Dead on the Dance Floor (15 page)

Quinn woke, aware of voices on the television and daylight filtering in through the windows in the back. It was a gentle awakening. He didn't move at first, simply opened his eyes.

In a few hours, he would be aching all over. He'd fallen asleep in a sitting position, his head twisted downward at an angle. Shannon was next to him, her head on his lap, her knees tucked to her chest, her arms encircling a throw pillow. Tendrils of golden hair were curled over his trousers, and the warmth of her weight against him was both captivating and arousing. Beyond anything, though, the feel of her against him stirred a sudden sense of memory, of nostalgia. He found himself remaining there, thinking of a time when a wealth of both passion and affection had been so easily his, and he had barely noticed, his mind so consumed with his job. And even when it had all slipped away, he hadn't really noticed, because somewhere inside, he had become deadened. And in the weeks and months that had followed, he hadn't wanted anything more than a brief encounter with the gentler sex, moments of human contact and nothing more. The numbness had remained. He hadn't known how to shake it. He'd been walking through life by rote, wondering where he had lost his senses of humanity and need, and his ability to have fun. Then Nell Durken had been found dead. And the numbness had been pierced with fury and impotence and a need to question every facet of life.

And then had come Shannon Mackay.

He was loath to move her. The softness of her hair against his flesh was like a breath of sweet, fresh air. The sight of her hand dangling over his knee. Fingers elegant, nails manicured, flesh so soft. Just the warmth of her, the weight of her, made him want to stay, drown in these sensations. It was this casual, intimate closeness that had been something so lost to him, something he hadn't known he missed, needed or felt a longing for, somewhere deep within.

She wouldn't be happy, of course, that they had fallen asleep and essentially spent the night together. Definitely fraternization.

At last he rose very carefully. As he moved, she stirred slightly, seeking the same comfort she had known against him. He quickly put a throw pillow beneath her head, settled her weight and backed away. The Victorian lace of the gown framed her chin, and her hair spilled everywhere, caught by the light, a splendid halo. The fabric was thin, hugging the length of her ultratoned form. She was supple, curvaceous, and swathed in that Victorian purity, she seemed somehow all the more sensual and vulnerable.

It was time for him to get out.

He walked away, found the jacket he had doffed, turned off the television and headed for the front, through the kitchen. He found a notepad and wrote a few quick lines. “Thanks for the popcorn, tea and movie. It's light, and you're locked in. Quinn.”

He walked quietly to the front and exited, making sure he hit the button lock, since he didn't have a key. He checked it twice, then headed for his car and drove away.

 

The cemetery was even more crowded than the funeral home had been. The dance world had come in high numbers: Lara's students, friends, associates and lovers all came to say their final goodbyes. And once again, there were reporters and news cameras and scores of the curious.

Shannon had a seat next to Gordon in the row of folding chairs arranged on the little piece of green carpet before the coffin. As the priest talked about life on earth and life in the sweet promise of eternity, she bowed her head but found her mind wandering. It seemed a terrible shame to her that so many people had come, because others with loved ones in this cemetery tended to the graves, and their tributes of beautiful flower bouquets had ended up strewn across the landscape, kicked around by the unnoticing mob that had come to attend a “celebrity” funeral.

Lara was going into a spot not far from the mausoleum, surrounded by majestic oaks. A large angel-framed stone nearby honored a family named Gonzalez, while an elegant marble crypt belonged to Antonio Alfredo Machiavelli, who had passed away in the late 1940s.

Birds soared across an amazingly blue and beautiful sky, not touched by so much as a hint of a cloud. She was glad Gordon had planned the ceremony early. In a few hours it would be roasting, whether it was officially autumn or not. Somewhere not far away a bee buzzed. In the distance, she could hear the barking of a dog. A residential neighborhood surrounded most of the cemetery. Children played on the lawns nearby; cars impatiently moved at slower speed limits, and horns honked. Life went on, even on the outskirts of a cemetery—maybe more so on the outskirts of a cemetery.

Someone touched her knee. She lifted her head. Ben Trudeau, grimly passing her a rose to toss onto the coffin. The service was over.

She stood and walked to the grave site, then threw the rose in. Gordon took her elbow, and they walked away from the grave.

“Mr. Henson! Miss Mackay!”

Shannon turned with annoyance to see Ryan Hatfield, a reporter she particularly disliked from a local paper. He was tall and skinny and needed a life worse than she did. When he attended events, he liked to make fun of the amateurs
and
professionals. He'd once written a truly cruel comment on a less-than-slender couple who'd won an amateur trophy in waltz. She'd furiously—and pointlessly—tried to explain to him that people were judged on their steps and the quality of their dance, and that for amateurs, dance was fun, and it was also excellent exercise. As far as professionals went, according to him, they were all affected, ridiculous snobs who looked down their noses at anyone with a new twist to anything. In response, she'd pointed out the different categories of dance, even the subcategories. He'd printed her explanation and still made her sound like an affected witch, living in a make-believe world.

“What do you want?” she asked sharply, before Gordon could speak.

“Come on, just a few words,” Hatfield said.

“So you can twist them?” she asked.

“Lara was an acknowledged goddess in the world of ballroom dance. How are you feeling?” Ryan demanded, sounding as if he were actually sympathetic.

“How the hell do you think we feel?” she demanded angrily. “She died far too young. It was tragic. What do you think people feel?
Pain.
It's a loss. Now, if you'll excuse us, please?”

“Where are you going? Are you all getting together somewhere? I didn't hear the priest invite the crowd back anywhere,” Ryan persisted.

