Quickstep to Murder (9 page)

“I can’t.”

“What would you tell an administrative assistant who came to you with the same situation?”

“Talk to HR,” she admitted reluctantly, “and document everything.”

“Sooo . . . ?”

“I need this job.” She’d recently bought a new Prius and the payments were killing her.

“How about a nanny cam, then?” The idea came to me in a flash of inspiration. “Set it up in your office and videotape Jonah the next time he suggests a romantic dinner for two.”

“Be serious,” Danielle said huffily. “You’ve never had a real job, so you don’t understand.”

“Ballroom dancing is a real job,” I said heatedly, turning to face her with my hands on my hips. “And running a small business of any kind takes more work than the average union employee puts in in a year.
And
there’s no one looking out for my interests, making sure I get health benefits and regular coffee breaks and safe working conditions.” She started to interrupt, but I talked over her. “
And
I have to get students to toe the line while we’re rumba-ing romantically or while I’m shaking my assets in a costume that’s more fringe than fabric. So don’t tell me I don’t know about real jobs or workplace harassment.”

“Fine,” Danielle said, her lips a thin line.

“Fine.”

I thought she might walk out, leaving me to cope with the rest of the mess on my own, but she continued to help, moving with me into my bedroom once we’d finished straightening the living room.

“You could kick Jonah in the cojones,” I suggested after another ten minutes of “you pissed me off” silence.

She made a
mrmph
sound that might’ve been a stifled laugh.

“Or cut a photo out of
Playgirl
and leave it on his desk with a pair of scissors stabbed through the model’s Mr. Happy.”

She laughed aloud at that and flung a pillow at me. “You are warped.”

Grinning with satisfaction at having gotten her to laugh, I told her about Sherry Indrebo’s call and my visit to Rafe’s condo.

“Did you tell the police?” she asked.

“Are you kidding? I was grateful to get out of Rafe’s without running into them. I was hardly going to call them up and say that while I was sneaking around his place I found out someone else was sneaking around his place.”

“I can see how that would be awkward,” Danielle admitted. “But you had a key, so it’s not like you broke in.”

“I didn’t see any signs that the other person broke in, either,” I said, “so maybe she had a key, too.”

“Who do you think it was?”

I stopped closing dresser drawers to give it some thought. “A woman,” I said, “since there was lipstick on the mug. I don’t see how it could’ve been Sherry Indrebo’cause I practically went straight to Rafe’s after talking to her. She couldn’t have beaten me there. Solange, maybe? They were dating, after all.”

“Or some other girlfriend,” Danielle said.

“Taryn, maybe, or—” My thoughts flew to the limo that had lurked out front.

“Taryn?”

I realized I hadn’t told Danielle about Leon Hall’s visit and his accusation.

“A sixteen-year-old?” Danielle asked doubtfully when I finished filling her in. “That doesn’t sound like Rafe.”

I was relieved that she agreed with me. It was bad enough that my character judgment was so poor I’d gotten engaged to a man whose concept of “fidelity” began and ended with investments, but I hated to think I’d been in love with a guy slimy enough—criminal, really—to seduce a sixteen-year-old. I ducked into the roomy closet Great-aunt Laurinda had created by knocking down a wall into the adjoining room, originally a tiny nursery, and began pairing my shoes up and returning them to the shoe rack. Really, how did the police think anyone could hide a gun in a size-eight satin sandal?

“It had to be Solange,” I said.

When Danielle didn’t answer, I left the closet to find her stacking towels in my bathroom, a space not much bigger than the pantry, with a wooden-seated toilet, a clawfoot bathtub surmounted by a shower head that drizzled rather than sprayed, and the glass shelves I’d installed myself and thus they slanted just a tad so the towels slid off after a couple of days.

“Why do you suppose Solange was there?” Danielle asked when I told her the conclusion I’d reached. She answered her own question. “I suppose for the same reason you were, to remove incrim—personal things before the police arrived.” She cast me a guilty look from under her bangs.

I let the word “incriminating” slide past. “I’m going to have it out with her tomorrow,” I announced, “and find out just what she was up to.”

