with one of Katarina's dressmaker's dummies.

“Stupid,” she said aloud to herself. Then, turning purposefully, she walked back to the door. Odd, the dressmaker's dummy had given her another wave of unease. She felt that if she turned around, the mannequin was suddenly going to have gotten a face and found movement.

She spun around to look. The dummy stood just as it had, swathed in a spandex body suit with a sweeping skirt. No face. No movement. The mannequin gave that appearance because a huge feathered hat—of a sort that would never be worn on a dance floor—had been tossed on top of its neck.

It was just a dummy, and there didn't seem to be a thing in the room out of place. She exited, closing and locking the door behind her, and returned to the studio.

As she walked through the back hallway, she reminded herself that a person's own mind could be their greatest enemy, and she was letting what had happened to Lara take root in her far too deeply. She couldn't help it. No matter what her personal feelings had been toward Lara at times, she could at least say that she had known her well. Nothing had mattered to Lara more than dance. She might have a drink now and then. She might even take
a
Xanax to steady her nerves. But she would never, never, overindulge to the point of affecting a performance.

A sudden clicking sound caused her to jump, her hand flying to her throat. Then she realized that the front door had opened and closed. Jane was standing in the entry, staring at her with a serious crease furrowed into her brow.

“Hey. What's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You look as if you've seen a ghost.”

“No, no, sorry. I guess I was kind of deep in thought, and you startled me.”

“Oh, sorry. I just…opened the door,” Jane said.

“I know.”

Jane offered her a small smile. “People will be opening and closing the door all day, you know.”

“Yep.”

Jane walked across the room to her, looking around the studio. “We're alone?”

“Yes. Sam hasn't come in yet.”

“He'll be here any minute. He won't be late for a coaching session.”

“I'm sure he won't be,” Shannon said. She arched a brow to Jane questioningly. She might have jumped when Jane entered, but Jane was definitely acting strangely. “What's up?”

“I don't know. I'm still nervous, I guess.”

“Why? Did something happen?”

“To me? No,” Jane said.

“Because of Lara.”

Jane nodded, looking directly and somberly at her. “You think there was something fishy about it. I know it. I mean, I know you think somebody killed her for some reason. Let's face it, lots of people might have wanted to. We'd both be suspects, you know. Me—she beat me in everything and loved to gloat about it. You—maybe you're entirely circumspect and so blasé that most people don't know, but anyone who goes back several years knows about Ben Trudeau and you.”

“Jane, I'm not blasé. It was so long ago that it means nothing.”

“You're so professional, to be able to work with Ben.”

“I'm not sure I'm all that professional. I simply have no real memory of being attracted to Ben romantically in any way whatsoever. We have different goals and beliefs in life, and…there's just nothing there. Nothing at all. He's a good teacher and an excellent dancer. He should be a competitor, and he should have a great partner. He's that good.”

“And she blew him off,” Jane said, whispering for some reason. “That's what I mean, Shannon. Anyone might have wanted to kill her. Even Gordon, say.”

“Gordon was proud of her. She was a big part of this studio's reputation, since this is where she started and did a lot of coaching.”

“And as good as he was to her, she was rude to him.”

“People don't usually commit murder simply because someone was rude, Jane,” Shannon said. She was actually feeling a little bit ridiculous herself, now that it was daylight and she wasn't alone.

“You say that, but you don't mean it,” Jane said.

“I don't know what I feel, exactly,” Shannon said. “We've just got to go on and get past this.”

“There was so much going on with her,” Jane murmured.

“Like what?”

“Well, for one thing, she loved to flaunt the fact that she didn't actually work for the studio, so she wasn't bound to any of that nonfraternization stuff.” Jane's voice lowered even more. “You know what I think? I think she just liked to hurt people. Remember how excited I was, pleased with myself, when Doug O'Casey started to learn so much so quickly? Well, Lara knew it. The first coaching session that I arranged for him with her, she seemed to catch on that he was kind of a prize to me, someone very special. She hardly included me in the session at all. And then, later that night, she was dancing with him down at Suede.”

“Jane, we all dance with people down at Suede.”

“I know, I know, but this was different. It was as if she had her claws in him or something. She looked at me and smiled, and it was like she was gloating, telling me she'd taken over my student.”

“Jane, he's still your student.”

“Yes, he's my student. But I'd swear she had something going on with him. And not just him. All my students, I think.”

“Even old Mr. Clinton?” Shannon said, trying to interject a light note into the conversation.

Jane wasn't amused. “That should be funny—except that Clinton is rich. She was always an angel to him. She knew how to hedge her bets. If she wanted to enter something, she wanted to feel that she had lots of people with money waiting in the wings, in case any of her sponsors fell through.”