“The wake was open to the public, as the funeral was,” Gordon said firmly. “Now it's a private time for those who knew her. Come on, Shannon.”

With Gordon's arm around her shoulder, she started for the limousine, but Ryan's words followed her. “Look at that, will you? Ben Trudeau, still standing at the grave. She divorced his ass a long time ago, huh?”

Shannon couldn't remember feeling such deep-seated fury in a long time. She was afraid she was going to lash out, lose control, hurl herself at the reporter with teeth and nails bared, and take out all her concerns, frustrations and, yes,
fears
on the man.

But when she turned, he wasn't alone. Both O'Casey brothers were there, flanking Hatfield, ready to escort him away.

“What on earth are you doing?” the reporter demanded indignantly. “Let me go this minute or I'll go to the police. I'll have you sued until you have to sell the clothes off your back. I have the cops on speed dial.”

“I
am
a cop,” Doug said flatly.

“Let's go,” Gordon said, taking Shannon's arm.

“Go,” Quinn said to her.

“Hey, this is like kidnapping or something,” Ryan complained.

“They might want to charge you with harrassment,” Doug said.

Shannon didn't hear any more. Gordon was moving; he had her arm, so she was moving, too. In another minute, she was in the limo.

Just before the door closed, they were joined by Ben Trudeau. He shook his head as he stared out the window.

“Fucking reporters,” he muttered.

“Ben,” Gordon admonished quietly.

“There aren't any students around,” Ben said distractedly.

“It's still—” Gordon began.

“It's a rat-shit day. Leave him alone, please,” Shannon put in.

The limo moved out of the cemetery. Ben looked downward between his hands, then up, letting out a long breath. “It's real. She's really gone. Into the ground. I don't believe it.”

Gordon set an arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, it's hard to accept.”

You're next.

The memory of the words came to Shannon with a sharp chill. She shivered.

Ben looked past Gordon, who was in the middle. “I'm sorry, Shannon. Are you all right?”

“Of course. I'm fine.”

He looked out the window again thoughtfully. “Interesting. That stinking rag writer would have driven us all nuts. I guess it's a good thing we have one of the county's finest among our students. Doug. You know, though, his brother is the one who saw the guy and went after him first. Are we sure he's not a cop? He's in awful tight with them.”

“No, he's not a cop. Maybe he was once, but not anymore,” Shannon said.

“He still acts like one,” Ben noted.

“What do you mean?” Gordon demanded.

Ben shrugged. “I don't know. He's always…watching. You know, I was at lunch yesterday, and he was in the same café. In the back…”

Gordon shrugged. “I run into people all over town. At the bank, at the movies, wherever.”

“Yeah, I guess you're right. Hey, is he coming to this thing?”

“No. I didn't ask any of the students. Only some of the pros Lara worked with, and the people from our building.” Gordon pressed a hand to his forehead. “The public had the wake and the funeral. Time to be alone.”

The spot he had chosen for the after-funeral tribute was a small place on Lincoln Road where they'd gone many times for special occasions. Gordon had kept the attendance down to about twenty.

They gathered around four tables, and Gordon gave his personal eulogy to Lara. Then Ben spoke, and, to Shannon, his emotions seemed honest. He spoke of their relationship as passionate and sometimes as emotionally violent as the dances she had performed, but said in the end that her spirit was one that had touched them all, and that their loss was tremendous. They would all remember things she had told them—bluntly, at times, but each and every word one that would make them better at their craft, their vocation, the dancing that was not just work but part of their very being.

Shannon was glad to see that the people who attended included not just friends from the area but all over the country and even from Europe. She agreed again to see Gunter during the week, but broke away when he told her she created the best choreography he'd ever seen and they were all lucky she didn't use it for herself—but she should.

At one point she found herself talking with Christie Castle, five time National Smooth Champion, and now both a coach and a judge at competitions around the world.

“How are you holding up?” Christie asked her. Christie was slender as a reed, about five-five, with huge dark eyes and ink-black hair. Her age was indeterminate, but at ninety, she was still going to be beautiful.

“Fine. It's a shattering event, but Lara and I didn't hang out,” Shannon reminded her.

“Gordon says you've been nervous lately.” She lowered her voice. “And your receptionist told me that you're convinced there's more going on than we know.”

“Ella shouldn't have said anything to you.”

“Do you really think Lara might have been murdered?”

Shannon noticed that Christie was whispering. Gordon, Ben, Justin, Sam Railey and several others were right behind them. Shannon thought that Ben turned slightly, as if he were more interested in what they were saying than in the conversation in which he was taking part.

“I don't really think anything,” Shannon said.

Christie set a hand on her knee, dark eyes wide with concern. “You look really tired. Are you sleeping all right?”

Last night, ten minutes after the movie had started, Shannon had been sound asleep, but that had been the first time in a week she had really slept.

“Not really. I don't know why. I'm just a little tense.”

“You need a dog,” Christie said, nodding sagely.

Shannon smiled, looking downward. Christie had Puff, a teacup Yorkie. The little dog went everywhere with her. In fact, Puff probably had more airline mileage stacked up than most CEOs.

“Christie, I'm gone almost fifteen hours a day. And honestly, if I had a little Puff, and someone was after me…”

“Excuse me, he may be small, but Puff has a killer bark.”

“What's that about a killer bark?”

Gabriel Lopez slid into the seat next to Christie. He had a look in his eyes, a flirtatious look. He never actually leered. He had a way of looking at a woman that simply indicated total appreciation and therefore managed not to be offensive.