 

Friday morning found me mopping the floor in the main studio where Rafe had lain, dressed in a paint-stained green T-shirt, short shorts, and with my hair up in a messy ponytail. The police had given me the name of a company that specialized in crime scene cleanup, but their rates were more than I could stomach and I decided to tackle the distasteful task myself. Even with wood floors, not carpet or tile with easy-to-stain grout, it took me several buckets of water, lots of lemony cleanser, and some elbow grease to get a result I was happy with. Stepping back to see if I’d gotten it all, I noticed a streak by the wall and aimed the mop toward it.

“Excuse me,” an accented male voice said from the doorway.

I whirled around, mop held level like a lance, and saw a tall, dark man step into the room. The light slanting through the front windows made it hard to see his features, but then he moved closer and I gasped, the mop dropping from my nerveless fingers. Rafe.

I scrambled backward, knocking into the bucket and sluicing water across the floor. I tried to run, but my bare feet slipped and I would have fallen if Rafe hadn’t lunged forward to grab my arm. His hand, hard and warm and alive, encircled my upper arm like an iron band.

“Rafe—”

Even before my eyes registered that he was a couple of inches taller than Rafe with a leaner face and wider mouth, my nose told me it wasn’t Rafe. This man smelled like fresh air and cedar, not the musky Perry Ellis scent Rafe used. And the hand on my bare skin was rougher, the nails clipped straight across without the sheen of clear polish. Wearing black slacks and a black silk-blend T-shirt that hinted at strong pecs and defined abs, he looked lethal, and I wondered if he danced like Rafe. He embodied the passion of the paso doble.

“Are you okay?” The timbre of his voice was a bit deeper than Rafe’s, but his accent was eerily the same. The man released his grip, but stood uncomfortably close, ready to catch me if I slipped again. “I did not intend to startle you.”

“Well, you did,” I said, anger seeping in as my fear receded. “Why did you sneak up on me? Who are you?”

The man regarded me out of brown eyes uncannily like Rafe’s. “Octavio Acosta. I came as soon as I got word he was dead. Murdered, the police said.”

His eyes narrowed and I wondered if the police had mentioned me as a possible suspect. “From Argentina?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Is Mr. Acosta—Rafe’s father—is he with you?” I dreaded meeting him under these circumstances, dreaded the questions he might ask about Rafe’s death.

He shook his head. “No. He is occupied with business matters. He asked me to come in his place, to make the arrangements for Rafael’s body to be returned home.”

What kind of father was too busy to travel with his son’s body? Maybe the shock was too much for him, I thought, trying to be charitable. “Poor man.”

“Indeed.”

My breathing had returned to normal. Sticking out my hand, I said, “I’m Stacy Graysin. I’m so sorry for your loss. Were you and Rafe related?” I couldn’t recall Rafe ever mentioning him.

He shook my hand and looked down at me gravely. “Once upon a time, we were like brothers.”

He stopped there and it didn’t seem polite to query him about why they’d stopped being like brothers, so I retrieved the mop and swiped at the spilled water. “I just have to get this so it doesn’t ruin the floor,” I apologized. “Then I can get you the number of the detective on Rafe’s case so you can ask about . . . about taking him back to Argentina.”

“I have already spoken to Detective Lissy,” Acosta said.

I looked up from my mopping, startled. “Oh. Well, then, I don’t understand why you’re here. Unless—did you just want to see where Rafe worked?” Or where he died? The second question lingered unsaid in my mind and I wondered if Acosta was the kind of guy who reveled in the ghoulish. Thank goodness the water in the bucket was clear now with no tinge of pink, like earlier.

His thick black brows arched in faint surprise. “Why, no. I came to see what’s to be done about the studio.” His gesture encompassed the long room.

“What’s to be done? I don’t understand. We’re reopening today, now that the police are finished doing police stuff in here. I’ll need to hire another male instructor, unless—” Maybe that was it. Maybe he was a dancer and he wanted Rafe’s job. That would be too weird.

“I have come to assess the viability of the studio and whether it would pay for me to hang on to it as an investment, or whether I should sell my half.”

The blood burned through my body like someone had injected me with bee venom. “What are you saying? Rafe’s will—”

“Left his half share of Graysin Motion to me.” The dark brows arched again. “You did not know?”

The room spun around me and I leaned heavily against the mop. Rafe had changed his will. I had never seriously considered the possibility. I’d been taking it for granted ever since I found him dead that I would inherit his half of the studio. Now a total stranger walked in to say that he was taking over. “We made our wills together when we got engaged and bought the studio,” I managed to say, “leaving our shares of the studio to each other.”

“But you got unengaged, no?
You
broke it off, if I recall, because of—what was it Tía Paloma said, that American phrase?—ah, yes, ‘irreconcilable differences.’ ”

The man’s reasonable tone, the look of polite disinterest on his face, fanned my surprise and disappointment to anger. “Our ‘irreconcilable difference’ was that I believed in monogamy and faithfulness and Rafe believed in screwing any attractive female within hailing distance. I found him in bed with—” I stopped myself with difficulty. I didn’t need to rehash the old hurt with a stranger, a man related to Rafe, to boot.

“Rafael always had a way with the ladies,” Acosta said. “The girls were flocking around him and telephoning from the time he was eleven. Their forwardness shocked Tía Paloma, my father’s sister. He was a little spoiled, perhaps, a little selfish. I am sorry he hurt you.”

The simple words took away my anger and left me feeling off balance. “You look a lot like him,” I said. “Almost like twins.”

He went with the non sequitur, a half smile slanting across his tanned face. “I have heard that before,” Acosta said. “But I am three years older.”

That made him thirty-eight. He looked older. Maybe it was the gravity of his expression or the one or two silver strands in his collar-grazing black hair. I plopped the mop in the bucket and began lugging it toward the door. “Look, Mr. Acosta—”

“Tav, please.” In a single smooth motion he was beside me, relieving me of the heavy bucket.

“Thanks.” I led him to the outer stairway landing and watched as he tipped the bucket over the side to splash the water on the grass patch below. “I guess we need to talk. Let me shower and change and we can get breakfast somewhere.”

“That is very reasonable of you,” he said approvingly. I didn’t feel reasonable. I felt tired and anxious, emotionally depleted by my sadness about Rafe and my worry about the future of Graysin Motion, my ballroom dancing career, and the distinct possibility of being arrested. The appearance of Tav Acosta was the rotten cherry on top of the crappy sundae life had dished up this week.

 

Our breakfast never happened. Tav got a call from the police as we were headed downstairs and went off to meet them, promising we’d get together later. I was relieved to be able to put off our discussion.

“Does he dance?” Maurice asked me later that morning after his session with one of the elderly students he’d be dancing with at the Capitol Festival starting next Friday. Despite an hour of dancing, he looked fresh and alert, his white hair combed straight back from his tanned forehead, one ankle resting atop the opposite knee. I’d dragged him into my office to tell him about Tav Acosta and his claim to own half of Graysin Motion.

“I didn’t think to ask,” I admitted, fiddling with a paper clip.

“What does he do?”

“I don’t know.” I tossed the paper clip onto the desk and it bounced to the floor. “I didn’t ask that either. He took me by surprise.”

“There’s no sense fretting about it, Anastasia, until we know more about the man and his intentions,” Maurice said practically. “The more immediate question is what are you going to do about Rafe’s classes and students?”

“I know you’ve got enough on your plate, getting ready for the Capitol Festival,” I said. “Solange offered to fill in and I think I’ll ask her to teach the group classes. I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her, but we need the help. Too bad she’s not a man.”

Maurice winced his understanding. Three-quarters or more of our students who competed were women, most of them north of forty, widowed or divorced, with the money for twenty-five-hundred-dollar dresses, upwards of three thousand dollars in competition fees per event, and ninety dollars or thereabouts twice a week for private sessions with their pro. As a result, male pros were in much higher demand than women. Not fair, but there you have it. I mangled another paper clip and continued with my line of thought.

“The students he was dancing with in pro-am competitions are more problematic. We’ve already sent in the entry fees for the Capitol Festival and it’s too late to cancel. We can’t afford to lose his students to another studio. You know as well as I do that they’ll never come back to Graysin Motion if they hook up with a pro from another studio for the Capitol Festival. I don’t suppose you could—?”